Poems

V. THE MILL-RACE

“Only a mill-race,” said they, and went by,But we were wiser, spoke no word, and stayed;It was a place to make the heart afraidWith so much beauty, lest the after sigh,When one had drunk its sweetness utterly,Should leave the spirit faint; a living shadeFrom beechen branches o’er the water playedTo unweave that spell through which the conquering skySubdues the sweet will of each summer stream;So this ran freshlier through the swaying weeds.I gazed until the whole was as a dream,Nor should have waked or wondered had I seenSome smooth-limbed wood-nymph glance across the green,Or Naiad lift a head amongst the reeds.

VI. IN THE WOOD

A place where Una might have fallen asleepAssured of quiet dreams, a place to makeSad eyes bright with strange tears; a little lakeIn the green heart of a wood; the crystal deepOf heaven so wide if there should chance to strayInto that stainless field some thin cloud-flake,When not a breeze the trance of noon dare break,About the middle it must melt away.Lilies upon the water in their leaves,Stirr’d by faint ripples that go curving onTo little reedy coves; a stream that grievesTo the fine grasses and wild flowers around;And we two in a golden silence bound,Not a line read of rich Endymion.

VII. THE PAUSE OF EVENING

Nightward on dimmest wing in Twilight’s trainThe grey hours floated smoothly, lingeringly;A solemn wonder was the western skyRich with the slow forsaking sunset-stain,Barred by long violet cloud; hillside and plainThe feet of Night had touched; a wind’s low sighTold of whole pleasure lapsed,—then rustled byWith soft subsidence in the rippling grain.Why in dark dews, unready to depart,Did Evening pause and ponder, nor perceiveStar follow star into the central blue?What secret was the burden of her heart?What grave, sweet memory grew she loath to leave?What finer sense, no morrow may renew?

VIII. IN JULY

Why do I make no poems? Good my friendNow is there silence through the summer woods,In whose green depths and lawny solitudesThe light is dreaming; voicings clear ascendNow from no hollow where glad rivulets wend,But murmurings low of inarticulate moods,Softer than stir of unfledged cushat broods,Breathe, till o’erdrowsed the heavy flower-heads bend.Now sleep the crystal and heart-charmèd wavesRound white, sunstricken rocks the noontide long,Or ’mid the coolness of dim lighted cavesSway in a trance of vague deliciousness;And I,—I am too deep in joy’s excessFor the imperfect impulse of a song.

IX. IN SEPTEMBER

Spring scarce had greener fields to show than theseOf mid September; through the still warm noonThe rivulets ripple forth a gladder tuneThan ever in the summer; from the treesDusk-green, and murmuring inward melodies,No leaf drops yet; only our evenings swoonIn pallid skies more suddenly, and the moonFinds motionless white mists out on the leas.Dear chance it were in some rough wood-god’s lairA month hence, gazing on the last bright field,To sink o’er-drowsed, and dream that wild-flowers blewAround my head and feet silently there,Till Spring’s glad choir adown the valley pealed,And violets trembled in the morning dew.

X. IN THE WINDOW

A still grey evening: Autumn in the sky,And Autumn on the hills and the sad wold;No congregated towers of pearl and goldIn the vaporous West, no fiend limned duskily,No angel whose reared trump must soon be loud,Nor mountains which some pale green lake enfoldNor islands in an ocean glacial-cold;Hardly indeed a noticeable cloud.Yet here I lingered, all my will asleep,Gazing an hour with neither joy nor pain,No noonday trance in midsummer more deep;And wake with a vague yearning in the dim,Blind room, my heart scarce able to restrainThe idle tears that tremble to the brim.

XI. AN AUTUMN MORNING

O what a morn is this for us who knewThe large, blue, summer mornings, heaven let downUpon the earth for men to drink, the crownOf perfect human living, when we grewGreat-hearted like the Gods! Come, we will strewWhite ashes on our hair, nor strive to drownIn faint hymn to the year’s fulfilled renownThe sterile grief which is the season’s due.Lightly above the vine-rows of rich hillsWhere the brown peasant girls move amid grapesThe swallow glances; let him cry for glee!But yon pale mist diffused ’twixt paler shapes,—Once sovereign trees,—my spirit also fills,And an east-wind comes moaning from the sea.

SEA VOICES

Was it a lullaby the Sea went singingAbout my feet, some old-world monotone,Filled full of secret memories, and bringingNot hope to sting the heart, but peace alone,Sleep and the certitude of sleep to beWiser henceforth than all philosophy?Truth! did we seek for truth with eye and brainThrough days so many and wasted with desire?Listen, the same long gulfing voice again:Tired limbs lie slack as sands are, eyes that tireClose gently, close forever, twilight greyReceives you, tenderer than the glaring day.

[He sleeps, and after an interval awakes.]

Ah terror, ah delight! A sudden cry,Anguish, or hope, or triumph. Awake, arise,—The winds awake! Is ocean’s lullabyThis clarion-call? Her kiss, the spray that fliesSalt to the lip and cheek? Her motion lightOf nursing breasts, this swift pursuit and flight?O wild sea-voices! Victory and defeat,But ever deathless passion and unrest,White wings upon the wind and flying feet,Disdain and wrath, a reared and hissing crest,The imperious urge, and last, a whole life spentIn bliss of one supreme abandonment.

ABOARD THE “SEA-SWALLOW”

The gloom of the sea-fronting cliffsLay on the water, violet-dark,The pennon drooped, the sail fell in,And slowly moved our bark.A golden day; the summer dreamedIn heaven and on the whispering sea,Within our hearts the summer dreamed;The hours had ceased to be.Then rose the girls with bonnets loosed,And shining tresses lightly blown,Alice and Adela, and sangA song of Mendelssohn.O sweet, and sad, and wildly clear,Through summer air it sinks and swells,Wild with a measureless desire,And sad with all farewells.

SEA-SIGHING

This is the burden of the Sea,Loss, failure, sorrows manifold;Yet something though the voice sound freeRemains untold.Listen! that secret sigh againKept very low, a whole heart’s waste;What means this inwardness of pain?This sob repressed?Some ancient sin, some supreme wrong,Some huge attempt God brought to nought,All over while the world was young,And ne’er forgot?Those lips, which open wide and cry,Weak as pale flowers or trembling birds,Are proud, and fixed immutablyAgainst such words.Confession from that burdened soulNo ghostly counsellor may win;Could such as we receive its wholePassion and sin?In this high presence priest or king,Prophet or singer of the earth,With yon cast sea-weed were a thingOf equal worth.

IN THE MOUNTAINS

Fatigued of heart, and owning how the worldIs strong, too strong for will of mine, my stepsThrough the tall pines I led, to reach that spurWhich strikes from off the mountain toward the West.I hoped to lull a fretted heart to sleep,And in the place of definite thought a sensePossessed me, dim and sweet, of Motherhood,The breasts of Nature, warmth, and soothing hands,And tender, inarticulate nursing-wordsSlow uttered o’er tired eyes.But suddenlyRude waking! Suddenly the rocks, the treesStood up in rangèd power, rigid, erect,And all cried out on me “Away with him!Away! He is not of us, has no partIn ours or us! Traitor, away with him!”And the birds shrilled it “Traitor,” and the flowersStared up at me with small, hard, insolent eyes.But I, who had been weak, was weak no more,Nor shrank at all, but with deliberate stepMoved on, and with both hands waved off the throng,And feared them not, nor sent defiance back.Thus, till the pine-glooms fell away, and goatsWent tinkling and no herd-boy near; glad airsWith sunshine in them moved angelicalUpon the solitary heights; the skyHeld not a cloud from marge to marge; and nowWestward the sun was treading, calm and free.I lay upon the grass, and how an hourWent past I know not. When again time was,The sun had fallen, and congregated clouds,A vision of great glories, held the West,And through them, and beyond, the hyalineLed the charm’d spirit through infinite spaces on.I think of all the men upon this earthThe sight was mine alone; it for my soul,My soul for it, until all seeing died.Where did I live transfigured? through what timesOf heaven’s great year? What sudden need of meFor sacrifice on altar, or for priest,For soldier at the rampart, cup-bearerAt feasts of God, rapt singer in the joyOf consonant praise, doom’d rebel for the fires?—I know not, but somewhere some part I held,Nor fail’d when summoned.When the body tookIts guest once more the clouds were massy-grey,The event was ended; yet a certain thingAbode with me, which still eludes its name,Yet lies within my heart like some great wordA mage has taught, and he who heard it onceCannot pronounce, and never may forget.But this I dare record,—when all was past,And once again I turned to seek the vale,And moved adown the slippery pine-wood path,In the dimness every pine tree bowed to meWith duteous service, and the rocks lay couchedLike armèd followers round, and one bird sangThe song I chose, and heavy fragrance cameFrom unseen flowers, and all things were awareOne passed who had been called and consecrate.

“THE TOP OF A HILL CALLED CLEAR”

(In sight of the Celestial City)

And all my days led on to this! the daysOf pallid light, of springs no sun would warm,Of chilling rain autumnal, which decaysHigh woods while veering south the quick wings swarm,The days of hot desire, of broken dreaming,Mechanic toil, poor pride that was but seeming,And bleeding feet, and sun-smit flowerless ways.Below me spreads a sea of tranquil light,No blue cloud thunder-laden, but pure airShot through and through with sunshine; from this heightA man might cast himself in joy’s despair,And find unhoped, to bear him lest he fall,Swift succouring wings, and hands angelical,And circling of soft eyes, and foreheads bright.Under me light, and light is o’er my head,And awful heaven and heaven to left and right;In all His worlds this spot unvisitedGod kept, save by the winging of keen light,And the dread gaze of stars, and morning’s wanVirginity, for me a living man,Living, not borne among the enfranchised dead.New life,—not death! No glow the senses castAcross the spirit, no pleasure shoots o’er meIts scattering flaw, no words may I hold fastHere, where God’s breath streams inexhaustibly;But conquest stern is mine, a will made sane,Life’s vision wide and calm, a supreme pain,An absolute joy; and love the first and last.

THE INITIATION

Under the flaming wings of cherubimI moved toward that high altar. O, the hour!And the light waxed intenser, and the dimLow edges of the hills and the grey seaWere caught and captur’d by the present Power,My sureties and my witnesses to be.Then the light drew me in. Ah, perfect pain!Ah, infinite moment of accomplishment!Thou terror of pure joy, with neither waneNor waxing, but long silence and sharp airAs womb-forsaking babes breathe. Hush! the eventLet him who wrought Love’s marvellous things declare.Shall I who fear’d not joy, fear grief at all?I on whose mouth Life laid his sudden lipsTremble at Death’s weak kiss, and not recallThat sundering from the flesh, the flight from time,The judgments stern, the clear apocalypse,The lightnings, and the Presences sublime.How came I back to earth? I know not how,Nor what hands led me, nor what words were said.Now all things are made mine,—joy, sorrow; nowI know my purpose deep, and can refrain;I walk among the living not the dead;My sight is purged; I love and pity men.

RENUNCIANTS

Seems not our breathing light?Sound not our voices free?Bid to Life’s festal brightNo gladder guests there be.Ah, stranger, lay asideCold prudence! I divineThe secret you would hide,And you conjecture mine.You too have temperate eyes,Have put your heart to school,Are proved. I recognizeA brother of the rule.I knew it by your lip,A something when you smiled,Which meant “close scholarship,A master of the guild.”Well, and how good is life,Good to be born, have breath,The calms good and the strife,Good life, and perfect death.Come, for the dancers wheel,Join we the pleasant din,—Comrade, it serves to feelThe sackcloth next the skin.

SPEAKERS TO GOD

First SpeakerEastward I went and Westward, North and South,And the wind blew me from deep zone to zone;Many strong women did I love; my mouthI gave for kisses, rose, and straight was gone.I fought with heroes; there was joyous playOf swords; my cities rose in every land;Then forth I fared. O God, thou knowest, I layEver within the hollow of thy hand.Second SpeakerI am borne out to thee upon the wave,And the land lessens; cry nor speech I hear,Nought but the leaping waters and the bravePure winds commingling. O the joy, the fear!Alone with thee; sky’s rim and ocean’s rimTouch, overhead the clear immensityIs merely God; no eyes of seraphimGaze in … O God, Thou also art the sea!Third SpeakerThus it shall be a lifetime,—ne’er to meet;A trackless land divides us lone and long;Others, who seek Him, find, run swift to greetTheir Friend, approach the bridegroom’s door with song.I stand, nor dare affirm I see or hear;How should I dream, when strict is my employ?Yet if some time, far hence, thou drawest nearShall there be any joy like to our joy?

POESIA

(To a Painter)

Paint her with robe and girdle laid aside,Without a jewel upon her; you must hideBy sleight of artist from the gazer’s viewNo whit of her fair body; calm and trueHer eyes must meet our passion, as awareThe world is beautiful, and she being fairA part of it. She needs be no more pureThan a dove is, nor could one well endureMore faultlessness than of a sovran rose,Reserved, yet liberal to each breeze that blows.Let her be all revealed, nor therefore lessA mystery of unsearchable loveliness;There must be no discoveries to be made,Save as a noonday sky with not a shadeOr floating cloud of Summer to the eyeWhich drinks its light admits discovery.Did common raiment hide her could we knowHow hopeless were the rash attempt to throwSideways the veil which guards her womanhood?Therefore her sacred vesture must eludeAll mortal touch, and let her welcome wellEach corner, being still unapproachable.Plant firm on Earth her feet, as though her ownIts harvests were, and, for she would be knownFearless not fugitive, interpose no bar’Twixt us and her, Love’s radiant avatar,No more to be possessed than sunsets are.

MUSICIANS

I know the harps whereon the Angels play,While in God’s listening face they gaze intent,Are these frail hearts,—yours, mine; and gently they,Leaning a warm breast toward the instrument,And preluding among the tremulous wires,First draw forth dreams of song, unfledged desires,Nameless regrets, sweet hopes which will not stay.But when the passionate sense of heavenly thingsPossesses the musician, and his lipsPart glowing, and the shadow of his wingsGrows golden, and fire streams from finger-tips,And he is mighty, and his heart-throbs thicken,And quick intolerable pulses quicken,How his hand lords it in among the strings!Ah the keen crying of the wires! the painOf restless music yearning to out-breakAnd shed its sweetness utterly, the rainOf heavenly laughters, threats obscure which shakeThe spirit, trampling tumults which dismay,The fateful pause, the fiat summoning day,The faultless flower of light which will not wane.How wrought with you the awful lord of song?What thirst of God hath he appeased? What blissRaised to clear ecstasy? O tender and strongThe eager melodist who leaned o’er thisLive heart of mine, who leans above it now:The stern pure eyes! the ample, radiant brow!Pluck boldly, Master, the good strain prolong.

MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS

A DAY OF DEFECTION

This day among the days will never stand,Carven and clear, a shape of fair delight,With singing lips, and gaze of innocent might,Crown’d queenwise, or the lyre within her hand,And firm feet making conquest of a landHeavy with fruitage; nay, from all men’s sightDrop far, cold sun, and let remorseful NightCloke the shamed forehead, and the bosom’s brand.Could but the hammer rive, the thunder-stoneFlung forth from heaven on some victorious mornGrind it to dust! Slave, must I always seeThy beauty soil’d? Must shining days foregoneAdmit thee peer, and wondering new-bornTo-morrow meet thy dull eyes’ infamy?

SONG AND SILENCE

While Sorrow sat beside me many a day,I,—with head turned from her, and yet awareHow her eyes’ light was on my brow and hair,The light which bites and blights our gold to grey,—Still sang, and swift winds bore my songs awayFull of sweet sounds, as of a lute-playerWho sees fresh colours, breathes the ripe soft air,And hears the cuckoo shout in dells of May,Being filled with ease and indolent of heart.So sang I, Sorrow near me: chide me not,O Joy, for silence now! Hereafter wise,Large song may come, life blossoming in art,From this new fate; but leave me, thou long sought,To gaze awhile into those perfect eyes.

LOVE-TOKENS

I wear around my forehead evermore,The circlet of your praise, pure gold; and howI walk forth crown’d, the approving angels know,And see how I am meeker than beforeBeing thus proud. For roses my full store,Upon a cheek where flowers will scantly blow,Is your lips’ one immortal touch, and lo!All shame deserts my blood to the heart’s core.Dare I display love’s choicest gift—this scarStill sanguine-hued? Here ran your sudden brandSheer through the starting flesh, and let abroadA traitor’s life; your wrathful eyes afar,Had doom’d him first. Ah, gracious, valiant handWhich drew me bleeding to the feet of God!

A DREAM

I dreamed I went to seek for her whose sightIs sunshine to my soul; and in my dreamI found her not; then sank the latest beamOf day in the rich west; upswam the NightWith sliding dews, and still I searched in vain,Through thickest glooms of garden-alleys quaint,On moonlit lawns, by glimmering lakes where faintThe ripples brake and died, and brake again.Then said I, “At God’s inner court of lightI will beg for her;” straightway toward the sameI went, and lo! upon the altar-stair,She knelt with face uplifted, and soft hairFallen upon shoulders purely gowned in whiteAnd on her parted lips I read my name.

MICHELANGELESQUE

Shaping thy life what if the stubborn stuffGrudge to inform itself through each dull partWith the soul’s high invention, and thy artSeem a defeated thing, and earth rebuffHeaven’s splendour, choosing darkness,—leave the roughBrute-parts unhewn. Toilest thou for the martOr for the temple? Does the God see startQuick beauty from the block, it is enough.The spirit, foiled elsewhere, presses to the mouth,Disparts the lips, lives on the lighted brow,Fills the wide nostrils, flings the imperious chinOut proudly. Now behold! the lyric youth,The wrestler stooping in the act to win,Pythian Apollo with the vengeful bow.

LIFE’S GAIN

“Now having gained Life’s gain, how hold it fast?The harder task! because the world is stillThe world, and days creep slow, and wear the will,And Custom, gendering in the heart’s blind waste,Brings forth a wingèd mist, which with no hasteUpcircling the steep air, and charged with ill,Blots all our shining heights adorable,And leaves slain Faith, slain Hope, slain Love the last.”O shallow lore of life! He who hath wonLife’s gain doth hold nought fast, who could hold all,Holden himself of strong, immortal Powers.The stars accept him; for his sake the SunHath sworn in heaven an oath memorial;Around his feet stoop the obsequious Hours.

COMPENSATION

You shake your head and talk of evil days:My friend, I learn’d ere I had told twelve yearsThat truth of yours,—how irrepressible tearsSurprise us, and strength fails, and pride betrays,And sorrows lurk for us in all the waysOf joyous living. But now to front my fearsI set a counter-truth which comes and cheersOur after-life, when, temperate, the heart weighsEvil with good. Do never smiles surpriseSad lips? Did the glad violets blow last springIn no new haunts? Or are the heavens not fairAfter drench’d days of June, when all the airGrows fragrant, and the rival thrushes sing,Until stars gather into twilight skies?

TO A CHILD DEAD AS SOON AS BORN

A little wrath was on thy forehead, Boy,Being thus defeated; the resolvèd willWhich death could not subdue, was threatening stillFrom lip and brow. I know that it was joyNo casual misadventure might destroyTo have lived, and fought and died. Therefore I killThe pang for thee, unknown; nor count it illThat thou hast entered swiftly on employWhere Life would plant a warder keen and pure.I thought to see a little piteous clayThe grave had need of, pale from light obscureOf embryo dreams; thy face was as the daySmit on by storm. Palms for my child, and bay!Thus far thou hast done well, true son: endure.

BROTHER DEATH

When thou would’st have me go with thee, O Death,Over the utmost verge, to the dim place,Practise upon me with no amorous graceOf fawning lips, and words of delicate breath,And curious music thy lute uttereth;Nor think for me there must be sought-out waysOf cloud and terror; have we many daysSojourned together, and is this thy faith?Nay, be there plainness ’twixt us; come to meEven as thou art, O brother of my soul;Hold thy hand out and I will place mine there;I trust thy mouth’s inscrutable irony,And dare to lay my forehead where the wholeShadow lies deep of thy purpureal hair.

THE MAGE

When I shall sing my songs the world will hear,—Which hears not these,—I shall be white with age,My beard on breast great as befits a mageSo skilled; but song is young, and in no drearTome-crammed, lamp-litten chamber shall mine fearTo pine ascetic. Where the woods are deep,Thick leaves for arras, in a noonday sleepOf breeze and bloom, gaze, but my art revere!There I will sit, and score rare wisardryIn characters vermilion, azure, gold,With bird, starred flower, and peering dragon-flyLimned in the lines; and secrets shall be toldOf greatest Pan, and lives of wood-nymphs shy,Blabbed by my goat-foot servitor overbold.

WISE PASSIVENESS

Think you I choose or that or this to sing?I lie as patient as yon wealthy streamDreaming among green fields its summer dream,Which takes whate’er the gracious hours will bringInto its quiet bosom; not a thingToo common, since perhaps you see it thereWho else had never seen it, though as fairAs on the world’s first morn; a flutteringOf idle butterflies; or the deft seedsBlown from a thistle-head; a silver doveAs faultlessly; or the large, yearning eyesOf pale Narcissus; or beside the reedsA shepherd seeking lilies for his love,And evermore the all-encircling skies.

THE SINGER’S PLEA

Why do I sing? I know not why, my friend;The ancient rivers, rivers of renown,A royal largess to the sea roll down,And on those liberal highways nations sendTheir tributes to the world,—stored corn and wine,Gold-dust, the wealth of pearls, and orient spar,And myrrh, and ivory, and cinnabar,And dyes to make a presence-chamber shine.But in the woodlands, where the wild-flowers are,The rivulets, they must have their innocent willWho all the summer hours are singing still,The birds care for them, and sometimes a star,And should a tired child rest beside the streamSweet memories would slide into his dream.

THE TRESPASSER

Trespassers will be prosecuted,—soAnnounced the inhospitable notice-board;But silver-clear as any lady’s wordCome in, in, in, come in, now rich and low,Now with tumultuous palpitating flow,I swear by ring of Canace I heard.“Sure,” said I, “this is no brown-breasted bird,But some fair princess, lost an age agoThrough stepdame’s cursed spell, till the saints brought herWho but myself, the knight foredoomed of grace.”Alas! poor knight, in all that cockney placeYou found no magic, save one radiant sight,The huge, obstreperous house-keeper’s granddaughter,A child with eyes of pure ethereal light.

RITUALISM

This is high ritual and a holy day;I think from Palestrina the wind choosesThat movement in the firs; one sits and musesIn hushed heart-vacancy made meek to pray;Listen! the birds are choristers with gayClear voices infantine, and with good willEach acolyte flower has swung his thurible,Censing to left and right these aisles of May.For congregation, see! real sheep most clean,And I—what am I, worshipper or priest?At least all these I dare absolve from sin,Ay, dare ascend to where the splendours shineOf yon steep mountain-altar, and the feastIs holy, God Himself being bread and wine.