Or as a schoolboy tired of his book
   Flings himself down upon the reedy grass
And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,
   And for a time forgets the hour glass,
Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,
And lets the hot sun kill them, even go these lovers lay.

And Venus cried, ‘It is dread Artemis
   Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,
Or else that mightier maid whose care it is
   To guard her strong and stainless majesty
Upon the hill Athenian,—alas!
That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house should pass.’

So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl
   In the great golden waggon tenderly
(Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl
   Just threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry
Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast
Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest)

And then each pigeon spread its milky van,
   The bright car soared into the dawning sky,
And like a cloud the aerial caravan
   Passed over the Ægean silently,
Till the faint air was troubled with the song
From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long.

But when the doves had reached their wonted goal
   Where the wide stair of orbèd marble dips
Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul
   Just shook the trembling petals of her lips
And passed into the void, and Venus knew
That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,

And bade her servants carve a cedar chest
   With all the wonder of this history,
Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest
   Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky
On the low hills of Paphos, and the Faun
Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.

Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere
   The morning bee had stung the daffodil
With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair
   The waking stag had leapt across the rill
And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept
Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.

And when day brake, within that silver shrine
   Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous,
Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine
   That she whose beauty made Death amorous
Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,
And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford.

III

In melancholy moonless Acheron,
   Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
   Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,

There by a dim and dark Lethæan well
   Young Charmides was lying; wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,
   And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,

When as he gazed into the watery glass
   And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass
   Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh.

Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
   And ever nigher still their faces came,
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
   Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast,

And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
   And all her maidenhood was his to slay,
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
   Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay
To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.

Too venturous poesy, O why essay
   To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings
O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
   Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!

Enough, enough that he whose life had been
   A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
   One scorching harvest from those fields of flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet

In that wild throb when all existences
   Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress
   Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.

FLOWERS OF GOLD

IMPRESSIONS

I
LES SILHOUETTES

   The sea is flecked with bars of grey,
   The dull dead wind is out of tune,
   And like a withered leaf the moon
Is blown across the stormy bay.

   Etched clear upon the pallid sand
   Lies the black boat: a sailor boy
   Clambers aboard in careless joy
With laughing face and gleaming hand.

   And overhead the curlews cry,
   Where through the dusky upland grass
   The young brown-throated reapers pass,
Like silhouettes against the sky.

II
LA FUITE DE LA LUNE

   To outer senses there is peace,
   A dreamy peace on either hand
   Deep silence in the shadowy land,
Deep silence where the shadows cease.

   Save for a cry that echoes shrill
   From some lone bird disconsolate;
   A corncrake calling to its mate;
The answer from the misty hill.

   And suddenly the moon withdraws
   Her sickle from the lightening skies,
   And to her sombre cavern flies,
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.

THE GRAVE OF KEATS

Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain,
   He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue:
   Taken from life when life and love were new
The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,
Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.
   No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,
   But gentle violets weeping with the dew
Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.
O proudest heart that broke for misery!
   O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!
   O poet-painter of our English Land!
Thy name was writ in water—it shall stand:
   And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,
   As Isabella did her Basil-tree.

Rome.

THEOCRITUS

A VILLANELLE

O singer of Persephone!
   In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still through the ivy flits the bee
   Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!

Simætha calls on Hecate
   And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still by the light and laughing sea
   Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;
O Singer of Persephone!

And still in boyish rivalry
   Young Daphnis challenges his mate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
   For thee the jocund shepherds wait;
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?

IN THE GOLD ROOM

A HARMONY

Her ivory hands on the ivory keys
   Strayed in a fitful fantasy,
Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees
   Rustle their pale-leaves listlessly,
Or the drifting foam of a restless sea
When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.

Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold
   Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun
On the burnished disk of the marigold,
   Or the sunflower turning to meet the sun
   When the gloom of the dark blue night is done,
And the spear of the lily is aureoled.

And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine
   Burned like the ruby fire set
In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,
   Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,
   Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet
With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

BALLADE DE MARGUERITE

(NORMANDE)

I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.

Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.

But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady’s side.

Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,
A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.

Will she love me the less that my Father is seen
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?

Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.

Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.

Perchance she is hunting of the deer,
How could you follow o’er hill and mere?

Ah, if she is riding with the court,
I might run beside her and wind the morte.

Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys,
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)

Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.

Come in, my son, for you look sae pale,
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.

But who are these knights in bright array?
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?

’T is the King of England from over sea,
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.

But why does the curfew toll sae low?
And why do the mourners walk a-row?

O ’t is Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.

Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.

O ’t is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.

Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.

O ’t is none of our kith and none of our kin,
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)

But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet,
‘Elle est morte, la Marguerite.’

Come in, my son, and lie on the bed,
And let the dead folk bury their dead.

O mother, you know I loved her true:
O mother, hath one grave room for two?

THE DOLE OF THE KING’S DAUGHTER

(BRETON)

Seven stars in the still water,
   And seven in the sky;
Seven sins on the King’s daughter,
   Deep in her soul to lie.

Red roses are at her feet,
   (Roses are red in her red-gold hair)
And O where her bosom and girdle meet
   Red roses are hidden there.

Fair is the knight who lieth slain
   Amid the rush and reed,
See the lean fishes that are fain
   Upon dead men to feed.

Sweet is the page that lieth there,
   (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)
See the black ravens in the air,
   Black, O black as the night are they.

What do they there so stark and dead?
   (There is blood upon her hand)
Why are the lilies flecked with red?
   (There is blood on the river sand.)

There are two that ride from the south and east,
   And two from the north and west,
For the black raven a goodly feast,
   For the King’s daughter rest.

There is one man who loves her true,
   (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)
He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,
   (One grave will do for four.)

No moon in the still heaven,
   In the black water none,
The sins on her soul are seven,
   The sin upon his is one.

AMOR INTELLECTUALIS

Oft have we trod the vales of Castaly
   And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown
   From antique reeds to common folk unknown:
And often launched our bark upon that sea
Which the nine Muses hold in empery,
   And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,
   Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home
Till we had freighted well our argosy.
Of which despoilèd treasures these remain,
   Sordello’s passion, and the honeyed line
Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine
   Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,
The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,
   And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies.

SANTA DECCA

The Gods are dead: no longer do we bring
   To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!
   Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves,
And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,
For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning
   By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er:
   Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;
Great Pan is dead, and Mary’s son is King.

And yet—perchance in this sea-trancèd isle,
   Chewing the bitter fruit of memory,
   Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.
Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well
   For us to fly his anger: nay, but see,
   The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile.

Corfu.

A VISION

Two crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone
   With no green weight of laurels round his head,
   But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
   And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
   Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
   Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,
I cried to Beatricé, ‘Who are these?’
And she made answer, knowing well each name,
   ‘Æschylos first, the second Sophokles,
   And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’

IMPRESSION DE VOYAGE

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky
   Burned like a heated opal through the air;
   We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye
   Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
   Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.
   The flapping of the sail against the mast,
   The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,
The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn,
   And a red sun upon the seas to ride,
   I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

Katakolo.

THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed
   Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;
   Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.
And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,
   In the still chamber of yon pyramid
   Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,
Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.

Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb
   Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb
   In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,
Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom
   Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.

Rome.

BY THE ARNO

   The oleander on the wall
   Grows crimson in the dawning light,
   Though the grey shadows of the night
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

   The dew is bright upon the hill,
   And bright the blossoms overhead,
   But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
The little Attic song is still.

   Only the leaves are gently stirred
   By the soft breathing of the gale,
   And in the almond-scented vale
The lonely nightingale is heard.

   The day will make thee silent soon,
   O nightingale sing on for love!
   While yet upon the shadowy grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.

   Before across the silent lawn
   In sea-green vest the morning steals,
   And to love’s frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn

   Fast climbing up the eastern sky
   To grasp and slay the shuddering night,
   All careless of my heart’s delight,
Or if the nightingale should die.

IMPRESSIONS DE THÉÂTRE

FABIEN DEI FRANCHI

To my Friend Henry Irving

The silent room, the heavy creeping shade,
   The dead that travel fast, the opening door,
   The murdered brother rising through the floor,
The ghost’s white fingers on thy shoulders laid,
And then the lonely duel in the glade,
   The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,
   Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o’er,—
These things are well enough,—but thou wert made
   For more august creation! frenzied Lear
   Should at thy bidding wander on the heath
   With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo
For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear
Pluck Richard’s recreant dagger from its sheath—
Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare’s lips to blow!

PHÈDRE

To Sarah Bernhardt

How vain and dull this common world must seem
   To such a One as thou, who should’st have talked
At Florence with Mirandola, or walked
Through the cool olives of the Academe:
Thou should’st have gathered reeds from a green stream
   For Goat-foot Pan’s shrill piping, and have played
   With the white girls in that Phæacian glade
Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.

Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay
   Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again
   Back to this common world so dull and vain,
For thou wert weary of the sunless day,
   The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,
   The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.

WRITTEN AT THE LYCEUM THEATRE

I
PORTIA

To Ellen Terry

I marvel not Bassanio was so bold
   To peril all he had upon the lead,
   Or that proud Aragon bent low his head
Or that Morocco’s fiery heart grew cold:
For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold
   Which is more golden than the golden sun
   No woman Veronesé looked upon
Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.
Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield
   The sober-suited lawyer’s gown you donned,
And would not let the laws of Venice yield
   Antonio’s heart to that accursèd Jew—
   O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.

II
QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA

To Ellen Terry

In the lone tent, waiting for victory,
   She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,
   Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:
The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
War’s ruin, and the wreck of chivalry
   To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
   Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
O Hair of Gold!  O Crimson Lips!  O Face
   Made for the luring and the love of man!
   With thee I do forget the toil and stress,
The loveless road that knows no resting place,
   Time’s straitened pulse, the soul’s dread weariness,
   My freedom, and my life republican!

III
CAMMA

To Ellen Terry

As one who poring on a Grecian urn
   Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,
   God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,
And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn
And face the obvious day, must I not yearn
   For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,
   When in midmost shrine of Artemis
I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?

And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play
   That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery
Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake
   Our stage with all thy mimic pageants!  Nay,
   I am grown sick of unreal passions, make
The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!

PANTHEA

Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire,
   From passionate pain to deadlier delight,—
I am too young to live without desire,
   Too young art thou to waste this summer night
Asking those idle questions which of old
Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.

For, sweet, to feel is better than to know,
   And wisdom is a childless heritage,
One pulse of passion—youth’s first fiery glow,—
   Are worth the hoarded proverbs of the sage:
Vex not thy soul with dead philosophy,
Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love and eyes to see!

Dost thou not hear the murmuring nightingale,
   Like water bubbling from a silver jar,
So soft she sings the envious moon is pale,
   That high in heaven she is hung so far
She cannot hear that love-enraptured tune,—
Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist, yon late and labouring moon.

White lilies, in whose cups the gold bees dream,
   The fallen snow of petals where the breeze
Scatters the chestnut blossom, or the gleam
   Of boyish limbs in water,—are not these
Enough for thee, dost thou desire more?
Alas! the Gods will give nought else from their eternal store.

For our high Gods have sick and wearied grown
   Of all our endless sins, our vain endeavour
For wasted days of youth to make atone
   By pain or prayer or priest, and never, never,
Hearken they now to either good or ill,
But send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will.

They sit at ease, our Gods they sit at ease,
   Strewing with leaves of rose their scented wine,
They sleep, they sleep, beneath the rocking trees
   Where asphodel and yellow lotus twine,
Mourning the old glad days before they knew
What evil things the heart of man could dream, and dreaming do.

And far beneath the brazen floor they see
   Like swarming flies the crowd of little men,
The bustle of small lives, then wearily
   Back to their lotus-haunts they turn again
Kissing each others’ mouths, and mix more deep
The poppy-seeded draught which brings soft purple-lidded sleep.

There all day long the golden-vestured sun,
   Their torch-bearer, stands with his torch ablaze,
And, when the gaudy web of noon is spun
   By its twelve maidens, through the crimson haze
Fresh from Endymion’s arms comes forth the moon,
And the immortal Gods in toils of mortal passions swoon.

There walks Queen Juno through some dewy mead,
   Her grand white feet flecked with the saffron dust
Of wind-stirred lilies, while young Ganymede
   Leaps in the hot and amber-foaming must,
His curls all tossed, as when the eagle bare
The frightened boy from Ida through the blue Ionian air.

There in the green heart of some garden close
   Queen Venus with the shepherd at her side,
Her warm soft body like the briar rose
   Which would be white yet blushes at its pride,
Laughs low for love, till jealous Salmacis
Peers through the myrtle-leaves and sighs for pain of lonely bliss.

There never does that dreary north-wind blow
   Which leaves our English forests bleak and bare,
Nor ever falls the swift white-feathered snow,
   Nor ever doth the red-toothed lightning dare
To wake them in the silver-fretted night
When we lie weeping for some sweet sad sin, some dead delight.

Alas! they know the far Lethæan spring,
   The violet-hidden waters well they know,
Where one whose feet with tired wandering
   Are faint and broken may take heart and go,
And from those dark depths cool and crystalline
Drink, and draw balm, and sleep for sleepless souls, and anodyne.

But we oppress our natures, God or Fate
   Is our enemy, we starve and feed
On vain repentance—O we are born too late!
   What balm for us in bruisèd poppy seed
Who crowd into one finite pulse of time
The joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of infinite crime.

O we are wearied of this sense of guilt,
   Wearied of pleasure’s paramour despair,
Wearied of every temple we have built,
   Wearied of every right, unanswered prayer,
For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high:
One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; and lo! we die.

Ah! but no ferry-man with labouring pole
   Nears his black shallop to the flowerless strand,
No little coin of bronze can bring the soul
   Over Death’s river to the sunless land,
Victim and wine and vow are all in vain,
The tomb is sealed; the soldiers watch; the dead rise not again.

We are resolved into the supreme air,
   We are made one with what we touch and see,
With our heart’s blood each crimson sun is fair,
   With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree
Flames into green, the wildest beasts that range
The moor our kinsmen are, all life is one, and all is change.

With beat of systole and of diastole
   One grand great life throbs through earth’s giant heart,
And mighty waves of single Being roll
   From nerveless germ to man, for we are part
Of every rock and bird and beast and hill,
One with the things that prey on us, and one with what we kill.

From lower cells of waking life we pass
   To full perfection; thus the world grows old:
We who are godlike now were once a mass
   Of quivering purple flecked with bars of gold,
Unsentient or of joy or misery,
And tossed in terrible tangles of some wild and wind-swept sea.

This hot hard flame with which our bodies burn
   Will make some meadow blaze with daffodil,
Ay! and those argent breasts of thine will turn
   To water-lilies; the brown fields men till
Will be more fruitful for our love to-night,
Nothing is lost in nature, all things live in Death’s despite.

The boy’s first kiss, the hyacinth’s first bell,
   The man’s last passion, and the last red spear
That from the lily leaps, the asphodel
   Which will not let its blossoms blow for fear
Of too much beauty, and the timid shame
Of the young bridegroom at his lover’s eyes,—these with the same

One sacrament are consecrate, the earth
   Not we alone hath passions hymeneal,
The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth
   At daybreak know a pleasure not less real
Than we do, when in some fresh-blossoming wood,
We draw the spring into our hearts, and feel that life is good.

So when men bury us beneath the yew
   Thy crimson-stainèd mouth a rose will be,
And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with dew,
   And when the white narcissus wantonly
Kisses the wind its playmate some faint joy
Will thrill our dust, and we will be again fond maid and boy.

And thus without life’s conscious torturing pain
   In some sweet flower we will feel the sun,
And from the linnet’s throat will sing again,
   And as two gorgeous-mailèd snakes will run
Over our graves, or as two tigers creep
Through the hot jungle where the yellow-eyed huge lions sleep

And give them battle!  How my heart leaps up
   To think of that grand living after death
In beast and bird and flower, when this cup,
   Being filled too full of spirit, bursts for breath,
And with the pale leaves of some autumn day
The soul earth’s earliest conqueror becomes earth’s last great prey.

O think of it!  We shall inform ourselves
   Into all sensuous life, the goat-foot Faun,
The Centaur, or the merry bright-eyed Elves
   That leave their dancing rings to spite the dawn
Upon the meadows, shall not be more near
Than you and I to nature’s mysteries, for we shall hear

The thrush’s heart beat, and the daisies grow,
   And the wan snowdrop sighing for the sun
On sunless days in winter, we shall know
   By whom the silver gossamer is spun,
Who paints the diapered fritillaries,
On what wide wings from shivering pine to pine the eagle flies.

Ay! had we never loved at all, who knows
   If yonder daffodil had lured the bee
Into its gilded womb, or any rose
   Had hung with crimson lamps its little tree!
Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring,
But for the lovers’ lips that kiss, the poets’ lips that sing.

Is the light vanished from our golden sun,
   Or is this dædal-fashioned earth less fair,
That we are nature’s heritors, and one
   With every pulse of life that beats the air?
Rather new suns across the sky shall pass,
New splendour come unto the flower, new glory to the grass.

And we two lovers shall not sit afar,
   Critics of nature, but the joyous sea
Shall be our raiment, and the bearded star
   Shoot arrows at our pleasure!  We shall be
Part of the mighty universal whole,
And through all æons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul!

We shall be notes in that great Symphony
   Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,
And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be
   One with our heart; the stealthy creeping years
Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,
The Universe itself shall be our Immortality.

THE FOURTH MOVEMENT

IMPRESSION

LE RÉVEILLON

   The sky is laced with fitful red,
   The circling mists and shadows flee,
   The dawn is rising from the sea,
Like a white lady from her bed.

   And jagged brazen arrows fall
   Athwart the feathers of the night,
   And a long wave of yellow light
Breaks silently on tower and hall,

   And spreading wide across the wold
   Wakes into flight some fluttering bird,
   And all the chestnut tops are stirred,
And all the branches streaked with gold.

AT VERONA

How steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are
   For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,
   And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound’s table,—better far
That I had died in the red ways of war,
   Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,
   Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.

‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this?
   He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
   Of his gold city, and eternal day’—
Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars
   I do possess what none can take away
   My love, and all the glory of the stars.

APOLOGIA

Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,
   Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,
And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain
   Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?

Is it thy will—Love that I love so well—
   That my Soul’s House should be a tortured spot
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
   The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?

Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,
   And sell ambition at the common mart,
And let dull failure be my vestiture,
   And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.

Perchance it may be better so—at least
   I have not made my heart a heart of stone,
Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,
   Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.

Many a man hath done so; sought to fence
   In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,
Trodden the dusty road of common sense,
   While all the forest sang of liberty,

Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight
   Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,
To where some steep untrodden mountain height
   Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s hair.

Or how the little flower he trod upon,
   The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,
Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun
   Content if once its leaves were aureoled.

But surely it is something to have been
   The best belovèd for a little while,
To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen
   His purple wings flit once across thy smile.

Ay! though the gorgèd asp of passion feed
   On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the bars,
Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed
   The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!

QUIA MULTUM AMAVI

Dear Heart, I think the young impassioned priest
   When first he takes from out the hidden shrine
His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,
   And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,

Feels not such awful wonder as I felt
   When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,
And all night long before thy feet I knelt
   Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.

Ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more,
   Through all those summer days of joy and rain,
I had not now been sorrow’s heritor,
   Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.

Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal,
   Tread on my heels with all his retinue,
I am most glad I loved thee—think of all
   The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!

SILENTIUM AMORIS

As often-times the too resplendent sun
   Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
   A single ballad from the nightingale,
   So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.

And as at dawn across the level mead
   On wings impetuous some wind will come,
And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
   Which was its only instrument of song,
   So my too stormy passions work me wrong,
And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.

But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
   Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
   Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
   And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.

HER VOICE

The wild bee reels from bough to bough
   With his furry coat and his gauzy wing,
Now in a lily-cup, and now
   Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
         In his wandering;
Sit closer love: it was here I trow
         I made that vow,

Swore that two lives should be like one
   As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun,—
   It shall be, I said, for eternity
         ’Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done;
         Love’s web is spun.

Look upward where the poplar trees
   Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
   Scatters the thistledown, but there
         Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
         And the wave-lashed leas.

Look upward where the white gull screams,
   What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
   On some outward voyaging argosy,—
         Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
         How sad it seems.

Sweet, there is nothing left to say
   But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the breasts of May
   Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
         Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
         And so we may.

And there is nothing left to do
   But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
   I have my beauty,—you your Art,
         Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
         Like me and you.

MY VOICE

Within this restless, hurried, modern world
   We took our hearts’ full pleasure—You and I,
And now the white sails of our ship are furled,
   And spent the lading of our argosy.

Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,
   For very weeping is my gladness fled,
Sorrow has paled my young mouth’s vermilion,
   And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.

But all this crowded life has been to thee
   No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell
Of viols, or the music of the sea
   That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.

TÆDIUM VITÆ

To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear
This paltry age’s gaudy livery,
To let each base hand filch my treasury,
To mesh my soul within a woman’s hair,
And be mere Fortune’s lackeyed groom,—I swear
I love it not! these things are less to me
Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,
Less than the thistledown of summer air
Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof
Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life
Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof
Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,
Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.

HUMANITAD

It is full winter now: the trees are bare,
   Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
   The autumn’s gaudy livery whose gold
Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true
To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew

From Saturn’s cave; a few thin wisps of hay
   Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain
Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer’s day
   From the low meadows up the narrow lane;
Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep
Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep

From the shut stable to the frozen stream
   And back again disconsolate, and miss
The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;
   And overhead in circling listlessness
The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,
Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack

Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds
   And flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck,
And hoots to see the moon; across the meads
   Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;
And a stray seamew with its fretful cry
Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.

Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings
   His load of faggots from the chilly byre,
And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings
   The sappy billets on the waning fire,
And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare
His children at their play, and yet,—the spring is in the air;

Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,
   And soon yon blanchèd fields will bloom again
With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,
   For with the first warm kisses of the rain
The winter’s icy sorrow breaks to tears,
And the brown thrushes mate, and with bright eyes the rabbit peers

From the dark warren where the fir-cones lie,
   And treads one snowdrop under foot, and runs
Over the mossy knoll, and blackbirds fly
   Across our path at evening, and the suns
Stay longer with us; ah! how good to see
Grass-girdled spring in all her joy of laughing greenery

Dance through the hedges till the early rose,
   (That sweet repentance of the thorny briar!)
Burst from its sheathèd emerald and disclose
   The little quivering disk of golden fire
Which the bees know so well, for with it come
Pale boy’s-love, sops-in-wine, and daffadillies all in bloom.

Then up and down the field the sower goes,
   While close behind the laughing younker scares
With shrilly whoop the black and thievish crows,
   And then the chestnut-tree its glory wears,
And on the grass the creamy blossom falls
In odorous excess, and faint half-whispered madrigals

Steal from the bluebells’ nodding carillons
   Each breezy morn, and then white jessamine,
That star of its own heaven, snap-dragons
   With lolling crimson tongues, and eglantine
In dusty velvets clad usurp the bed
And woodland empery, and when the lingering rose hath shed

Red leaf by leaf its folded panoply,
   And pansies closed their purple-lidded eyes,
Chrysanthemums from gilded argosy
   Unload their gaudy scentless merchandise,
And violets getting overbold withdraw
From their shy nooks, and scarlet berries dot the leafless haw.

O happy field! and O thrice happy tree!
   Soon will your queen in daisy-flowered smock
And crown of flower-de-luce trip down the lea,
   Soon will the lazy shepherds drive their flock
Back to the pasture by the pool, and soon
Through the green leaves will float the hum of murmuring bees at noon.

Soon will the glade be bright with bellamour,
   The flower which wantons love, and those sweet nuns
Vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture
   Will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations
With mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind,
And straggling traveller’s-joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind.

Dear bride of Nature and most bounteous spring,
   That canst give increase to the sweet-breath’d kine,
And to the kid its little horns, and bring
   The soft and silky blossoms to the vine,
Where is that old nepenthe which of yore
Man got from poppy root and glossy-berried mandragore!

There was a time when any common bird
   Could make me sing in unison, a time
When all the strings of boyish life were stirred
   To quick response or more melodious rhyme
By every forest idyll;—do I change?
Or rather doth some evil thing through thy fair pleasaunce range?

Nay, nay, thou art the same: ’tis I who seek
   To vex with sighs thy simple solitude,
And because fruitless tears bedew my cheek
   Would have thee weep with me in brotherhood;
Fool! shall each wronged and restless spirit dare
To taint such wine with the salt poison of own despair!

Thou art the same: ’tis I whose wretched soul
   Takes discontent to be its paramour,
And gives its kingdom to the rude control
   Of what should be its servitor,—for sure
Wisdom is somewhere, though the stormy sea
Contain it not, and the huge deep answer ‘’Tis not in me.’

To burn with one clear flame, to stand erect
   In natural honour, not to bend the knee
In profitless prostrations whose effect
   Is by itself condemned, what alchemy
Can teach me this? what herb Medea brewed
Will bring the unexultant peace of essence not subdued?

The minor chord which ends the harmony,
   And for its answering brother waits in vain
Sobbing for incompleted melody,
   Dies a swan’s death; but I the heir of pain,
A silent Memnon with blank lidless eyes,
Wait for the light and music of those suns which never rise.

The quenched-out torch, the lonely cypress-gloom,
   The little dust stored in the narrow urn,
The gentle ΧΑΙΡΕ of the Attic tomb,—
   Were not these better far than to return
To my old fitful restless malady,
Or spend my days within the voiceless cave of misery?

Nay! for perchance that poppy-crownèd god
   Is like the watcher by a sick man’s bed
Who talks of sleep but gives it not; his rod
   Hath lost its virtue, and, when all is said,
Death is too rude, too obvious a key
To solve one single secret in a life’s philosophy.

And Love! that noble madness, whose august
   And inextinguishable might can slay
The soul with honeyed drugs,—alas! I must
   From such sweet ruin play the runaway,
Although too constant memory never can
Forget the archèd splendour of those brows Olympian

Which for a little season made my youth
   So soft a swoon of exquisite indolence
That all the chiding of more prudent Truth
   Seemed the thin voice of jealousy,—O hence
Thou huntress deadlier than Artemis!
Go seek some other quarry! for of thy too perilous bliss.

My lips have drunk enough,—no more, no more,—
   Though Love himself should turn his gilded prow
Back to the troubled waters of this shore
   Where I am wrecked and stranded, even now
The chariot wheels of passion sweep too near,
Hence!  Hence!  I pass unto a life more barren, more austere.

More barren—ay, those arms will never lean
   Down through the trellised vines and draw my soul
In sweet reluctance through the tangled green;
   Some other head must wear that aureole,
For I am hers who loves not any man
Whose white and stainless bosom bears the sign Gorgonian.

Let Venus go and chuck her dainty page,
   And kiss his mouth, and toss his curly hair,
With net and spear and hunting equipage
   Let young Adonis to his tryst repair,
But me her fond and subtle-fashioned spell
Delights no more, though I could win her dearest citadel.

Ay, though I were that laughing shepherd boy
   Who from Mount Ida saw the little cloud
Pass over Tenedos and lofty Troy
   And knew the coming of the Queen, and bowed
In wonder at her feet, not for the sake
Of a new Helen would I bid her hand the apple take.

Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!
   And, if my lips be musicless, inspire
At least my life: was not thy glory hymned
   By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre
Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon,
And died to show that Milton’s England still could bear a son!

And yet I cannot tread the Portico
   And live without desire, fear and pain,
Or nurture that wise calm which long ago
   The grave Athenian master taught to men,
Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,
To watch the world’s vain phantasies go by with unbowed head.

Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,
   Those eyes that mirrored all eternity,
Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse
   Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne
Is childless; in the night which she had made
For lofty secure flight Athena’s owl itself hath strayed.

Nor much with Science do I care to climb,
   Although by strange and subtle witchery
She drew the moon from heaven: the Muse Time
   Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry
To no less eager eyes; often indeed
In the great epic of Polymnia’s scroll I love to read

How Asia sent her myriad hosts to war
   Against a little town, and panoplied
In gilded mail with jewelled scimitar,
   White-shielded, purple-crested, rode the Mede
Between the waving poplars and the sea
Which men call Artemisium, till he saw Thermopylæ

Its steep ravine spanned by a narrow wall,
   And on the nearer side a little brood
Of careless lions holding festival!
   And stood amazèd at such hardihood,
And pitched his tent upon the reedy shore,
And stayed two days to wonder, and then crept at midnight o’er

Some unfrequented height, and coming down
   The autumn forests treacherously slew
What Sparta held most dear and was the crown
   Of far Eurotas, and passed on, nor knew
How God had staked an evil net for him
In the small bay at Salamis,—and yet, the page grows dim,

Its cadenced Greek delights me not, I feel
   With such a goodly time too out of tune
To love it much: for like the Dial’s wheel
   That from its blinded darkness strikes the noon
Yet never sees the sun, so do my eyes
Restlessly follow that which from my cheated vision flies.

O for one grand unselfish simple life
   To teach us what is Wisdom! speak ye hills
Of lone Helvellyn, for this note of strife
   Shunned your untroubled crags and crystal rills,
Where is that Spirit which living blamelessly
Yet dared to kiss the smitten mouth of his own century!

Speak ye Rydalian laurels! where is he
   Whose gentle head ye sheltered, that pure soul
Whose gracious days of uncrowned majesty
   Through lowliest conduct touched the lofty goal
Where love and duty mingle!  Him at least
The most high Laws were glad of, he had sat at Wisdom’s feast;

But we are Learning’s changelings, know by rote
   The clarion watchword of each Grecian school
And follow none, the flawless sword which smote
   The pagan Hydra is an effete tool
Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now
Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?

One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!
   Gone is that last dear son of Italy,
Who being man died for the sake of God,
   And whose unrisen bones sleep peacefully,
O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower,
Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour

Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or
   The Arno with its tawny troubled gold
O’er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror
   Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old
When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty
Walked like a bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery

Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell
   With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,
Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell
   With which oblivion buries dynasties
Swept like a wounded eagle on the blast,
As to the holy heart of Rome the great triumvir passed.

He knew the holiest heart and heights of Rome,
   He drave the base wolf from the lion’s lair,
And now lies dead by that empyreal dome
   Which overtops Valdarno hung in air
By Brunelleschi—O Melpomene
Breathe through thy melancholy pipe thy sweetest threnody!

Breathe through the tragic stops such melodies
   That Joy’s self may grow jealous, and the Nine
Forget awhile their discreet emperies,
   Mourning for him who on Rome’s lordliest shrine
Lit for men’s lives the light of Marathon,
And bare to sun-forgotten fields the fire of the sun!

O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto’s tower!
   Let some young Florentine each eventide
Bring coronals of that enchanted flower
   Which the dim woods of Vallombrosa hide,
And deck the marble tomb wherein he lies
Whose soul is as some mighty orb unseen of mortal eyes;

Some mighty orb whose cycled wanderings,
   Being tempest-driven to the farthest rim
Where Chaos meets Creation and the wings
   Of the eternal chanting Cherubim
Are pavilioned on Nothing, passed away
Into a moonless void,—and yet, though he is dust and clay,

He is not dead, the immemorial Fates
   Forbid it, and the closing shears refrain.
Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates!
   Ye argent clarions, sound a loftier strain
For the vile thing he hated lurks within
Its sombre house, alone with God and memories of sin.

Still what avails it that she sought her cave
   That murderous mother of red harlotries?
At Munich on the marble architrave
   The Grecian boys die smiling, but the seas
Which wash Ægina fret in loneliness
Not mirroring their beauty; so our lives grow colourless

For lack of our ideals, if one star
   Flame torch-like in the heavens the unjust
Swift daylight kills it, and no trump of war
   Can wake to passionate voice the silent dust
Which was Mazzini once! rich Niobe
For all her stony sorrows hath her sons; but Italy,

What Easter Day shall make her children rise,
   Who were not Gods yet suffered? what sure feet
Shall find their grave-clothes folded? what clear eyes
   Shall see them bodily?  O it were meet
To roll the stone from off the sepulchre
And kiss the bleeding roses of their wounds, in love of her,

Our Italy! our mother visible!
   Most blessed among nations and most sad,
For whose dear sake the young Calabrian fell
   That day at Aspromonte and was glad
That in an age when God was bought and sold
One man could die for Liberty! but we, burnt out and cold,

See Honour smitten on the cheek and gyves
   Bind the sweet feet of Mercy: Poverty
Creeps through our sunless lanes and with sharp knives
   Cuts the warm throats of children stealthily,
And no word said:—O we are wretched men
Unworthy of our great inheritance! where is the pen

Of austere Milton? where the mighty sword
   Which slew its master righteously? the years
Have lost their ancient leader, and no word
   Breaks from the voiceless tripod on our ears:
While as a ruined mother in some spasm
Bears a base child and loathes it, so our best enthusiasm

Genders unlawful children, Anarchy
   Freedom’s own Judas, the vile prodigal
Licence who steals the gold of Liberty
   And yet has nothing, Ignorance the real
One Fraticide since Cain, Envy the asp
That stings itself to anguish, Avarice whose palsied grasp

Is in its extent stiffened, moneyed Greed
   For whose dull appetite men waste away
Amid the whirr of wheels and are the seed
   Of things which slay their sower, these each day
Sees rife in England, and the gentle feet
Of Beauty tread no more the stones of each unlovely street.

What even Cromwell spared is desecrated
   By weed and worm, left to the stormy play
Of wind and beating snow, or renovated
   By more destructful hands: Time’s worst decay
Will wreathe its ruins with some loveliness,
But these new Vandals can but make a rain-proof barrenness.

Where is that Art which bade the Angels sing
   Through Lincoln’s lofty choir, till the air
Seems from such marble harmonies to ring
   With sweeter song than common lips can dare
To draw from actual reed? ah! where is now
The cunning hand which made the flowering hawthorn branches bow

For Southwell’s arch, and carved the House of One
   Who loved the lilies of the field with all
Our dearest English flowers? the same sun
   Rises for us: the seasons natural
Weave the same tapestry of green and grey:
The unchanged hills are with us: but that Spirit hath passed away.

And yet perchance it may be better so,
   For Tyranny is an incestuous Queen,
Murder her brother is her bedfellow,
   And the Plague chambers with her: in obscene
And bloody paths her treacherous feet are set;
Better the empty desert and a soul inviolate!

For gentle brotherhood, the harmony
   Of living in the healthful air, the swift
Clean beauty of strong limbs when men are free
   And women chaste, these are the things which lift
Our souls up more than even Agnolo’s
Gaunt blinded Sibyl poring o’er the scroll of human woes,

Or Titian’s little maiden on the stair
   White as her own sweet lily and as tall,
Or Mona Lisa smiling through her hair,—
   Ah! somehow life is bigger after all
Than any painted angel, could we see
The God that is within us!  The old Greek serenity

Which curbs the passion of that level line
   Of marble youths, who with untroubled eyes
And chastened limbs ride round Athena’s shrine
   And mirror her divine economies,
And balanced symmetry of what in man
Would else wage ceaseless warfare,—this at least within the span

Between our mother’s kisses and the grave
   Might so inform our lives, that we could win
Such mighty empires that from her cave
   Temptation would grow hoarse, and pallid Sin
Would walk ashamed of his adulteries,
And Passion creep from out the House of Lust with startled eyes.

To make the body and the spirit one
   With all right things, till no thing live in vain
From morn to noon, but in sweet unison
   With every pulse of flesh and throb of brain
The soul in flawless essence high enthroned,
Against all outer vain attack invincibly bastioned,

Mark with serene impartiality
   The strife of things, and yet be comforted,
Knowing that by the chain causality
   All separate existences are wed
Into one supreme whole, whose utterance
Is joy, or holier praise! ah! surely this were governance

Of Life in most august omnipresence,
   Through which the rational intellect would find
In passion its expression, and mere sense,
   Ignoble else, lend fire to the mind,
And being joined with it in harmony
More mystical than that which binds the stars planetary,

Strike from their several tones one octave chord
   Whose cadence being measureless would fly
Through all the circling spheres, then to its Lord
   Return refreshed with its new empery
And more exultant power,—this indeed
Could we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect creed.

Ah! it was easy when the world was young
   To keep one’s life free and inviolate,
From our sad lips another song is rung,
   By our own hands our heads are desecrate,
Wanderers in drear exile, and dispossessed
Of what should be our own, we can but feed on wild unrest.

Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has flown,
   And of all men we are most wretched who
Must live each other’s lives and not our own
   For very pity’s sake and then undo
All that we lived for—it was otherwise
When soul and body seemed to blend in mystic symphonies.

But we have left those gentle haunts to pass
   With weary feet to the new Calvary,
Where we behold, as one who in a glass
   Sees his own face, self-slain Humanity,
And in the dumb reproach of that sad gaze
Learn what an awful phantom the red hand of man can raise.

O smitten mouth!  O forehead crowned with thorn!
   O chalice of all common miseries!
Thou for our sakes that loved thee not hast borne
   An agony of endless centuries,
And we were vain and ignorant nor knew
That when we stabbed thy heart it was our own real hearts we slew.