Nirvana Days

IN A STORM

(To a Petrel)All day long in the spindrift swinging,Bird of the sea! bird of the sea!How I would that I had thy winging —How I envy thee!How I would that I had thy spirit,So to careen, joyous to cry,Over the storm and never fear it!Into the night that hovers near it!Calm on a reeling sky!All day long, and the night, unresting!Ah! I believe thy every breathMeans that Life's Best comes ever breastingPeril and pain and death!

ANTAGONISTS

ILife flung to Art this voice, of mercy bare."Fool, to my human earth come you, so free,To wreathe with phantom immortalityWhoever climbs with passionate lone careThat shifting, feverous and shadow stairTo Beauty – which is vainer than the seaOn furious thirst, or than a mote to MeWho fill yon infinite great Everywhere?Let them alone – my children! they are bornTo mart and soil and saving commerce o'erWind, wave and many-fruited continents.And you can feed them but of crumbs and scorn,And futile glory when they are no more.Within my hand alone is recompense!"IIBut Art made fierce reply, "Anathema,On you who fill flesh but the spirit scorn.Who give it to the unrequiting lawOf your brute soullessness and heart unbornTo aught than barter in your low bazaar —Though Beauty die for it from star to star.You are the god of Judas and those whoBetrayed Him unto nail and thorn and sword!Of that relentless worm-bit Florence hordeWho drove lone Dante from them till he grewSo great in death they begged his bones to strewTheir pride and wealth and useless praise upon.Anathema! I cry; and will, till noneOf all earth's children still shall worship you."

SEEDS

A thousand yearsIn a mummy's handA seed may lie.Then, planted, springInto life againUnder sun and sky.A thousand daysIn a soul's dark waysA word may wait.But a touch at lengthMay arouse its strengthAnd the word proves – Fate.

WORLD-SORROW

(The Cry of the Modern)World-sorrow have I known, like unto God.Nothing there is of pain but echoes downMy breast with wan reverberance and pang,And peaceless passes thro it evermore.The struck bird's cry wounds my all-feeling bloodTo pity that will not be solacèd,Sounds on me like far pleas of the unbornAgainst predestined days. A withering budBrews barrenness thro all the verdancyOf Spring. And in a tear – tho anguish shape itOn the warm lid of joy – earth's Tragedy,Whose curtain falls not for it has no end,Comes mirrored to me as infinite Ill.How shall I 'scape it! How, O how escapeThe trooping of prayers lost upon the void,Of hopes misborn and fading not to rest!How shall I burn not with all vain-lit lovesThat alway billow thro me their slow fireFed by the agony of new-broke hearts!How loose me from too long commiseryFor those whom unrequiting Time has givenTo the altar of the aching world's unrest!A grief immitigable to the HandWhose mystery of returning sun can healWinter away, seems here; a grief but calmOf immortality can make forgiven!For even as all the gleaming girth of starsThat wreathe the Illimitable beauteouslyQuench not the vast of night, so do all joysLife strews along her passing to the gravePrevail not o'er the shadow of sure death.And O Humanity, long-suffering HarpOf passion-strings unnumbered, shall His skillFlung thus forever o'er thy fragile restBuild but these harmonies that seem sometimesUnworth the misery of the trampled worm?Would, would I were not vibrant with all strainsHe strikes from thee, or else more perfect tuned!World-sorrow have I known, like unto God.

THE SOUL'S RETURN

Let me lie here —I care not for the distant hills today,And the blue sphereOf far infinity that draws awayAll to its deep,Would only sweepSoothing the farther from me with its sway.Let me lie here —Gazing with vacant sadness on this weed.The cricket nearWill utter all my heart can bear to heed.Another voiceWould swell the noiseAnd surge, that ever sound in human need.Let me lie here:For now, so long my wasted soul has tossedOn the wide MereOf Mystery Hope's wing alone has crossed,I ask no moreThan to restoreTo simple things the wonder they have lost.

BIRTHRIGHT

(To A. H. R.)My own, among the unnumbered yearsGod casts from that full Garner whichIs His Eternity one shallBe ours, beyond all fate or fears.For, ranging lone amid its thorns.Seeking the buds that grew between,We met and made its morning seemNew in a world grown old to morns.And so tho He may scatter stillMany a fadeless other round,In none, for us shall there be foundThat first awakening and thrill.But as in peace we tread Love's Land,To which it gave us right of birth,We shall remember that New EarthCame when we first walked hand in hand.

ROMANCE

(To A. H. R. on North Cliff, Lynton, Devon)White-caps hurry to meet the shoreAn hundred fathoms down.Gray sails are shimmering on the windFar out from Lynmouth town.High crags above us are whispering keen,The heather and the lingLaugh to the sky as driven byThe wild gulls cry or cling.And, where the far sun like a godScatters the mist, lies Shore.Is it Romance's magic realmSpring reigns forever o'er?Romance that our morning hearts could seeAcross the darkest foam?Then do we know it well, my love,Because it is our Home.

ON THE ATLANTIC

(To A. H. R.)Who stood upon that schooner's driven deckLast night as reefed and shuddering she hoveInto the twilight and all desperate droveFrom wave to angrier wave that sought her wreck?Who labored at her helm and watched the windStagger the sea with all his stunning might,Until in dimness dwindling from our sightShe vanished in the wrack that rode behind?We know not, you and I, but our two soulsThat followed as storm-petrels o'er the wavesFelt all the might of Him who sinks or saves,And all the pity of earth's unreached goals.Felt all – then swift returning to our loveDwelt in its peace, uplifted safe above.

BY A SILENT STREAM

To sit by a silent stream,Watching water-lilies dream:While breezes winnowThe floating seeds,And the aery minnowWeaves his wavy web among the reeds.Where a fallen sycamoreWhitely arches a pathway o'er,And shadows darkleThe lambent cool,As, softly a-sparkle.Sunbeams arrow lightnings thro the pool.Where the everlasting's breathOdors mysteries of death.Where iron-weeds, rustedLeaf and pod,By insects dusted,Rustle – then in autumn sadness nod.To sit … till every senseLose thought of whither and whence;Till earth and heavenAnd faith and fateNo longer leavenLife, with hope or fear, or love or hate.

THE GREAT BUDDHA OF KAMAKURA TO THE SPHINX

Grave brother of the burning sands,Whose eyes enshrine foreverThe desert's soul, are you not wornOf gazing outward to dim strandsOf stars that weary never?Infinity no answer hasFor Time's untold distresses.Its deepest maze of mysteryIs but Illusion built up asThe blind build skies – with guesses.Nor has Eternity a placeOn any starry summit.The winds of Death are wide as Life,And leave no world untouched – but race,And soon with Night benumb it.And Karma is the law of soulAnd star – yea, of all Being.And from it but one way there is.Retreat into that trancèd Whole —Which is not Sight nor Seeing;Which is not Mind nor Mindlessness,Nor Deed nor driven Doer,Nor Want nor Wasting of Desire;But only that which won can bless;And of all else is pure.Turn then your eyes from the far trackOf worlds, and gazing inward,O brother, fare where Life has come,Yea, into its far Whence fare back.All other ways are sinward.

NECROMANCE

Can heedless gazing teach me more than toil?Can swaying of sere sedge along the slope,Or the dull lisp of oaken limbs that foilThe sun's ensheathing fervor, interfuseMy vacant being with far meanings whoseSoft airs blow from the hidden seas of Hope?Or can the wintry sumac sably stoopingSo charm and lift my heart from heartless droopingWhen other healings all were asked in vain?Yes – there are witcheries in the things of earthThat breathe with an illimitable voiceWisdom and calm to us, and lure to birthDim intimations bidding us rejoiceEven in the great mystery of Pain.

LOOK NOT TO THE WEST

Look not to the west where the sun is dyingOn fields of darkening clouds!Look not to the west where the wild birds nestAnd the winds are hieingTo sweep away sleep from the forest,And tatter the shrouds of sable silenceLit by the fire-fly's morris-dance.Look not to the west —'Tis best for the heart to hear not the chantsOf Evening over day's death!Look not to the west where the sun is dying —The sun that rose with song!Look not to the west where the closèd questOf thy soul seems lying;Where every sorrow that everWas wed with wrong in human breast,From the sea of its radiance never fades!Look not to the west —'Tis best for the heart to see not the shadesThat rise – the wrecks of the Past!

A NIKKO SHRINE

Under the sway, in old Japan,Of silent cryptic trees,There is a shrine the worldliestWould near with bended knees.Green, thro a torii, the wayLeads to it, worn, acrossA rivulet whose voice intonesWith mystery of moss.A mystery that is everywhere:The god beneath his shrineSeems but a mossy shape – yet soEnsheathed is more divine.For tho Nature has muffled himAnd sealed him there away,The meaning of all faith remains —That men will ever pray.Aye will, as long as soul has need,As long as earth is sodWith tombs, bow down the knee to allThat wakens in them God.

THE QUESTION

I shall lie so one day,With lips of Silence set;Eyes that no tear can wetAgain: a thing of Clay.I shall lie so, and EarthWill seize again her dust —Though she must gnaw and rustThe coffin's iron girth.I shall lie so – and theyWho still the Day bestride,Will stand so by my sideAnd with sad yearning say:"What is he now, this man,Shut in a pallor there,His spirit that could dare,What – what now is its span?"A withered atom's spaceWithin a withered brain?Or can it from the WainTo far Orion race?"And, like all that have died,I shall but answer – naught.Yet Time this truth has taught:The Question – will abide.

I'LL LOOK NO MORE

I'll look no more! thro timeless hours my eyesWithout intent have watched the slowing flightOf ebon crows across quiescent skiesTill all are gone; the last, a lonely bird,Scudding to rest thro streams of golden curdThat flow far eastward to the coming night.And as I turn again to foiling thoughtMy spirit leaves me – as faint zephyrs leaveThe trees at evening; tho all day they've soughtA place to hide them in and fondly grieve.And silently the slow oil sinks beneathThe noiseless burning wick of yellow flame.It is as if God back to him would breatheAll the world's given life, and end its Aim.

NIGHT'S OCCULTISM

Northward the twilight thro dark driftsOf cloud-wreck lingers cold.Southward the sated lightning sinksBeneath the wooded wold.Eastward immovable deep shadeIs sealed with mystery.Westward a memory of dead goldWakes on a sunset sea.Under, is earth's still orbiting;Over, a clearing star:In all, the spirit litanyOf life's strange avatar.

UNCROWNED

I am not other than men are, you say?But faulty and failing? And your love can lendNo glory of illusion to o'erlayThe lack, and make me seem one in whom blendNobilities wherein your heart may loseAll that it feels of flaw in me, or rues?Can it so be? Did ever woman loveWhose faith wreathed not about the brow she choseAureolas illumining him aboveAll that another thinks he is, or knows?I ask it bravely, for the way is long,And, haloless, should I not lead you wrong?

WRITTEN IN HELL

(By Sir Giles, whom the Witch of Urm leads to Judas Iscariot)Against a castle moated gloomily by a bitter drain of blood,From whose fetid wave contumelyOf all truth was reeking fumilyAnd infectiously, I stood;Waiting for her sign —A shriek repeated nine.I shrank at every aspish quivering fear set crawling in my breast.But betimes I felt a shiveringShriek cut ear and brain with sliveringStings of terror, sin, unrest —Christ! it raised the deadOut of the moat's black bed.Nine times – and then across the thickening reek a rusty draw was dropped;Thro portcullis sped a quickeningShadow past to where with sickeningFeet, befixed by awe I stopped —There she laughed a laughNo devil's soul could quaff.I swear its clamor tore the stuttering leaves from shrub and shrunken tree;Swear no limbo e'er heard mutteringLike that spawn of echoes sputteringMidnight with their drunken glee —Yet, ere half were done,I could not hear a one.She put her finger burning eerily to my lips – I heard them lock.Led me then a marsh-way, cheerily —Tho the quick ooze spurted drearilyThro root-rotten curd and rock.Things like water-ghoulsSlid slimily in pools.She stepped just once upon a hideous burrow, dank and haired with grass;Fixed upon me eyes perfidiousAs a fiend's are, yet insidious —Questioned if I dared to pass."I will search all HellTo find him," from me fell.And so was drawn thro dark cadaverous with the sound of gabbling dead.Where we heard them hoot palaverousDrivel learned beneath unsavorousMoulds, and saw a glutton's headGrin to a hissing bat,That scraped him as he spat.Witch she was, I knew, turned shepherdess to a soul blind as a sheep's.But I dogged her on o'er jeopardousSteeps down which she sped with leopardessLimbs into miasmic deeps."Swim," she gasped behind —Then like a she-wolf whined.It almost seemed to me as deadening as the sluice of dreary Styx.Fire and foulness mixed with leadeningSlush I drank; but swam the reddeningStuff a league with weary licks.Up a sulphurous bankWe climbed, and there I sank.Again she laughed that laugh – a shrivelling, ghastly, gaunt, uncanny spate.Up I sprang and cursed my snivellingSoul for weariness – for drivelling,And for so forgetting Hate."You will find him there"She pointed – thro her hair.I write these words from Hell where bloodily locked with him in fight I woke.Where we fall down caverns ruddilySpilt with glazing gore and muddilyDashed with stagnant night and smoke.Yet I do not care,For he groans by me – there.

AT THE HELM

(Nova Scotian)Fog, and a wind that blows the seaBlindly into my eyes.And I know not if my soul shall beWhen the day dies.But if it be not and I loseAll that men live to gain —I who have little known but huesOf wind and rain —Still I shall envy no man's lot,For I have held this great,Never in whines to have forgotThat Fate is Fate.

DEAD LOVE

If this should never end —This wandering in oblivious moodAlong a rutless road that leadsFrom wood to deeper wood —This crunching with unheedful footAcorns, I think, and withered leaves …Perhaps a rotten root —If this should never end —This seeing with insentient eyesSomething that seems like earth, and, too,Like overbending skies;This feeling, well – that time is space,Space, time; and each a pallid glassIn which Life sees her face —If it should never end —The road, the wandering and the feelOf dead infinities that seemO'er our dead sense to steal,And like seas cease above —Would it much matter, love?

MORTAL SIN

(Song for a drama)Much the windKnows of my heart,Though he whispers in my earThat he has seen me burn and startWhen I dream of your breast, my dear.Much the windKnows of my soul!For no soul has he to loseOn a mistress who can doleKisses that drug as poison-dews.

SEA-MAD

(A Breton Maid)Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me!One said:"Away! he is dead!Upon my foam I have flung his head!Go back to your cote, you shall never wed! —(Nor he!)"Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.Two brake.The third with a quakeCried loud, "O maid, I'll find for thy sakeHis dead lost body: prepare his wake!"(And back it plunged to the sea!)Three waves of the sea came up on the wind to me.One bore —And swept on the shore —His pale, pale face I shall kiss no more!Ah, woe to women death passes o'er!(Woe's me!)

THE DEATH-SPRITE

(A ballad for God) A. D. 909Three kings with naught of a careTo a hunting went;Three kings of stirrup fairAnd of yew-bow bent.Away they rode with a songOn the summer tide;Away from thrid and throngBy the blue lake side.And "Ho!" they vaunted aloudTo the morning hills.And "Ha!" – What reck the proudFor the God of Ills?Naught! so they swagged thro the gladeWhere the roe-buck rose:She nosed the wind, affrayedBy the blod "Ho, hos!""Three arrows now to her heart!"They shouted, and sped,Each king, an evil dartWith a flinten head.And O she staggered down —O unpitied, slain!But in her dreadful swounThere was more than pain!For Horror sprang from her blood,A Spectre of Death!It drew them thro the wood —Where a Chapel saithMasses for souls that are lostIn the wilds of sin —There mumbled, "Ye'll pay costEre to shrift ye win!"Then led them to a bay treeBy an open grave,Where three ghost-kings in threeStony coffins clave.Which spake, "Lo, we too were fair!" —"Unto this ye'll come!" —"Ay ye, who of naught beware!" —So spake – and were dumb.Then of fright and dread the kings flungAway yew-tree bow(The Chapel bell slow rungWith the bleak wind's blow).And fast they fled thro the gladeTo the castle hall.But God had not been stayed —They were lepers, all!Woe then to kings! to the pelfThat men call pride!Christ shrive us all from self,From the Death-sprite hide!

WORMWOOD

(In Old England)What is he whispering to her thereUnder the hedge-row spray?"Spring, Spring, Spring?" – Is the world so fairTo him, fool, that he has no careAs he cuckoos it all day?Is he quite sure – quite sure the sapOf life's not hate, but love?If I should tell him there's no gapBetween her and a … nameless hap,Would he still want his "dove"?Or would he go as blind to budsAs I am, who watch here,While he is pouring poet floodsFrom his thin lips, and while his blood'sBurning for her so near?It would be swords – swords!.. And his steelShould rip death from my breast.But would he ever know the feelOf Spring again, of its ribald reel,As once I did, the best?No! He would curse henceforward leafAnd flower and light – as I.Spring? – It is fire, lust, ashes, grief —All that a Hell can hold, in fief!..He'll learn it ere he die.

QUEST AND REQUITAL

I(Before He Comes)Sweet under swooning blue and mellow mistSeptember waves of forest overflowThe hills with crimson, amaranth and gold.Winds warm with the memory of scented hoursDead Summer gathers in her leafy lap,Rustle the distance with dim murmuringsThat sink upon the air as soft as shadesDropt from the overleaning clouds to earth;While golden-rod and sedge and aster hushedIn sunny silence and the oblivionOf life drawn from the insentient veins of Time,Await the searing swoon of Autumn's reign.It is a day when death must seem as birth,And birth as death; and life – till love comes – pain.II(He Has Come)These are the leafy hills and listless valesOf iridescent Autumn – this the oakAgainst whose lichened bole I leant and lookedAway the sunny hours of afternoon.Here are the bitter-sweet and elder spraysI fingered, dreaming to the muted flowOf breezes overhead – and here the wordI wrote unwittingly upon the soil.How long ago it was I cannot tell:The loneliness of unrequited loveLies like a blank eternity betweenThose hours and these I hear slip thro my heart.I only know all days I've ever seenMust seem now of some other life apart!III(He Loves)"Will you let any moment dip its wingInto your heart and find no love of meTo tint with deathless Dream" – he said – "and Spring,Its flight to the dim bourne of memory?Will you have any grief that can forgetHow grief should find forgetfulness in love?And since your soul in my soul's zone is setWill it sometimes ask other spheres to roveWhere touch and voice of me shall not be met?Ah no! in all the underdeeps of DeathOr overheights of Life it still shall beAt tryst with mine thro moan or ecstasy.In all!" … Yet ere a year he'll draw no breathBut is another's! – Will God let it be?IV(Betrayed by Him)All day I've bent my heart beneath the yokeOf goading toil, remembering to forget,To still upon my lips his kiss that wokeMe in elysian love one word has broke —One stinging word of severance and regret.All day I've blotted from my eyes his face,But now at evening tide it comes again,And memories into my darkened soulRush as the stars into high heaven's space.As the bright stars! But, ah, tomorrow! whenOnce more I must forget and see life's goal,That was so green, with sering laurel hung.Tomorrow and tomorrow! till is wrungPeace from the piteous hours I strive among!V(Finding No Peace)I say unto all hearts that cannot restFor want of love, for beating loud and lonely,Pray the great Mercy-God to give you onlyLove that is passionless within the breast.Pray that it may not be a haunting fire,A vision that shall steal insatiablyAll beauteous content, all sweet desire,From faith and dream, star, flower, and song, and sea.But seek that soul and soul may meet togetherKnowing they have forever been but one —Meet and be surest when ill's chartless weatherDrives blinding gales of doubt across their sun.Pray – pray! lost love uptorn shall seem as netherHell-hate and rage beyond oblivion.VI(In After Years to Him)You say that love then led us – you and me?I say 'twas hate, that wore love's wanting eyes:Hate that I could not tear away the liesThat wrapped you with their silken sorcery.Hate that for you I could not open skiesWhere beauty lives of her own loveliness;That God would give me no omnipotenceTo purge and mould anew your soul's numb sense.Aye, hate that I could love you not tho lovePent in me ached with passion-born distress —While thro unfathomable dark the PrizeSeemed sinking, as my soul, from heaven above.Love, say you? love? and hate rent us apart?I tell you hate alone so tears the heart.VII(To Him After His Death)God who can bind the stars eternallyWith but a breath of spirit speech, a thought;Who can within earth's arms lay the mad seaUnseverably, and count it as sheer naught;With his All-might could bind not you and me.For tho He pressed us heart to burning heartAnd set then to the passion that enthrallsHis sanction, still our souls stood e'er apart,As aliens beating fierce against the wallsOf dark unsympathy that would upstart.Stood aliens, aye! and would tho we should meet,Beyond the oblivion of unnumbered births,Upon some world where Time cannot repeatThe feeblest syllable that once was earth's.

LOVE IN EXTREMIS

I care not what they say who holdWe should speak but of life and joy;I have met death in one I love,Death lusting to destroy.And I have fought him vein by vein,Loosened his cold and creeping clutch,Driven him from her – twice and thrice —With might too much.Yet with too little! for I knowThat she at last will lie there still.Then all my fire of love shall failTo thaw that chill;For it will freeze light from her eyes,Pulse from her breast and from her soulMe, whom no opiate of peaceCan e'er console.None: … till I follow her, in time,And find her, though all Dust deny!With that to be I'll front the day,And fronting die.

OVER THE DREGS

If I had died last year when DeathAnd I were at finger-tips, till LifeSlipping between blew her warm breathInto my heart again and veins,And opened my eyes and nulled my pains —If I had died where would you be?You so passionate, yet quickTo escape from passion's mastery,When clasping and kiss and touch are gone,And days and space are between us drawn?Where would you be? My arms you chose —Arms too ready to seize and sin —And kept no burning forbiddance in thoseStill eyes of yours, or else, I think …No! I unsay it! No!.. So drink.Drink! the last glass! And then … "My thought?"It is that when we've reached the lastOf pleasure we are like two who've fought,Who have no common love but loveOf fighting – so does our passion prove!For it is only passion – such!Tho clasping and kiss and touch were love,A little – and sometimes, maybe, much,When soul and heaven looked far away,And flesh seemed only flesh – and clay.But, it is ended! So, drink!.. HowYou've ruined me, as I have you!All that you might have been! and – now!All that I was, until … 'Tis clearI should have died in Spring last year.

BEWITCHED

(On a Devon Moor)Why do I babble of bitter chills —And icy trees – and snowy fallows?Why do I shudder as twilight spillsA ghostly gray and the bent moon sallowsThe moor with her wicked flame?Why do the gibbering croons of the hagIn her hut by the woodGo muttering, muttering in my blood —Till the hoot of an owlOn the snag of a tombBreaks out of the gloomLike the wail of a witch's name?Ugh, it is drawing my feet away —The road's gone! the moonlet's sunken!What shall I do if it comes to frayWith fiends invisible, wild and drunken —Fiends on a churchless fell!Ha, is it cracking of ice in the bogThat is clutching my throat,Or devils gnawing the widow's shoat?By the Cross of the Christ,There's a fog that is blackAs – U-r-r! – at my back! —They are dragging me … down to … hell!