Chapter I: Will Not Let Thee Go (3)

The flowers did mimic the old grace;
The wan white windflowers wore her face;
And in the stream I heard her words;
Her voice came rippling from the birds.
Dead love, I saw thy form anew
Bend down among the violets blue,
And, like a mist, the memory
Of all the past came back to me.

JOHN PAYNE.

IN JUNE.

So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing,
So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see;
So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-going
From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee.

So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes,
The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere;
So sweet the water’s song through reeds and rushes,
The plover’s piping note, now here, now there.

So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover
The west wind blowing, blowing up the hill;
So sweet, so sweet with news of some one’s lover,
Fleet footsteps, singing nearer, nearer still.

So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes;
Now, plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear;
And, water, hush your song through reeds and rushes,
That I may know whose lover cometh near.

So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling,
Plover or blackbird never heeding me;
So loud the millstream too kept fretting, falling,
O’er bar and bank in brawling, boisterous glee.

So loud, so loud; yet blackbird, thrush nor plover,
Nor noisy millstream, in its fret and fall,
Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover,
My lover calling through the thrushes’ call.

“Come down, come down!” he called, and straight the thrushes
From mate to mate sang all at once, “Come down!”
And while the water laughed through reeds and rushes,
The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, “Come down!”

Then down and off, and through the fields of clover,
I followed, followed at my lover’s call;
Listening no more to blackbird, thrush or plover,
The water’s laugh, the millstream’s fret and fall.

NORA PERRY.

A SONG OF WINTER.

Barb’d blossom of the guarded gorse,
I love thee where I see thee shine:
Thou sweetener of our common ways,
And brightener of our wintry days.

Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,
Thou art undying, oh, be mine!
Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest
Close on a heart that asks not rest.

I pluck thee, and thy stigma set
Upon my breast and on my brow;
Blow, buds, and ’plenish so my wreath
That none may know the wounds beneath.

O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold,
No festal coronal art thou;
Thy honey’d blossoms are but hives
That guard the growth of wingèd lives.

I saw thee in the time of flowers
As sunshine spill’d upon the land,
Or burning bushes all ablaze
With sacred fire; but went my ways.

I went my ways, and as I went
Pluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand;
Now of those blooms so passing sweet
None lives to stay my passing feet.

And still thy lamp upon the hill
Feeds on the autumn’s dying sigh,
And from thy midst comes murmuring
A music sweeter than in spring.

Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse,
Be mine to wear until I die,
And mine the wounds of love which still
Bear witness to his human will.

EMILY PFEIFFER.

TO A LOST LOVE.

I cannot look upon thy grave,
Though there the rose is sweet:
Better to hear the long wave wash
These wastes about my feet!

Shall I take comfort? Dost thou live
A spirit, though afar,
With a deep hush about thee, like
The stillness round a star?

Oh, thou art cold! In that high sphere
Thou art a thing apart,
Losing in saner happiness
This madness of the heart.

And yet, at times, thou still shalt feel
A passing breath, a pain;
Disturb’d, as though a door in heaven
Had sped and closed again.

And thou shalt shiver, while the hymns
The solemn hymns, shall cease;
A moment half remember me:
Then turn away in peace.

But oh! forevermore thy look,
Thy laugh, thy charm, thy tone,
Thy sweet and wayward loveliness,
Dear trivial things are gone!

Therefore I look not on thy grave,
Though there the rose is sweet;
But rather hear the loud wave wash
These wastes about my feet.

STEPHEN PHILLIPS.

PRINCE OF PAINTERS, COME, I PRAY.

Prince of painters, come, I pray,
Paint my love, for, though away,
King of craftsmen, you can well
Paint what I to thee can tell.
First her hair you must indite
Dark, but soft as summer night;
Hast thou no contrivance whence
To make it breathe its frankincense?
Rising from her rounded cheek
Let thy pencil duly speak,
How below that purpling night
Glows her forehead ivory-white.
Mind you neither part nor join
Those sweet eyebrows’ easy line;
They must merge, you know, to be
In separated unity.
Painter draw, as lover bids,
Now the dark line of the lids;
Painter, now ’tis my desire,
Make her glance from very fire,
Make it as Athene’s blue,
Like Cythera’s liquid too;
Now to give her cheeks and nose,
Milk must mingle with the rose;
Her lips be like persuasion’s made,
To call for kisses they persuade;
And for her delicious chin,
O’er and under and within,
And round her soft neck’s Parian wall,
Bid fly the graces, one and all.
For the rest, enrobe my pet
In her faint clear violet;
But a little truth must show
There is more that lies below,
Hold! thou hast her--that is she.
Hush! she ’s going to speak to me.

WILLIAM PHILPOT.

A LAGOON MESSAGE.

Not now, but later, when the road
We tread together breaks apart,
When thou, my dearest, distant art,
And tedious days have swelled the load
Upon my heart.

Or haply after that, when I
Am sealed within an earthy bed,
Resting and unrememberèd,
This scene will speak and easily
The whole be said.

Some eve, when from his burning chair
The sun below Fusina slips,
And all the sable poplar tips
Wave in the warm vermilion air,
The wind, the lips

Of the soft breeze with wayward touch
Shall tell thee all I longed to own;
And thou, on lurid lakes alone,
Wilt say: “Poor soul, he loved me much;
And he is gone.”

PERCY C. PINKERTON.

A CONQUEST.

I found him openly wearing her token;
I knew that her troth could never be broken;
I laid my hand on the hilt of my sword,
He did the same, and he spoke no word;
He faced me with his villainy;
He laughed and said, “She gave it me.”
We searched for seconds, they soon were found;
They measured our swords; they measured the ground:
They held to the deadly work too fast;
They thought to gain our place at last.
We fought in the sheen of a wintry wood,
The fair white snow was red with his blood;
But his was the victory, for, as he died,
He swore by the rood that he had not lied.

WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK.

THE DEVOUT LOVER.

It is not mine to sing the stately grace,
The great soul beaming in my lady’s face;
To write no sounding odes to me is given
Wherein her eyes outshine the stars in heaven.

Not mine in flowing melodies to tell
The thousand beauties that I know so well;
Not mine to serenade her ev’ry tress,
And sit and sigh my love in idleness.

But mine it is to follow in her train,
Do her behests in pleasure or in pain,
Burn at her altar love’s sweet frankincense,
And worship her in distant reverence.

WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK.

BALLADE OF LOVERS.

For the man was she made by the Eden tree,
To be decked in soft raiment and worn on his sleeve,
To be fondled so long as they both agree,--
A thing to take, or a thing to leave.
But for her, let her live through one long summer eve--
Just the stars, and the moon, and the man, and she--
And her soul will escape her beyond reprieve,
And, alas! the whole of her world is he.

To-morrow brings plenty as lovesome, maybe;
If she break when he handles her, why should he grieve?
She is only one pearl in a pearl-crowded sea,--
A thing to take, or a thing to leave.
But she, though she knows he has kissed to deceive,
And forsakes her, still only clings on at his knee--
When life has gone, what further loss can bereave?
And, alas! the whole of her world is he.

For the man was she made upon Eden lea,
To be helpmeet what time there is burden to heave,
White-footed, to follow where he walks free,--
A thing to take, or a thing to leave;
White-fingered, to weave and to interweave
Her woof with his warp, and a tear two or three,
Till clear his way out through her web he cleave,
And, alas! the whole of her world is he.

ENVOI.

Did he own her no more when he called her Eve,
Than a thing to take, or a thing to leave?
A flower-filled plot that unlocks to his key--
But, alas! the whole of her world is he.

MAY PROBYN.

IN A GARDEN.

The cowslip glowed, the tulip burned,
The grass was green as green could be;
There, as in sweet content we turned,
Beneath the budding linden-tree,
We saw the westering sunbeams shake
Large glory o’er the mountain lake.

The cushat cooed, the blackbird’s cry
About the terrace garden rang;
Still as we wooed, my love and I,
The throstle still enraptured sang,
And still the waters danced with glee,
Beneath the budding linden-tree.

The tulips trembled still with flame,
The cowslips gleamed along the walk,
Yet, dear one, when the last word came,
And silence only seemed to talk,
We looked and found the lake was gone,
Flowers dim, birds hushed, and one star shone.

Beloved! by many an up and down,
O’er level lawns, unlevel ways,
Through weeds and flowers, when birds had flown
And when birds sang, have passed the days
Since our new dawn forbade the night;
But lo! o’erhead Love’s star is bright.

HARDWICK DRUMMOND RAWNSLEY.

A SONG FOR CANDLEMAS.

There’s never a rose upon the bush,
And never a bud on any tree;
In wood and field nor hint nor sign
Of one green thing for you of me.
Come in, come in, sweet love of mine,
And let the bitter weather be.

Coated with ice the garden wall,
The river reeds are stark and still;
The wind goes plunging to the sea,
And last week’s flakes the hollows fill.
Come in, come in, sweet love, to me,
And let the year blow as it will.

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE.

A DREAM OF DIANA.

In dream I saw Diana pass, Diana as of old,
Across the green wood radiantly, attired in green and gold;
With spear alert, with eyes afire, as they had seen the sun,
And gave its glances back again, with brightness of their own.
No human maid is she, I thought, who there so lightly fares
Upon her sylvan empery, afar from our pale cares.

She passed, and left me to that thought, who felt the sadder then
That only once, and not again, she might be seen of men;
Though constantly, by lawn and wood, and hanging mountain-side,
My restless eye might dare to hunt the huntress in her pride.
Without her all was lonely grown; I had no liking left
For fern or foxglove bloom, of her bright grace bereft.

And in that taking, in a bed of softest fern I lay,
And found no joy of woodcraft left, the livelong summer day;
When lo! at eve, a silvery horn, a questing hound, a cry,
And swift, Diana came again, and sat her down thereby;
And then I saw those radiant eyes were full of perfect rest,
And found beneath the goddess there the woman’s softer breast.

ERNEST RHYS.

WHEN SHE COMES HOME.

When she comes home again! A thousand ways
I fashion, to myself, the tenderness
Of my glad welcome. I shall tremble--yes;
And touch her, as when first in the old days
I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise
Mine eyes, such was my faint heart’s sweet distress.
Then silence, and the perfume of her dress:
The room will sway a little, and a haze
Cloy eyesight--soul-sight, even--for a space:
And tears--yes; and the ache here in the throat,
To know that I so ill deserve the place
Her arms make for me; and the sobbing note
I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face
Again is hidden in the old embrace.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

POPLAR LEAVES.

The wind blows down the dusty street;
And through my soul that grieves
It brings a sudden odour sweet,
A smell of poplar leaves.

O leaves that herald in the spring,
O freshness young and pure,
Into my weary soul you bring
The vigour to endure.

The wood is near but out of sight,
Where all the poplars grow;
Straight up and tall and silver white,
They quiver in a row.

My love is out of sight, but near;
And through my soul that grieves
A sudden memory wafts her here
As fresh as poplar leaves.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

AFTER DEATH.

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say,
“Poor child, poor child!” and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm, though I am cold.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

SOMEWHERE OR OTHER.

Somewhere or other there must surely be
The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet--never yet--ah me!
Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
With just a wall, a hedge between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
Fallen on a turf grown green.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED.

Peace in her chamber, wheresoe’er
It be, a holy place:
The thought still brings my soul such grace
As morning meadows wear.

Whether it still be small and light,
A maid’s who dreams alone,
As from her orchard-gate the moon
Its ceiling showed at night:

Or whether, in a shadow dense
As nuptial hymns invoke,
Innocent maidenhood awoke
To married innocence:

Then still the thanks unheard await
The unconscious gift bequeathed;
For there my soul this hour has breathed
An air inviolate.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

LOVE ENTHRONED.

I marked all kindred Powers the heart finds fair:--
Truth, with awed lips; and Hope, with eyes upcast;
And Fame, whose loud wings fan the ashen Past
To signal-fires, Oblivion’s flight to scare;
And Youth, with still some single golden hair
Unto his shoulder clinging, since the last
Embrace wherein two sweet arms held him fast;
And Life, still wreathing flowers for Death to wear.

Love’s throne was not with these; but far above
All passionate wind of welcome and farewell
He sat in breathless bowers they dream not of;
Though Truth foreknow Love’s heart, and Hope foretell,
And Fame be for Love’s sake desirable,
And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet to Love.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

SUDDEN LIGHT.

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,--
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,--I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time’s eddying flight
Still with our lives our loves restore
In death’s despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

A PERFECT DAY.

Bland air and leagues of immemorial blue;
No subtlest hint of whitening rime or cold;
A revel of rich colours, hue on hue,
From radiant crimson to soft shades of gold.

A vagueness in the undulant hill line,
The flutter of a bird’s south-soaring wing;
Æolian harmonies in groves of pine,
And glad brook laughter like the mirth of spring.

A sense of gracious calm afar and near,
And yet a something wanting,--one fine ray
For consummation. Love, were you but here,
Then were the day indeed a perfect day.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

RUS IN URBE.

Poets are singing, the whole world over,
Of May in melody, joys for June;
Dusting their feet in the careless clover,
And filling their hearts with the blackbird’s tune.
The “brown bright nightingale” strikes with pity
The sensitive heart of a count or clown;
But where is the song for our leafy city,
And where the rhymes for our lovely town?

“Oh for the Thames and its rippling reaches,
Where almond rushes and breezes sport!
Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches;
Give me a dinner at Hampton Court!”
Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden;
We’ve flowers by day, and have scents at dark;
The limes are in leaf in the cockney garden,
And lilacs blossom in Regent’s Park.

“Come for a blow,” says a reckless fellow,
Burn’d red and brown by passionate sun;
“Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellow
The season of kisses has just begun!
Come to the fields where bluebells shiver,
Hear cuckoo’s carol, or plaint of dove:
Come for a row on the silent river;
Come to the meadows and learn to love!”

Yes, I will come when this wealth is over
Of softened colour and perfect tone:
The lilac’s better than fields of clover;
I’ll come when blossoming May has flown.
When dust and dirt of a trampled city
Have dragged the yellow laburnum down,
I’ll take my holiday,--more’s the pity,--
And turn my back upon London town.

Margaret! am I so wrong to love it,
This misty town that your face shines through?
A crown of blossom is waved above it;
But heart and life of the whirl--’tis you!
Margaret! pearl! I have sought and found you;
And though the paths of the wind are free,
I’ll follow the ways of the world around you,
And build my nest on the nearest tree.

CLEMENT SCOTT.

SONG.

Love in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me!
Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme.
What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!
Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!

What if he changeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!
Oh, can the waters be void of the wind?
What if he wendeth afar and apart from me,
What if he leave me to perish behind?

What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!
A flame i’ the dusk, a breath of Desire?
Nay, my sweet Love is the heart and the soul of me,
And I am the innermost heart of his fire!

Love in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me!
Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme.
What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!
Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!

WILLIAM SHARP.

THE COMING OF LOVE.

In and out the osier beds, all along the shallows,
Lifts and laughs the soft south wind, or swoons among the grasses.
But, ah! whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows?
Who laughs so low and sweet? Who sighs--and passes?

Flower of my heart, my darling, why so slowly
Lift’st thou thine eyes to mine, sweet wells of gladness?
Too deep this new-found joy, and this new pain too holy;
Or is there dread in thine heart of this divinest madness?

Who sighs with longing there? who laughs alow--and passes?
Whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows?
Who comes upon the wind that stirs the heavy seeding grasses
In and out the osier beds, and hither through the shallows?

Flower of my heart, my Dream, who whispers near so gladly?
Whose is the golden sunshine-net o’erspread for capture?
Lift, lift thine eyes to mine, who love so wildly, madly--
Those eyes of brave desire, deep wells o’er-brimmed with rapture.

WILLIAM SHARP.

RECALL.

“Love me, or I am slain!” I cried, and meant
Bitterly true each word. Nights, morns, slipped by,
Moons, circling suns, yet still alive am I;
But shame to me, if my best time be spent.

On this perverse, blind passion! Are we sent
Upon a planet just to mate and die,
A man no more than some pale butterfly
That yields his day to nature’s sole intent?

Or is my life but Marguerite’s ox-eyed flower,
That I should stand and pluck and fling away,
One after one, the petal of each hour,
Like a love-dreamy girl, and only say,
“Loves me,” and “loves me not,” and “loves me”? Nay!
Let the man’s mind awake to manhood’s power.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

FANTASIA.

We’re all alone, we’re all alone!
The moon and stars are dead and gone;
The night’s at deep, the wind asleep,
And thou and I are all alone!

What care have we though life there be?
Tumult and life are not for me!
Silence and sleep about us creep;
Tumult and life are not for thee!

How late it is since such as this
Had topped the height of breathing bliss!
And now we keep an iron sleep,--
In that grave thou, and I in this!

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

ONLY A LEAF.

When the late leaves lit all the place,
He left her with her ashen face;
“We shall not meet!” he lightly cried;
“Good-bye, sweetheart, the world is wide.”

Though bright the sunshine on that day,
Though the bare boughs around her lay,
She thought in blackened shadow stood
The melancholy autumn wood.

She bent, and lifted from the sod
A leaf whereon his foot had trod,--
An idle leaf, but dead and sere,
It held the heart’s blood of a year!

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

SONG FROM A DRAMA.

I know not if moonlight or starlight
Be soft on the land or the sea,--
I catch but the near light, the far light,
Of eyes that are burning for me;
The scent of the night, of the roses,
May burden the air for thee, sweet,--
’Tis only the breath of thy sighing
I know, as I lie at thy feet.

The winds may be sobbing or singing,
Their touch may be fervent or cold,
The night-bells may toll or be ringing,--
I care not, while thee I enfold!
The feast may go on, and the music
Be scattered in ecstasy round,--
Thy whisper, “I love thee! I love thee!”
Hath flooded my soul with its sound.

I think not of time that is flying,
How short is the hour I have won,
How near is this living to dying,
How the shadow still follows the sun;
There is naught upon earth, no desire,
Worth a thought, though ’twere had by a sign!
I love thee! I love thee! bring nigher
Thy spirit, thy kisses to mine.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

THE VIOLET.

Oh! faint delicious spring-time violet,
Thine odour, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow
Blows through that open door
The sound of wind-borne bells more sweet and low
And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar from that beloved place,
And that beloved hour,
When Life hung ripening in Love’s golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,
The lark sings o’er my head
Drowned in the sky--oh, pass, ye visions, pass!
I would that I were dead.

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door
From which I ever flee?
O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!

O violet! thy odour through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf.

W. W. STORY.

TO MY LADY.

From out the past she comes to me,
My Lady whom I loved long syne:
Her face is very fair to see,
Her gray eyes still with love-light shine,
I needs must think she still is mine.

Once--in those old years long ago--
I waited at the hour of dawn.
And, with the first faint Eastern glow--
Before the sun his sword had drawn
And flushed its light the world upon,
My Lady’s true love did I know!

But now at eve she comes--I stand
Alone. Among the autumn trees
Her white robe glimmers, and the breeze
Wafts me a ghostly fragrance rare.
Ah me! No rose doth she now bear--
But crimson poppies in her hand.

EDWARD FAIRBROTHER STRANGE.

AT PARTING.

For a day and night, Love sang to us, played with us,
Folded us round from the dark and the light;
And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us,
Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us,
Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight
For a day and a night.

From his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden us,
Covered us close from the eyes that would smite,
From the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden us,
Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us,
Spirit and flesh growing one with delight
For a day and a night.

But his wings will not rest, and his feet will not stay for us:
Morning is here in the joy of its might;
With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us:
Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us;
Love can but last in us here at his height
For a day and a night.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

AUGUST.

There were four apples on the bough,
Half gold, half red, that one might know
The blood was ripe inside the core;
The colour of the leaves was more
Like stems of yellow corn that grow
Through all the gold June meadow’s floor.

The warm smell of the fruit was good
To feed on, and the split green wood,
With all its bearded lips and stains
Of mosses in the clover veins,
Most pleasant, if one lay or stood
In sunshine or in happy rains.

There were four apples on the tree,
Red-stained through gold, that all might see
The sun went warm from core to rind;
The green leaves made the summer blind
In that soft place they kept for me
With golden apples shut behind.

The leaves caught gold across the sun,
And where the bluest air begun,
Thirsted for song to help the heat;
As I to feel my lady’s feet
Draw close before the day were done:
Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.

In the mute August afternoon
They trembled to some undertune
Of music in the silver air:
Great pleasure was it to be there
Till green turned duskier, and the moon
Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.

That August time it was delight
To watch the red moon’s wane to white
’Twixt gray-seamed stems of apple-trees:
A sense of heavy harmonies
Grew on the growth of patient night,
More sweet than shapen music is.

But some three hours before the moon
The air, still eager from the noon,
Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;
Against the stem I leant my head;
The colour soothed me like a tune,
Green leaves all round the gold and red.

I lay there till the warm smell grew
More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew
Between the round ripe leaves had blurred
The rind with stain and wet; I heard
A wind that blew and breathed and blew,
Too weak to alter its one word.

The wet leaves next the gentle fruit
Felt smoother, and the brown tree root
Felt the mould warmer: I, too, felt
(As water feels the slow gold melt
Right through it when the day burns mute)
The peace of time wherein love dwelt.

There were four apples on the tree,
Gold stained on red that all might see
The sweet blood filled them to the core:
The colour of her hair is more
Like stems of fair faint gold, that be
Mown from the harvest’s middle floor.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

BETWEEN THE SUNSET AND THE SEA.

Between the sunset and the sea
My love laid hands and lips on me.
Of sweet came sour, of day came night,
Of long desire came brief delight:
Ah, love, and what thing came of thee
Between the sea-downs and the sea?

Between the sea-mark and the sea
Joy grew to grief, grief grew to me;
Love turned to tears, and tears to fire,
And dead delight to new desire;
Love’s talk, love’s touch there seemed to be
Between the sea-sand and the sea.

Between the sundown and the sea
Love watched one hour of love with me;
Then down the all-golden water-ways
His feet flew after yesterdays;
I saw them come and saw them flee
Between the sea-foam and the sea.

Between the sea-strand and the sea
Love fell on sleep, sleep fell on me;
The first star saw twain turn to one
Between the moonrise and the sun;
The next, that saw not love, saw me
Between the sea-banks and the sea.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

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.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

ON JUDGE’S WALK.

That night on Judge’s Walk the wind
Was as the voice of doom;
The heath, a lake of darkness, lay
As silent as the tomb.

The vast night brooded, white with stars,
Above the world’s unrest;
The awfulness of silence ached
Like a strong heart repressed.

That night we walked beneath the trees,
Alone, beneath the trees;
There was some word we could not say
Half uttered in the breeze.

That night on Judge’s Walk we said
No word of all we had to say;
And now no word shall e’er be said
Before the Judgment Day.

ARTHUR SYMONS.

ICH HÖR’ ES SOGAR IM TRAUM.

Sing on, sing on: half dreaming still
I hear you singing down the hill,
Through the green wood, beside the rill.

Each to the other sing, sweet birds;
Make music sweeter far than words;
Drown my still soul with song, sweet birds.

Under each starbeam there was sleep;
Far down the river wandered deep;
The woods closed round it still and steep.

One watch-dog from the lone farm bayed;
The waterfowl beneath the shade
Of sedge and flowering reed were laid.

The birds sang on, and slumber shed
Like silver clouds upon my head;
I slept, nor stirred me in my bed.

Into my room he seemed to glide;
The moonbeams through the window wide
Snowed in upon my white bedside.

He kissed my lips, he kissed my cheek;
I could not kiss him back nor speak:
I feared the blissful sleep to break.

Sing louder, nightingales of May!
Sing, dash my golden dream away!
Sing anthems to the orient day!

The moonlight pales; the gray cock crows;
A murmur in the tree top goes;
Sleep sheds her petals like a rose.

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

OH, WHEN WILL IT BE?

Oh, when will it be, oh, when will it be, oh, when
That she shall be here, and the flute be here, and the wine
be here? oh, then
Her lips shall kiss the lips of the flute, and my lips shall
kiss the wine,
And I shall drink music from her sweet lips, and she shall
drink madness from mine.

JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

BALLADE OF THE LADYES OF LONG SYNE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF FRANÇOIS VILLON.

Tell me wher, in what contree, is
Flora, the beautifulle Romaine?
Thais and Archipiadis,
Wher are they now, those cosins twaine?
And Echo, gretyng her love agein
By banke of river and marge of mere,
Whos beaute was fre fro mortall stayne?
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

Wher is the lerned Helowis,
For whom undon in celle did plaine
Pierre Abelard at Saint Denys?
For love’s reward he had this peine
Where is the quene who did ordeine
That Buridan shulde drift in fere
Sowed in a sacke adoun the Saine?
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

Quene Blanche, fayre as the floure-de-lys,
Who sang as swete as the meremaid strayne,
Alys too, Bertha, Bietris,
And Hermengarde, who halt the Mayne,
And Joan, the good may of Lorraine,
At Rouen brent by Englyshe fere,--
Wher are they, Virgine soveraine?
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

ENVOY.

Prince, for this sevennyght be not fain,
Nor this twelfmonthe to question wher
They be, withouten this refraine,
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

STEPHEN TEMPLE.

FATIMA.

O Love, Love, Love! O withering might!
O sun, that from thy noonday height
Shudderest when I strain my sight,
Throbbing thro’ all thy heat and light,
Lo, falling from my constant mind,
Lo, parch’d and wither’d, deaf and blind,
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

Last night I wasted hateful hours
Below the city’s eastern towers:
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
I roll’d among the tender flowers:
I crush’d them on my breast, my mouth:
I looked athwart the burning drought
Of that long desert to the south.

Last night, when some one spoke his name,
From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shiver’d in my narrow frame.
O Love, O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul thro’
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Before he mounts the hill, I know
He cometh quickly: from below
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
Before him, striking on my brow.
In my dry brain my spirit soon,
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,
Faints like a dazzled morning moon.

The wind sounds like a silver wire,
And from beyond the noon a fire
Is pour’d upon the hills, and nigher
The skies stoop down in their desire;
And, isled in sudden seas of light,
My heart, pierc’d thro’ with fierce delight,
Bursts into blossom in his sight.

My whole soul waiting silently,
All naked in a sultry sky,
Droops blinded with his shining eye:
I _will_ possess him or will die.
I will grow round him in his place,
Grow, live, die looking on his face,
Die, dying clasp’d in his embrace.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

NOW SLEEPS THE CRIMSON PETAL.

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake;
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

THE WINDOW; OR THE SONGS OF THE WRENS.

AT THE WINDOW.

Vine, vine and eglantine,
Clasp her window, trail and twine!
Rose, rose and clematis,
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss,
Kiss, kiss; and make her a bower
All of flowers, and drop me a flower,
Drop me a flower.

Vine, vine and eglantine,
Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine?
Rose, rose and clematis,
Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss,
Kiss, kiss--and out of her bower
All of flowers, a flower, a flower
Dropt, a flower.

GONE.

Gone!
Gone till the end of the year,
Gone, and the light gone with her and left me in shadow here!
Gone--flitted away,
Taken the stars from the night and the sun from the day!
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm in the air!
Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know not where!
Down in the south is a flash and a groan; she is there! she is there!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

VALENTINE.

If thou canst make the frost be gone,
And fleet away the snow
(And that thou canst, I trow);
If thou canst make the spring to dawn,
Hawthorn to put her brav’ry on,
Willow, her weeds of fine green lawn,
Say why thou dost not so--
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!

If thou canst chase the stormy rack,
And bid the soft winds blow
(And that thou canst, I trow);
If thou canst call the thrushes back
To give the groves the songs they lack,
And wake the violet in thy track,
Say why thou dost not so--
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!

If thou canst make my winter spring,
With one word breathèd low
(And that thou canst, I know);
If in the closure of a ring
Thou canst to me such treasure bring,
My state shall be above a king,
Say why thou dost not so--
Aye, aye!
Say why
Thou dost not so!

EDITH M. THOMAS.

DREAM TRYST.

The breaths of kissing night and day
Were mingled in the eastern heaven;
Throbbing with unheard melody
Shook Lyra all its star-chord seven:
When dusk shrunk cold, and light trod shy,
And dawn’s gray eyes were troubled gray;
And souls went palely up the sky,
And mine to Lucidé.

There was no change in her sweet eyes
Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine;
There was no change in her deep heart
Since last that deep heart knocked at mine.
Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope’s,
Wherein did ever come and go
The sparkle of the fountain-drops
From her sweet soul below.

The chambers in the house of dreams
Are fed with so divine an air,
That Time’s hoar wings grow young therein,
And they who walk there are most fair.
I joyed for me, I joyed for her,
Who with the Past meet girt about,
Where our last kiss still warms the air,
Nor can her eyes go out.

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

ATALANTA.

When spring grows old, and sleepy winds
Set from the south with odours sweet,
I see my love, in green, cool groves,
Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet.

She throws a kiss and bids me run,
In whispers sweet as roses’ breath;
I know I cannot win the race,
And at the end, I know, is death.

But joyfully I bare my limbs,
Anoint me with the tropic breeze,
And feel through every sinew thrill
The vigour of Hippomenes.

A race of love! We all have run
Thy happy course through groves of spring,
And cared not, when at last we lost,
For life, or death, or anything!

MAURICE THOMPSON.

A SONG OF THANKSGIVING.

My love is the flaming sword, to fight through the world;
Thy love is the shield to ward,
And the armour of the Lord,
And the banner of Heav’n unfurl’d.

Let my voice ring out, and over the earth,
Through all the grief and strife,
With a golden joy in a silver mirth,
Thank God for Life!

Let my voice swell out through the great abyss,
To the azure dome above,
With a chord of faith in the harp of bliss
Thank God for Love!

Let my voice thrill out, beneath and above,
The whole world through,
O my Love and Life, O my Life and Love,
Thank God for you!

JAMES THOMSON.

DAY AFTER DAY OF THIS AZURE MAY.

Day after day of this azure May,
The blood of the spring has swelled in my veins;
Night after night of broad moonlight,
A mystical dream has dazzled my brains.

A seething might, a fierce delight,
The blood of the spring is the wine of the world;
My veins run fire and thrill desire,
Every leaf of my heart’s red rose uncurled.

A sad, sweet calm, a tearful balm,
The light of the moon is the trance of the world;
My brain is fraught with yearning thought,
And the rose is pale, and its leaves are furled.

Oh, speed the day then, dear, dear May,
And hasten the night, I charge thee, O June!
When the trance divine shall burn with the wine,
And the red rose unfurl all its fire to the moon.

JAMES THOMSON.

THE SONG OF TRISTRAM.

The star of love is trembling in the west,
Night hears the desolate sea with moan on moan
Sigh for the storm, who on his mountain lone
Smites his wild harp, and dreams of her wild breast.
I am thy storm, Isolt, and thou my sea!
Isolt!
My passionate sea!

The storm to her wild breast, the passionate sea
To his fierce arms: we to the rapturous leap
Of mated spirits mingling in love’s deep,
Flame to flame, I to thee and thou to me!
Thou to mine arms, Isolt, I to thy breast!
Isolt!
I to thy breast!

JOHN TODHUNTER.

AUBADE.

The lights are out in the street, and a cool wind swings
Loose poplar plumes on the sky;
Deep in the gloom of the garden the first bird sings:
Curt, hurried steps go by,
Loud in the hush of the dawn past the linden screen,
Lost in a jar and a rattle of wheels unseen,
Beyond on the wide highway:
Night lingers dusky and dim in the pear-tree boughs,
Hangs in the hollows of leaves, though the thrushes rouse,
And the glimmering lawn grows gray.

Yours, my heart knoweth, yours only the jewelled gloom,
Splendours of opal and amber, the scent, the bloom,
Yours all, and your own demesne--
Scent of the dark, of the dawning, of leaves and dew;
Nothing that was but hath changed--’tis a world made new--
A lost world risen again.

The lamps are out in the street, and the air grows bright;
Come, lest the miracle fade in the broad, bare light,
The new world wither away:
Clear is your voice in my heart, and you call me--whence?
Come--for I listen, I wait,--bid me rise, go hence,
Or ever the dawn turn day.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

LOVE, THE GUEST.

I did not dream that Love would stay,
I deemed him but a passing guest,
Yet here he lingers many a day.

I said, “Young Love will flee with May,
And leave forlorn the hearth he blest;”
I did not dream that Love would stay.

My envious neighbour mocks me, “Nay,
Love lies not long in any nest;”
Yet here he lingers many a day.

And though I did his will alway,
And gave him even of my best,
I did not dream that Love would stay.

I have no skill to bid him stay,
Of tripping tongue or cunning jest,
Yet here he lingers many a day.

Beneath his ivory feet I lay
Pale plumage of the ringdove’s breast;
I did not dream that Love would stay.

Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say,
Home turning for the noonday rest;
Yet here he lingers many a day.

His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay,
His eyes through tears smile loveliest;
I did not dream that Love would stay.

He sometimes sighs, when far away
The low red sun makes fair the west,
Yet here he lingers many a day.

Thrice blest of all men am I! yea,
Although of all unworthiest;
I did not dream that Love would stay,
Yet here he lingers many a day.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

A BLUSH AT FAREWELL.

Her tears are all thine own! how blest thou art!
Thine, too, the blush which no reserve can bind;
Thy farewell voice was as the stirring wind
That floats the rose-bloom; thou hast won her heart;
Dear are the hopes it ushers to thy breast;
She speaks not--but she gives her silent bond;
And thou mayst trust it, asking nought beyond
The promise, which as yet no words attest;
Deep in her bosom sinks the conscious glow,
And deep in thine! and I can well foresee,
If thou shalt feel a lover’s jealousy
For her brief absence, what a ruling power
A bygone blush shall prove! until the hour
Of meeting, when thy next love-rose shall blow.

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.

THE KISS OF BETROTHAL.

When lovers’ lips from kissing disunite
With sound as soft as mellow fruitage breaking,
They loathe to leave what was so sweet in taking,
So fraught with breathless magical delight;
The scent of flowers is long before it fade,
Long dwells upon the gale the Vesper-tone,
Far floats the wake the lightest skiff has made,
The closest kiss when once imprest, is gone;
What marvel, then, that each so closely kisseth?
Sweet is the fourfold touch--the living seal--
What marvel then, with sorrow each dismisseth
This thrilling pledge of all they hope and feel?
While on their lingering steps the shadows steal,
And each true heart beats as the other wisheth.

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.

THE PARTING-GATE.

In that old beech-walk, now bestrewn with mast,
And roaring loud--they linger’d long and late;
Harsh was the clang of the last homeward gate
That latch’d itself behind them, as they pass’d--
Then kiss’d and parted. Soon her funeral knell
Toll’d from a foreign clime; he did not talk
Nor weep, but shudder’d at that stern farewell;
’Twas the last gate in all their lovers’-walk
Without the kiss beyond it! Was it good
To leave him thus, alone with his sad mood
In that dear footpath, haunted by her smile?
Where they had laugh’d and loiter’d, sat and stood?
Alone in life! alone in Moreham wood!
Through all that sweet, forsaken, forest mile!

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.

IRISH LOVE SONG.

Would God I were the tender apple-blossom,
Floating and falling from the twisted bough,
To lie and faint within your silken bosom,
As that does now!

Or would I were a little burnished apple
For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold,
While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple,
Your hair’s spun gold.

Yea, would to God I were among the roses
That lean to kiss you as you float between!
While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses
To touch you, Queen!

Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing
A happy daisy in the garden path;
That so your silver foot might press me going,
Even unto death!

KATHERINE TYNAN.

GOOD-NIGHT.

It is over now, she is gone to rest;
I have clasped the hands on the quiet breast;
Draw back the curtain, let in the light,
She will never shrink if it be too bright.

We were two in here but an hour gone by,
No streak was then in the midnight sky;
Now I am one to watch the day
Come glimmering up from the far-away.

What will he say when he comes in,
Waked by the city’s morning din,
Hoping to find and fearing to know
The sorrow he left but an hour ago?

What will he say who has watched so long,
When he shall find who has come and gone?
Come a watcher that will not bide
Love’s morning or noon or eventide.

He thought to kiss her by morning gray,
But God has thought to take her away.
What will he say? God knows, not I;
“Good-night,” he said, but never “good-bye.”