DIEGO 3 1822016098402 ftftsss J Central University Library University of California, San Diego his item is subject to recall after two weeks. Date Due 0139(1/91) UCSDLib. OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO ORNIA SAN DIEGC 3 1822016098402 ANACTORIA AND OTHER LYRICAL POEMS ANACTORIA AND OTHER LYRICAL POEMS ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE NEW YORK MITCHELL KENNERLEY MDCCCCVI // is a far cry from the four thousand and more pages of the Collected Poems and Tragedies of Mr. Swinburne, recently issued in eleven volumes, to this little book of selections ; but at least it may be said of Anactoria and other Lyrical Poems that it contains nothing that is not among Mr. Swinburne 's best work. An eminent critic was bold enough not long ago to suggest that in days to come Poems and Ballads will not be so highly considered as it is to-day, and with this obiter dicta it is difficult to disagree. Hence the omission from this book of such faded favourites of our youth as Felise, Faustine, Frag- oletta and Dolores, and those other poems dealing with " The burden of bought kisses," which made Poems and Ballads the most romantic book of poems of the last fifty years. Contents Anactoria 13 Salt of the Earth 24 Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon 25 Rococo 27 A Ballad of Francois Villon 31 The Garden of Proserpine 33 To Walt Whitman in America 37 A Leave-Taking 43 Madonna Mia 45 Adieux a Marie Stuart 49 Sonnet with a copy of Mademoiselle de Maupin 56 A Match 57 In Memory of Walter Savage Landor 59 The Oblation 62 The Triumph of Time 63 ANACTORIA AND OTHER LYRICAL POEMS Anactoria SAPPHO MY life is bitter with thy love ; thine eyes Blind me, thy tresses burn me, thy sharp sighs Divide my flesh and spirit with soft sound, And my blood strengthens, and my veins abound. I pray thee sigh not, speak not, draw not breath ; Let life burn down, and dream it is not death. I would the sea had hidden us, the fire (Wilt thou fear that, and fear not my desire ?) Severed the bones that bleach, the flesh that cleaves, And let our sifted ashes drop like leaves. I feel thy blood against my blood : my pain Pains thee, and lips bruise lips, and vein stings vein. Let fruit be crushed on fruit, let flower on flower, Breast kindle breast, and either burn one hour. Why wilt thou follow lesser loves ? are thine Too weak to bear these hands and lips of mine ? I charge thee for my life's sake, O too sweet To crush love with thy cruel faultless feet, I charge thee keep thy lips from hers or his, Sweetest, till theirs be sweeter than my kiss : Lest I too lure, a swallow for a dove, Erotion or Erinna to my love. I would my love could kill thee ; I am satiated With seeing thee live, and fain would have thee dead. Anactoria I would earth had thy body as fruit to eat, And no mouth but some serpent's found thee sweet. I would find grievous ways to have thee slain, Intense device, and superflux of pain ; Vex thee with amorous agonies, and shake Life at thy lips, and leave it there to ache ; Strain out thy soul with pangs too soft to kill, Intolerable interludes, and infinite ill ; Relapse and reluctation of the breath, Dumb tunes and shuddering semitones of death. I am weary of all thy words and soft strange ways, Of all love's fiery nights and all his days, And all the broken kisses salt as brine That shuddering lips make moist with waterish wine, And eyes the bluer for all those hidden hours That pleasure fills with tears and feeds from flowers, Fierce at the heart with fire that half comes through, But all the flower-like white stained round with blue ; The fervent underlid, and that above Lifted with laughter or abashed with love ; Thine amorous girdle, full of thee and fair, And leavings of the lilies in thine hair. Yea, all sweet words of thine and all thy ways, And all the fruit of nights and flower of days, And stinging lips wherein the hot sweet brine That Love was born of burns and foams like wine, And eyes insatiable of amorous hours, Fervent as fire and delicate as flowers, Anactoria Coloured like night at heart, but cloven through Like night with flame, dyed round like night with blue, Clothed with deep eyelids under and above Yea, all thy beauty sickens me with love ; Thy girdle empty of thee and now not fair, And ruinous lilies in thy languid hair. Ah, take no thought for Love's sake; shall this be, And she who loves thy lover not love thee ? Sweet soul, sweet mouth of all that laughs and lives, Mine is she, very mine ; and she forgives. For I beheld in sleep the light that is In her high place in Paphos, heard the kiss Of body and soul that mix with eager tears And laughter stinging through the eyes and ears ; Saw Love, as burning flame from crown to feet, Imperishable, upon her storied seat; Clear eyelids lifted toward the north and south, A mind of many colours, and a mouth Of many tunes and kisses; and she bowed, With all her subtle face laughing aloud, Bowed down upon me, saying, c Who doth thee wrong, Sappho ? ' but thou thy body is the song, Xhy mouth the music ; thou art more than I, Though my voice die not till the whole world die ; Though men that hear it madden ; though love weep, Though nature change, though shame be charmed to sleep. Ah, wilt thou slay me lest I kiss thee dead ? Yet the queen laughed from her sweet heart and said : Anactoria * Even she that flies shall follow for thy sake, And she shall give thee gifts that would not take, Shall kiss that would not kiss thee ' (yea, kiss me) 4 When thou wouldst not ' when I would not kiss thee ! Ah, more to me than all men as thou art, Shall not my songs assuage her at the heart ? Ah, sweet to me as life seems sweet to death, Why should her wrath fill thee with fearful breath ? Nay, sweet, for is she God alone ? hath she Made earth and all the centuries of the sea, Taught the sun ways to travel, woven most fine The moonbeams, shed the starbeams forth as wine, Bound with her myrtles, beaten with her rods, The young men and the maidens and the gods ? Have we not lips to love with, eyes for tears, And summer and flower of women and of years ? Stars for the foot of morning, and for noon Sunlight, and exaltation of the moon ; Waters that answer waters, fields that wear Lilies, and languor of the Lesbian air ? Beyond those flying feet of fluttered doves, Are there not other gods for other loves ? Yea, though she scourge thee, sweetest, for my sake, Blossom not thorns, and flowers not blood should break. Ah that my lips were tuneless lips, but pressed To the bruised blossom of thy scourged white breast ! Ah that my mouth for Muses' milk were fed On the sweet blood thy sweet small wounds had bled ! 16 Anactoria That with my tongue I felt them, and could taste The faint flakes from thy bosom to the waist ! That I could drink thy veins as wine, and eat Thy. breasts like honey ! that from face to feet Thy body were abolished and consumed, And in my flesh thy very flesh entombed ! Ah, ah, thy beauty ! like a beast it bites, Stings like an adder, like an arrow smites. Ah sweet, and sweet again, and seven times sweet, The paces and the pauses of thy feet ! Ah sweeter than all sleep or summer air The fallen fillets fragrant from thine hair ! Yea, though their alien kisses do me wrong, Sweeter thy lips than mine with all their song; Thy shoulders whiter than a fleece of white, And flower-sweet fingers, good to bruise or bite As honeycomb of the inmost honey-cells, With almond-shaped and roseleaf-coloured shells, And blood like purple blossom at the tips Quivering; and pain made perfect in thy lips For my sake when I hurt thee ; O that I Durst crush thee out of life with love, and die, Die of thy pain and my delight, and be iVIixed with thy blood and molten into thee ! Would I not plague thee dying overmuch ? Would I not hurt thee perfectly ? not touch Thy pores of sense with torture, and make bright Thine eyes with bloodlike tears and grievous light ! Anactoria Strike pang from pang as note is struck from note, Catch the sob's middle music in thy throat, Take thy limbs living, and new-mould with these A lyre of many faultless agonies ? Feed thee with fever and famine and fine drouth, With perfect pangs convulse thy perfect mouth, Make thy life shudder in thee and burn afresh, And wring thy very spirit through the flesh ? Cruel ? but love makes all that love him well As wise as heaven and crueller than hell. Me hath love made more bitter toward thee Than death toward man ; but were I made as he Who hath made all things to break them one by one, If my feet trod upon the stars and sun And souls of men as his have alway trod, God knows I might be crueller than God. For who shall change with prayers or thanksgivings The mystery of the cruelty of things ? Or say what God above all gods and years, With offering and blood-sacrifice of tears, With lamentation from strange lands, from graves Where the snake pastures, from scarred mouth of slaves, From prison, and from plunging prows of ships Through flamelike foam of the sea's closing lips With thwartings of strange signs, and wind-blown hair Of comets, desolating the dim air, When darkness is made fast with seals and bars, And fierce reluctance of disastrous stars, 18 Anactoria Eclipse, and sound of shaken hills, and wings Darkening, and blind inexpiable things With sorrow of labouring moons, and altering light And travail of the planets of the night, And weeping of the weary Pleiads seven, Feeds the mute melancholy lust of heaven ? Is not this incense bitterness, his meat Murder ? his hidden face and iron feet Hath not man known, and felt them on their way Threaten and trample all things and every day ? Hath he not sent us hunger ? who hath cursed Spirit and flesh with longing ? filled with thirst Their lips who cried unto him ? who bade exceed The fervid will, fall short the feeble deed, Bade sink the spirit and the flesh aspire, Pain animate the dust of dead desire, And life yield up her flower to violent fate ? Him would I reach, him smite, him desecrate, Pierce the cold lips of God with human breath, And mix his immortality with death. Why hath he made us ? what had all we done That we should live and loathe the sterile sun, And with the moon wax paler as she wanes, And pulse by pulse feel time grow through our veins ? Thee too the years shall cover ; thou shalt be As the rose born of one same blood with thee, As a song sung, as a word said, and fall Flower-wise, and be not any more at all, Anactoria Nor any memory of thee anywhere ; For never Muse has bound above thine hair The high Pierian flowers whose graft outgrows All summer kinship of the mortal rose And colour of deciduous days, nor shed Reflex and flush of heaven about thine head, Nor reddened brows made pale by floral grief With splendid shadow from that lordlier leaf. Yea, thou shalt be forgotten like spilt wine, Except these kisses of my lips on thine Brand them with immortality ; but me Men shall not see bright fire nor hear the sea, Nor mix their hearts with music, nor behold Cast forth of heaven with feet of awful gold And plumeless wings that make the bright air blind, Lightning, with thunder for a hound behind Hunting through fields unfurrowed and unsown But in the light and laughter, in the moan And music, and in grasp of lip and hand And shudder of water that makes felt on land The immeasurable tremor of all the sea, Memories shall mix and metaphors of me. Like me shall be the shuddering calm of night, When all the winds of the world for pure delight Close lips that quiver and fold up wings that ache ; When nightingales are louder for love's sake, And leaves tremble like lute-strings or like fire ; Like me the one star swooning with desire 20 Anactoria Even at the cold lips of the sleepless moon, As I at thine ; like me the waste white noon, Burnt through with barren sunlight ; and like me The land-stream and the tide-stream in the sea. I am sick with time as these with ebb and flow, And by the yearning in my veins I know The yearning sound of waters ; and mine eyes Burn as that beamless fire which fills the skies With troubled stars and travailing things of flame ; And in my heart the grief consuming them Labours, and in my veins the thirst of these, And all the summer travail of the trees And all the winter sickness ; and the earth, Filled full with deadly works of death and birth, Sore spent with hungry lusts of birth and death, Has pain like mine in her divided breath ; Her spring of leaves is barren, and her fruit Ashes; her boughs are burdened, and her root Fibrous and gnarled with poison; underneath Serpents have gnawn it through with tortuous teeth Made sharp upon the bones of all the dead, And wild birds rend her branches overhead. These, woven as raiment for his word and thought, These hath God made, and me as these, and wrought Song, and hath lit it at my lips; and me Earth shall not gather though she feed on thee. As a shed tear shalt thou be shed ; but I Lo, earth may labour, men live long and die, Anactoria Years change and stars, and the high God devise New things, and old things wane before his eyes Who wields and wrecks them, being more strong than they But, having made me, me he shall not slay. Nor slay nor satiate, like those herds of his Who laugh and live a little, and their kiss Contents them, and their loves are swift and sweet, And sure death grasps and gains them with slow feet, Love they or hate they, strive or bow their knees And all these end ; he hath his will of these. Yea, but albeit he slay me, hating me Albeit he hide me in the deep dear sea And cover me with cool wan foam, and ease This soul of mine as any soul of these, And give me water and great sweet waves, and make The very sea's name lordlier for my sake, The whole sea sweeter albeit I die indeed And hide myself and sleep and no man heed, Of me the high God hath not all his will. Blossom of branches, and on each high hill Clear air and wind, and under in clamorous vales Fierce noises of the fiery nightingales, Buds burning in the sudden spring like fire, The wan washed sand and the waves' vain desire, Sails seem like blown white flowers at sea, and words That bring tears swiftest, and long notes of birds Violently singing till the whole world sings I Sappho shall be one with all these things, Anactoria With all high things forever; and my face Seen once, my songs once heard in a strange place, Cleave to men's lives, and waste the days thereof With gladness and much sadness and long love. Yea, they shall say, earth's womb has borne in vain New things, and never this best thing again ; Borne days and men, borne fruits and wars and wine, Seasons and songs, but no song more like mine. And they shall know me as ye who have known me here, Last year when I loved Atthis, and this year When I love thee; and they shall praise me, and say 4 She hath all time as all we have our day, Shall she not live and have her will ' even I ? Yea, though thou diest, I say I shall not die. For these shall give me of their souls, shall give Life, and the days and loves wherewith I live, Shall quicken me with loving, fill with breath, Save me and serve me, strive for me with death. Alas, that neither moon nor snow nor dew Nor all cold things can purge me wholly through, Assuage me nor allay me nor appease, Till supreme sleep shall bring me bloodless ease ; Till time wax faint in all his periods; Till fate undo the bondage of the gods, And lay, to slake and satiate me all through, Lotus and Lethe on my lips like dew, And shed around and over and under me Thick darkness and the insuperable sea. The Salt of the Earth IF childhood were not in the world, * But only men and women grown ; No baby-locks in tendjils curled, No baby-blossoms blown ; Though men were stronger, women fairer, And nearer all delights in reach, And verse and music uttered rarer Tones of more godlike speech ; Though the utmost life of life's best hours Found, as it cannot now find, words j Though desert sands were sweet as flowers And flowers could sing like birds. But children never heard them, never They felt a child's foot leap and run This were a drearier star than ever Yet looked upon the sun. Chorus- From Atalanta In Calydon BEFORE the beginning of years There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears ; Grief, with a glass that ran ; Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; Summer, with flowers that fell ; Remembrance fallen from heaven, And madness risen from hell ; Strength without hands to smite ; Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light, And life, the shadow of death. And the high gods took in hand Fire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sand From under the feet of the years, And froth and drift of the sea ; And dust of the labouring earth ; And bodies of things to be In the houses of death and of birth ; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man. Chorus From Atalanta In Calydon From the winds of the north and the south They gathered as unto strife ; They breathed upon his mouth, They filled his body with life ; Eyesight and speech they wrought For the veils of the soul therein, A time for labor and thought, A time to serve and to sin ; They gave him light in his ways, And love and a space for delight, And beauty and length of days, And night, and sleep in the night. His speech is a burning fire ; With his lips he travaileth : In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; He weaves, and is clothed with derision ; Sows, and he shall not reap ; His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep. 26 Rococo TAKE hands and part with laughter; Touch lips and part with tears ; Once more and no more after, Whatever comes with years. We twain shall not remeasure The ways that left us twain; Nor crush the lees of pleasure From sanguine grapes of pain. We twain once well in sunder, What will the mad gods do For hate with me, I wonder, Or what for love with you ? Forget them till November, And dream there's April yet Forget that I remember, And dream that I forget. Time found our tired love sleeping, And kissed away his breath; But what should we do weeping, Though light love sleep to death ? We have drained his lips at leisure, Till there's not left to drain A single sob of pleasure, A single pulse of pain. 27 Rococo Dream that the lips once breathless Might quicken if they would; Say that the soul is deathless; Dream that the gods are good ; Say March may wed September, And time divorce regret; But not that you remember, And not that I forget. We have heard from hidden places What love scarce lives and hears : We have seen on fervent faces The pallor of strange tears : We have trod the wine-vat's treasure, Whence, ripe to steam and stain, Foams round the feet of pleasure The blood-red must of pain. Remembrance may recover And time bring back to time The name of your first lover, The ring of my first rhyme ; But rose-leaves of December The frosts of June shall fret, The day that you remember, The day that I forget. 28 Rococo The snake that hides and hisses In heaven we twain have known ; The grief of cruel kisses, The joy whose mouth makes moan ; The pulse's pause and measure, Where in one furtive vein Throbs through the heart of pleasure The purpler blood of pain. We have done with tears and treasons And love for treason's sake; Room for the swift new seasons, The years that burn and break, Dismantle and dismember Men's days and dreams, Juliette ; For love may not remember, But time will not forget. Life treads down love in flying, Time withers him at root ; Bring all dead things and dying, Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, Where, crushed by three days' pressure Our three days' love lies slain ; And earlier leaf of pleasure, And latter flower of pain. 29 Rococo Breathe close upon the ashes, It may be flame will leap ; Unclose the soft close lashes, Lift up the lids, and weep. Light love's extinguished ember, Let one tear leave it wet For one that you remember And ten that you forget. 3 A Ballad of Francois Villon Prince of all Ballad-Makers BIRD of the bitter bright grey golden morn Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years, First of us all and sweetest singer born Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears ; When song new-born put off the old-world's attire And felt its tune on her changed lips expire, Writ foremost on the roll of them that came Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name ! Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears, And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peers Till death dipt close their flight with shameful shears ; Till shifts came short and love were hard to hire, When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses ; when light fame Spurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name ! Poor splendid wings so frayed and spoiled and torn ! Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears ! Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlon, That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears ! A Ballad of Francois Villon What far delight has cooled the fierce desire That like some ravenous bird was strong to tire On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame, But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name ! ENVOI Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire, A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire ; Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame. But from thy feet now death has washed the mire, Love reads out first at head of all our quire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name. The Garden of Proserpine HERE, where the world is quiet ; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams ; I watch the green fields growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep ; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap : I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep. Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, 33 The Garden of Proserpine But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born ; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell ; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands : 34 The Garden of Proserpine Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born ; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn ; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things ; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure ; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure ; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful 35 The Garden of Proserpine Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives forever ; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light : Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight : Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal ; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night. To Walt Whitman in America SEND but a song oversea for us, Heart of their hearts who are free, Heart of their singer, to be for us More than our singing can be ; Ours, in the tempest of error, With no light but the twilight of terror ; Send us a song oversea ! Sweet-smelling of pine-leaves and grasses, And blown as a tree through and through With the winds of the keen mountain-passes, And tender as sun-smitten dew; Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes The waste of your limitless lakes, Wide-eyed as the sea-line's blue. O strong-winged soul with prophetic Lips hot with the bloodbeats of song, With tremor of heartstrings magnetic, With thoughts as thunders in throng, With consonant ardours of chords That pierce men's souls as with swords And hale them hearing along, Make us too music, to be with us As a word from a world's heart warm, To sail the dark as a sea with us, Full-sailed, outsinging the storm, A song to put fire in our ears Whose burning shall burn up tears, Whose sign bid battle reform ; 37 To Walt Whitman in America A note in the ranks of a clarion, A word in the wind of cheer, To consume as with lightning the carrion That makes time foul for us here ; In the air that our dead things infest A blast of the breath of the west, Till east way as west way is clear. Out of the sun beyond sunset, From the evening whence morning shall be, With the rollers in measureless onset, With the van of the stormy sea, With the world-wide wind, with the breath That breaks ships driven upon death, With the passion of all things free, With the sea-steeds footless and frantic, White myriads for death to bestride In the charge of the ruining Atlantic Where deaths by regiments ride, With clouds and clamours of waters, With a long note shriller than slaughter's On the furrowless fields world-wide, With terror, with ardour and wonder, With the soul of the season that wakes When the weight of a whole year's thunder In the tidestream of autumn breaks, Let the flight of the wide-winged word Come over, come in and be heard, Take form and fire for our sakes. 38 To Walt Whitman in America For a continent bloodless with travail Here toils and brawls as it can, And the web of it who shall unravel Of all that peer on the plan ; Would fain grow men, but they grow not, And fain be free, but they know not One name for freedom and man ? One name, not twain for division ; One thing, not twain, from the birth ; Spirit and substance and vision, Worth more than worship is worth; Unbeheld, unadored, undivined, The cause, the centre, the mind, The secret and sense of the earth. Here as a weakling in irons, Here as a weanling in bands, As a prey that the stake-net environs, Our life that we looked for stands ; And the man-child naked and dear, Democracy, turns on us here Eyes trembling with tremulous hands. It sees not what season shall bring to it Sweet fruit of its bitter desire ; Few voices it hears yet sing to it, Few pulses of hearts reaspire ; Foresees not time, nor forebears The noises of imminent years, Earthquake, and thunder, and fire : 39 To Walt Whitman in America When crowned and weaponed and curbless It shall walk without helm or shield The bare burnt furrows and herbless Of war's last flame-stricken field, Till godlike, equal with time, It stand in the sun sublime, In the godhead of man revealed. Round your people and over them Light like raiment is drawn, Close as a garment to cover them Wrought not of mail nor of lawn ; Here, with hope hardly to wear, Naked nations and bare Swim, sink, strike out for the dawn. Chains are here, and a prison, Kings, and subjects, and shame ; If the God upon you be arisen, How should our songs be the same ? How, in confusion of change, How shall we sing in a strange Land, songs praising his name ? God is buried and dead to us, Even the spirit of earth, Freedom ; so have they said to us, Some with mocking and mirth, Some with heartbreak and tears ; And a God without eyes, without ears, Who shall sing of him, dead in the birth ? 40 To Walt Whitman in America The earth-god Freedom, the lonely Face lightening, the footprint unshod, Not as one man crucified only Nor scourged with but one life's rod ; The soul that is substance of nations, Reincarnate with fresh generations ; The great god Man, which is God. But in weariest of years and obscurest Doth it live not at heart of all things, The one God and one spirit, a purest Life, fed from unstanchable springs? Within love, within hatred it is, And its seed in the stripe as the kiss, And in slaves is the germ, and in kings. Freedom we call it, for holier Name of the soul's there is none ; Surelier it labours, if slowlier, Than the metres of star or of sun ; Slowlier than life into breath, Surelier than time into death, It moves till its labour be done. Till the motion be done and the measure Circling through season and clime, Slumber and sorrow and pleasure, Vision of virtue and crime ; Till consummate with conquering eyes, A soul disembodied, it rise From the body transfigured of time. 4 1 To Walt Whitman in America Till it rise and remain and take station With the stars of the world that rejoice ; Till the voice of its heart's exultation Be as theirs an invariable voice ; By no discord of evil estranged, By no pause, by no breach in it changed, By no clash in the chord of its choice. It is one with the world's generations, With the spirit, the star, and the sod ; With the kingless and king-stricken nations, With the cross, and the chain, and the rod ; The most high, the most secret, most lonely, The earth-soul Freedom, that only Lives, and that only is God. A Leave-Taking LET us go hence, my songs ; she will not hear. Let us go hence together without fear ; Keep silence now, for singing-time is over, And over all old things and all things dear. She loves not you nor me as all we love her. Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, She would not hear. Let us rise up and part ; she will not know. Let us go seaward as the great winds go, Full of blown sand and foam ; what help is here ? There is no help, for all these things are so, And all the world is bitter as a tear. And how these things are, though ye strove to show, She would not know. Let us go home and hence ; she will not weep. We gave love many dreams and days to keep, Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow, Saying * If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap/ All is reaped now ; no grass is left to mow ; And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep, She would not weep. Let us go hence and rest ; she will not love. She shall not hear us if we sing hereof, Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep. Come hence, let be, lie still ; it is enough. 43 A Leave-Taking Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep ; And though she saw all heaven in flower above, She would not love. Let us give up, go down ; she will not care. Though all the stars made gold of all the air, And the sea moving saw before it move One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair ; Though all those waves went over us, and drove Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair, She would not care. Let us go hence, go hence ; she will not see. Sing all once more together ; surely she, She too, remembering days and words that were, Will turn a little toward us, sighing ; but we, We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me, She would not see. 44 Madonna Mia UNDER green apple-boughs That never a storm will rouse, My lady hath her house Between two bowers ; In either of the twain Red roses full of rain ; She hath for bondwomen All' kind of flowers. She hath no handmaid fair To draw her curled gold hair Through rings of gold that bear Her whole hair's weight; She hath no maids to stand Gold-clothed on either hand ; In all the great green land None is so great. She hath no more to wear But one white hood of vair Drawn over eyes and hair, Wrought with strange gold, Made for some great queen's head, Some fair great queen since dead ; And one strait gown of red Against the cold. 45 Madonna Mia Beneath her eyelids deep Love lying seems asleep, Love, swift to wake, to weep, To laugh, to gaze ; Her breasts are like white birds, And all her gracious words As water-grass to herds In the June-days. To her all dews that fall And rains are musical ; Her flowers are fed from all, Her joy from these ; In the deep-feathered firs Their gift of joy is hers, In the least breath that stirs Across the trees. She grows with greenest leaves, Ripens with reddest sheaves, Forgets, remembers, grieves, And is not sad ; The quiet lands and skies Leave light upon her eyes ; None knows her, weak or wise, Or tired or glad. Madonna Mia None knows, none understands, What flowers are like her hands ; Though you should search all lands Wherein time grows, What snows are like her feet, Though his eyes burn with heat Through gazing on my sweet, Yet no man knows. Only this thing is said ; That white and gold and red, God's three chief words, man's bread And oil and wine, Were given her for dowers, And kingdom of all hours, And grace of goodly flowers And various vine. This is my lady's praise : God after many days Wrought her in unknown ways, In sunset lands; This was my lady's birth ; God gave her might and mirth And laid his whole sweet earth Between her hands. 47 Madonna Mia Under deep apple-boughs My lady hath her house; She wears upon her brows The flower thereof ; All saying but what God saith To her is as vain breath; She is more strong than death, Being strong as love. 48 Adieux a Marie Stuart I QUEEN, for whose house my fathers fought, With hopes that rose and fell, Red star of boyhood's fiery thought, Farewell. They gave their lives, and I, my queen, Have given you of my life, Seeing your brave star burn high between Men's strife. The strife that lightened round their spears Long since fell still : so long Hardly may hope to last in years My song. But still through strife of time and thought Your light on me too fell : Queen, in whose name we sang or fought, Farewell. 49 Adieux a Marie Stuart II There beats no heart on either border Wherethrough the north blasts blow But keeps your memory as a warder His beacon-fire aglow. Long since it fired with love and wonder Mine, for whose April age Blithe midsummer made banquet under The shade of Hermitage. Soft sang the burn's blithe notes, that gather Strength to ring true : And air and trees and sun and heather Remembered you. Old border ghosts of fight or fairy Or love or teen, These they forgot, remembering Mary The Queen. Adieux a Marie Stuart in Queen once of Scots and ever of ours Whose sires brought forth for you Their lives to strew your way like flowers, Adieu. Dead is full many a dead man's name Who died for you this long Time past : shall this too fare the same, My song ? But surely, though it die or live, Your face was worth All that a man may think to give On earth. No darkness cast of years between Can darken you : Man's love will never bid my queen Adieu. Adieux S Marie Stuart IV Love hangs like light about your name As music round the shell : No heart can take of you a tame Farewell. Yet, when your very face was seen, 111 gifts were yours for giving : Love gat strange guerdons of my queen When living. O diamond heart unflawed and clear, The whole world's crowning jewel ! Was ever heart so dearly dear So cruel ? Yet none for you of all that bled Grudged once one drop that fell : Not one to life reluctant said Farewell. Adieux a Marie Stuart v Strange love they have given you, love disloyal, Who mock with praise your name, To leave a head so rare and royal Too low for praise or blame. You could not love nor hate, they tell us, You had nor sense nor sting : In God's name, then, what plague befell us To fight for such a thing ? " Some faults the gods will give," to fetter Man's highest intent : But surely you were something better Than innocent ! No maid that stays with steps unwary Through snares unseen, But one to live and die for ; Mary, The Queen. 53 Adieux a Marie Stuart VI Forgive them all their praise, who blot Your fame with praise of you : Then love may say, and falter not, Adieu. Yet some you hardly would forgive Who did you much less wrong Once : but resentment should not live Too long. They never saw your lip's bright bow, Your swordbright eyes, The bluest of heavenly things below The skies. Clear eyes that love's self finds most like A swordblade's blue, A swordblade's ever keen to strike, Adieu. 54 Adieux a Marie Stuart VII Though all things breathe or sound of fight That yet make up your spell, To bid you were to bid the light Farewell. Farewell the song says only, being A star whose race is run : Farewell the soul says never, seeing The sun. Yet, wellnigh as with flash of tears, The song must say but so That took your praise up twenty years Ago. More bright than stars or moons that vary, Sun kindling heaven and hell, Here, after all these years, Queen Mary, Farewell. 55 Sonnet (With a copy of Mademoiselle de Maupin) THIS is the golden book of spirit and sense, The holy writ of beauty ; he that wrought Made it with dreams and faultless words and thought That seeks and finds and loses in the dense Dim air of life that beauty's excellence Wherewith love makes one hour of life distraught And all hours after follow and find not aught. Here is that height of all love's eminence Where man may breathe but for a breathing-space And feel his soul burn as an altar-fire To the unknown God of unachieved desire, And from the middle mystery of the place Watch lights that break, hear sounds as of a quire, But see not twice unveiled the veiled God's face. A Match TF love were what the rose is, * And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon ; If I were what the words are And love were like the tune. If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath ; If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death. 57 A Match If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy, We'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy ; If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy. If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady And night were bright like day ; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May. If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein ; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain. In Memory of Walter Savage Landor BACK to the flower-town, side by side, The bright months bring, New-born, the bridegroom and the bride, Freedom and spring. The sweet land laughs from sea to sea, Filled full of sun ; All things come back to her, being free ; All things but one. In many a tender wheaten plot Flowers that were dead Live, and old suns revive ; but not That holier head. By this white wandering waste of sea, Far north, I hear One face shall never turn to me As once this year: Shall never smile and turn and rest On mine as there, Nor one most sacred hand be prest Upon my hair. I came as one whose thoughts half linger, Half run before; The youngest to the oldest singer That England bore. 59 In Memory of Walter Savage Landor I found him whom I shall not find Till all grief end, In holiest age our mightiest mind, Father and friend. But thou, if anything endure, If hope there be, O spirit that man's life left pure, Man's death set free, Not with disdain of days that were Look earthward now; Let dreams revive the reverend hair, The imperial brow; Come back in sleep, for in the life Where thou art not We find none like thee. Time and strife And the world's lot Move thee no more; but love at least And reverent heart May move thee, royal and released, Soul, as thou art. And thou, his Florence, to thy trust Receive and keep, Keep safe his dedicated dust, His sacred sleep. 60 In Memory of Walter Savage Landor So shall thy lovers, come from far, Mix with thy name As morning-star with evening-star His faultless fame. 61 The Oblation Ask nothing more of me, sweet ; All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet : Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar. All things were nothing to give Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of your wings as they soar, Trodden by chance of your feet. I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet : He that hath more, let him give ; He that hath wings, let him soar; Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live. 62 The Triumph of Time BEFORE our lives divide for ever, While time is with us and hands are free, (Time, swift to fasten and swift to sever Hand from hand, as we stand by the sea) I will say no word that a man might say Whose whole life's love goes down in a day; For this could never have been ; and never, Though the gods and the years relent, shall be. Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour, To think of things that are well outworn ? Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower, The dream foregone and the deed foreborne ? Though joy be done with and grief be vain, Time shall not sever us wholly in twain ; Earth is not spoilt for a single shower ; But the rain has ruined the ungrown corn. It will grow not again, this fruit of my heart, Smitten with sunbeams, ruined with rain. The singing seasons divide and depart, Winter and summer depart in twain. It will grow not again, it is ruined at root, The bloodlike blossom, the dull red fruit ; Though the heart yet sickens, the lips yet smart, With sullen savour of poisonous pain. I have given no man of my fruit to eat ; I trod the grapes, I have drunken the wine. Had you eaten and drunken and found it sweet, This wild new growth of the corn and vine, 63 The Triumph of Time This wine and bread without lees or leaven, We had grown as gods, as the gods in heaven, Souls fair to look upon, goodly to greet, One splendid spirit, your soul and mine. In the change of years, in the coil of things, In the clamour and rumour of life to be, We, drinking love at the furthest springs, Covered with love as a covering tree, We had grown as gods, as the gods above, Filled from the heart to the lips with love, Held fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings, O love, my love, had you loved but me ! We had stood as the sure stars stand, and moved As the moon moves, loving the world ; and seen Grief collapse as a thing disproved, Death consume as a thing unclean. Twain halves of a perfect heart, made fast Soul to soul while the years fell past ; Had you loved me once, as you have not loved ; Had the chance been with us that has not been. I have put my days and dreams out of mind, Days that are over, dreams that are done. Though we seek life through, we shall surely find There is none of them clear to us now, not one. But clear are these things ; the grass and the sand Where, sure as the eyes reach, ever at hand, With lips wide open and face burnt blind, The strong sea-daisies feast on the sun. 64 The Triumph of Time The low downs lean to the sea ; the stream, One loose thin pulseless tremulous vein, Rapid and vivid and dumb as a dream, Works downward, sick of the sun and the rain ; No wind is rough with the rank rare flowers ; The sweet sea, mother of loves and hours, Shudders and shines as the grey winds gleam, Turning her smile to a fugitive pain. Mother of loves that are swift to fade, Mother of mutable winds and hours. A barren mother, a mother-maid, Cold and clean as her faint salt flowers. I would we twain were even as she, Lost in the night and the light of the sea, Where faint sounds falter and wan beams wade, Break, and are broken, and shed into showers. The loves and hours of the life of a man, They are swift and sad, being born of the sea. Hours that rejoice and regret for a span, Born with a man's breath, mortal as he ; Loves that are lost ere they come to birth, Weeds of the wave, without fruit upon earth. I lose what I long for, save what I can, My love, my love, and no love for me ! It is not much that a man can save On the sands of life, in the straits of time, Who swims in sight of the great third wave That never a swimmer shall cross or climb. 65 The Triumph of Time Some waif washed up with the strays and spars That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars ; Weed from the water, grass from a grave, A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme. There will no man do for your sake, I think, What I would have done for the least word said. I had wrung life dry for your lips to drink, Broken it up for your daily bread : Body for body and blood for blood, As the flow of the full sea risen to flood That yearns and trembles before it sink, I had given, and lain down for you, glad and dead. Yea, hope at highest and all her fruit, And time at fullest and all his dower, I had given you surely, and life to boot, Were we once made one for a single hour. But now you are twain, you are cloven apart, Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart : And deep in one is the bitter root, And sweet for one is the lifelong flower. To have died if you cared I should die for you, clung To my life if you bade me, played my part As it pleased you these were the thoughts that stung, The dreams that smote with a keener dart Than shafts of love or arrows of death ; These were but as fire is, dust, or breath, Or poisonous foam on the tender tongue Of the little snakes that eat my heart. 66 The Triumph of Time I wish we were dead together to-day, Lost sight of, hidden away out of sight, Clasped and clothed in the cloven clay, Out of the world's way, out of the light, Out of the ages of worldly weather, Forgotten of all men altogether, As the world's first dead, taken wholly away, Made one with death, filled full of the night. How we should slumber, how we should sleep, Far in the dark with the dreams and the dews ! And dreaming, grow to each other, and weep, Laugh low, live softly, murmur and muse : Yea, and it may be, struck through by the dream, Feel the dust quicken and quiver, and seem Alive as of old to the lips, and leap Spirit to spirit as lovers use. Sick dreams and sad of a dull delight j For what shall it profit when men are dead To have dreamed, to have loved with the whole soul's might, To have looked for day when the day was fled ? Let come what will, there is one thing worth, To have had fair love in the life upon earth : To have held love safe till the day grew night, While skies had colour and lips were red. Would I lose you now ? would I take you then, If I lose you now that my heart has need ? And come what may after death to men, What thing worth this will the dead years breed ? 67 The Triumph of Time Lose life, lose all ; but at least I know, sweet life's love, having loved you so, Had I reached you on earth, I should lose not again, In death nor life, nor in dream or deed. Yea, I know this well : were you once sealed mine, Mine in the blood's beat, mine in the breath, Mixed into me as honey in wine, Not time that sayeth and gainsayeth, Nor all strong things had severed us then ; Not wrath of gods, nor wisdom of men, Nor all things earthly, nor all divine, Nor joy nor sorrow, nor life nor death. 1 had grown pure as the dawn and the dew, You had grown strong as the sun or the sea. But none shall triumph a whole life through : For death is one and the fates are three. At the door of life, by the gate of breath, There are worse things waiting for men than death ; Death could not sever my soul and you, As these have severed your soul from me. You have chosen and clung to the chance they sent you, Life sweet as perfume and pure as prayer. But will it not one day in heaven repent you ? Will they solace you wholly, the days that were ? Will you lift up your eyes between sadness and bliss, Meet mine, and see where the great love is, And tremble, and turn and be changed ? Content you ; The gate is straight ; I shall not be there. 68 The Triumph of Time But you, had you chosen, had you stretched hand, Had you seen good such a thing were done, I too might have stood with the souls that stand In the sun's sight, clothed with the light of the sun ; But who now on earth need care how I live ? Have the high gods anything left to give, Save dust and laurels and gold and sand? Which gifts are goodly ; but I will none. all fair lovers about the world, There is none of you, none, that shall comfort me. My thoughts are as dead things, wrecked and whirled Round and round in a gulf of the sea ; And still, through the sound and the straining stream, Through the coil and chafe, they gleam in a dream^ The bright fine lips so cruelly curled, And strange swift eyes where the soul sits free. Free, without pity, withheld from woe, Ignorant ; fair as the eyes are fair. Would I have you change now, change at a blow, Startled and stricken, awake and aware ? Yea, if I could, would I have you see My very love of you filling me, And know my soul to the quick, as I know The likeness and look of your throat and hair ? 1 shall not change you. Nay, though I might, Would I change my sweet one love with a word ? I had rather your hair should change in a night, Clear now as the plume of a black bright bird ; 69 The Triumph of Time Your face fail suddenly, cease, turn grey, Die as a leaf that dies in a day. I will keep my soul in a place out of sight, Far off, where the pulse of it is not heard. Far off it walks, in a bleak blown space, Full of the sound of the sorrow of years. I have woven a veil for the weeping face, Whose lips have drunken the wine of tears ; I have found a way for the failing feet, A place for slumber and sorrow to meet ; There is no rumour about the place, Nor light, nor any that sees or hears. I have hidden my soul out of sight, and said " Let none take pity upon thee, none Comfort thy crying : for lo, thou art dead, Lie still now, safe out of sight of the sun. Have I not built thee a grave, and wrought Thy grave-clothes on thee of grievous thought, With soft spun verses and tears unshed, And sweet light visions of things undone ? " I have given thee garments and balm and myrrh, And gold, and beautiful burial things. But thou, be at peace now, make no stir ; Is not thy grave as a royal king's ? Fret not thyself though the end were sore ; Sleep, be patient, vex me no more. Sleep ; what hast thou to do with her ? The eyes that weep, with the mouth that sings ? 70 The Triumph of Time Where the dead red leaves of the years lie rotten, The cold old crimes and the deeds thrown by, The misconceived and the misbegotten, I would find a sin to do ere I die, Sure to dissolve and destroy me all through, That would set you higher in heaven, serve you And leave you happy, when clean forgotten, As a dead man out of mind, am I. Your lithe hands draw me, your face burns through me, I am swift to follow you, keen to see ; But love lacks might to redeem or undo me, As I have been, I know I shall surely be ; " What should such fellows as I do ? " Nay, My part were worse if I chose to play ; For the worst is this after all ; if they knew me, Not a soul upon earth would pity me. And I play not for pity of these ; but you, If you saw with your soul what man am I, You would praise me at least that my soul all through Clove to you, loathing the lives that lie ; The souls and lips that are bought and sold, The smiles of silver and kisses of gold, The lapdog loves that whine as they chew, The little lovers that curse and cry. There are fairer women, I hear ; that may be But I, that I love you and find you fair, Who are more than fair in my eyes if they be, Do the high gods know or the great gods care ? 71 The Triumph of Time Though the swords in my heart for one were seven, Would the iron hollow of doubtful heaven, That knows not itself whether night-time or day be, Reverberate words and a foolish prayer ? I will go back to the great sweet mother, Mother and lover of men, the sea. I will go down to her, I and none other, Close with her, kiss her and mix her with me ; Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast ; O fair white mother, in days long past Born without sister, born without brother, Set free my soul as thy soul is free. fair green-girdled mother of mine, Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, Thy large embraces are keen like pain. Save me and hide me with all thy waves, Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, Those pure cold populous graves of thine Wrought without hand in a world without stain. 1 shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside ; Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were, Filled full with life to the eyes and hair, As a rose is fulfilled to the roseleaf tips With splendid summer and perfume and pride. 72 The Triumph of Time This woven raiment of nights and days, Were it once cast off and unwound from me Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, Alive and aware of thy ways and thee ; Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, Clothed with the green and crowned with the foam, A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. Fair mother, fed with the lives of men, Thou art subtle and cruel of heart, men say. Thou hast taken, and shalt not render again ; Thou art full of thy dead, and cold as they. But death is the worst that comes of thee ; Thou art fed with our dead, O mother, O sea, But when hast thou fed on our hearts ? or when, Having given us love, hast thou taken away ? O tender-hearted, O perfect lover, Thy lips are bitter, and sweet thine heart. The hopes that hurt and the dreams that hover, Shall they not vanish away and apart ? But thou, thou art sure, thou art older than earth ; Thou art strong for death and fruitful of birth ; Thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover; From the first thou wert ; in the end thou art. And grief shall endure not forever, I know. As things that are not shall these things be ; We shall live through seasons of sun and of snow, And none be grievous as this to me. 73 The Triumph of Time We shall hear, as one in a trance that hears, The sound of time, the rhyme of the years ; Wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow As tender things of a spring-tide sea. Sea-fruit that swings in the waves that hiss, Drowned gold and purple and royal rings. And all time past, was it all for this ? Times unforgotten, and treasures of things ? Swift years of liking and sweet long laughter, That wist not well of the years thereafter Till love woke, smitten at heart by a kiss, With lips that trembled and trailing wings ? There lived a singer in France of old By the tideless dolorous midland sea. In a land of sand and ruin and gold There shone one woman, and none but she. And finding life for her love's sake fail, Being fain to see her, he bade set sail, Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold, And praised God, seeing ; and so died he. Died, praising God for his gift and grace : For she bowed down to him weeping, and said " Live ;" and her tears were shed on his face Or ever the life in his face was shed. The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung Once, and her close lips touched him and clung Once, and grew one with his lips for a space j And so drew back, and the man was dead. 74 The Triumph of Time brother, the gods were good to you. Sleep, and be glad while the world endures. Be well content as the years wear through ; Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures ; Give thanks for life, O brother, and death, For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, For gifts she gave you, gracious and few, Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. Rest, and be glad of the gods ; but I, How shall I praise them, or how take rest ? There is not room under all the sky For me that know not of worst or best, Dream or desire of the days before, Sweet things or bitterness, any more. Love will not come to me now though I die, As love came close to you, breast to breast. 1 shall never be friends again with roses ; I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes, As a wave of the sea turned back by song. There are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire, Face to face with its own desire ; A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes ; I shall hate music my whole life long. The pulse of war and passion of wonder, The heavens that murmur, the sounds that shine, The stars that sing and the loves that thunder, The music burning at heart like wine, 75 The Triumph of Time An armed archangel whose hands raise up All senses mixed in the spirit's cup Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder These things are over, and no more mine. These were a part of the playing I heard Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife ; Love that sings and hath wings as a bird, Balm of the wound and heft of the knife. Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep Than overwatching of eyes that weep, Now time has done with his one sweet word, The wine and leaven of lovely life. I shall go my ways, tread out my measure, P'ill the days of my daily breath With fugitive things not good to treasure, Do as the world doth, say as it saith ; But if we had loved each other O sweet, Had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet, The heart of my heart, beating harder with pleasure To feel you tread it to dust and death Ah, had I not taken my life up and given All that life gives and the years let go, The wine and honey, the balm and leaven, The dreams reared high and the hopes brought low ? Come life, come death, not a word be said ; Should I lose you living, and vex you dead ? I never shall tell you on earth ; and in heaven If I cry to you then will you hear or know ? 76 Of this book one thousand copies have been printed on Van Gelder hand-made paper, and fifty numbered copies on Japan Vellum, and the type distributed, October, 1 906. University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. llii'" QCC A03 8 Sou; Lit