30. Endymion

(FOR MUSIC.)



THE apple trees are hung with gold,       
  And birds are loud in Arcady,       
The sheep lie bleating in the fold,       
The wild goat runs across the wold,       
But yesterday his love he told,            5   
  I know he will come back to me.       
O rising moon! O Lady moon!       
  Be you my lover’s sentinel,       
  You cannot choose but know him well,       
For he is shod with purple shoon,     10   
You cannot choose but know my love,       
  For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,       
And he is soft as any dove,       
  And brown and curly is his hair.       
     
The turtle now has ceased to call     15   
  Upon her crimson-footed groom,       
The grey wolf prowls about the stall,       
The lily’s singing seneschal       
Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all       
  The violet hills are lost in gloom.     20   
O risen moon! O holy moon!       
  Stand on the top of Helice,       
  And if my own true love you see,       
Ah! if you see the purple shoon,       
The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,     25   
  The goat-skin wrapped about his arm,       
Tell him that I am waiting where       
  The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.       
     
The falling dew is cold and chill,       
  And no bird sings in Arcady,     30   
The little fauns have left the hill,       
Even the tired daffodil       
Has closed its gilded doors, and still       
  My lover comes not back to me.       
False moon! False moon! O waning moon!     35   
  Where is my own true lover gone,       
  Where are the lips vermilion,       
The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon?       
Why spread that silver pavilion,       
  Why wear that veil of drifting mist?     40   
Ah! thou hast young Endymion,       
  Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!

31. La Bella Donna della mia Mente



MY limbs are wasted with a flame,       
  My feet are sore with travelling,       
For calling on my Lady’s name       
  My lips have now forgot to sing.       
     
O Linnet in the wild-rose brake            5   
  Strain for my Love thy melody,       
O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,       
  My gentle Lady passeth by.       
     
She is too fair for any man       
  To see or hold his heart’s delight,     10   
Fairer than Queen or courtezan       
  Or moon-lit water in the night.       
     
Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,       
  (Green leaves upon her golden hair!)       
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves     15   
  Of autumn corn are not more fair.       
     
Her little lips, more made to kiss       
  Than to cry bitterly for pain,       
Are tremulous as brook-water is,       
  Or roses after evening rain.     20   
     
Her neck is like white melilote       
  Flushing for pleasure of the sun,       
The throbbing of the linnet’s throat       
  Is not so sweet to look upon.       
     
As a pomegranate, cut in twain,     25   
  White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,       
Her cheeks are as the fading stain       
  Where the peach reddens to the south.       
     
O twining hands! O delicate       
  White body made for love and pain!     30   
O House of love! O desolate       
  Pale flower beaten by the rain!

32. Chanson



A RING of gold and a milk-white dove       
  Are goodly gifts for thee,       
And a hempen rope for your own love       
  To hang upon a tree.       
     
For you a House of Ivory            5   
  (Roses are white in the rose-bower)!       
A narrow bed for me to lie       
  (White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!       
     
Myrtle and jessamine for you       
  (O the red rose is fair to see)!     10   
For me the cypress and the rue       
  (Fairest of all is rose-mary)!       
     
For you three lovers of your hand       
  (Green grass where a man lies dead)!       
For me three paces on the sand     15   
  (Plant lilies at my head)!

33. Charmides



I.

HE was a Grecian lad, who coming home       
  With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily       
Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam       
  Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,       
And holding wave and wind in boy’s despite            5   
Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night       
     
Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear       
  Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,       
And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,       
  And bade the pilot head her lustily     10   
Against the nor’west gale, and all day long       
Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured song,       
     
And when the faint Corinthian hills were red       
  Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,       
And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,     15   
  And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,       
And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold       
Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,       
     
And a rich robe stained with the fishes’ juice       
  Which of some swarthy trader he had bought     20   
Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,       
  And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,       
And by the questioning merchants made his way       
Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day       
     
Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,     25   
  Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet       
Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd       
  Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat       
Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring       
The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling     30   
     
The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang       
  His studded crook against the temple wall       
To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang       
  Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;       
And then the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing,     35   
And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,       
     
A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,       
  A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery       
Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb       
  Dripping with oozy gold which scarce the bee     40   
Had ceased from building, a black skin of oil       
Meet for the wrestlers, a great boar the fierce and white-tusked spoil       
     
Stolen from Artemis that jealous maid       
  To please Athena, and the dappled hide       
Of a tall stag who in some mountain glade     45   
  Had met the shaft; and then the herald cried,       
And from the pillared precinct one by one       
Went the glad Greeks well pleased that they their simple vows had done.       
     
And the old priest put out the waning fires       
  Save that one lamp whose restless ruby glowed     50   
For ever in the cell, and the shrill lyres       
  Came fainter on the wind, as down the road       
In joyous dance these country folk did pass,       
And with stout hands the warder closed the gates of polished brass.       
     
Long time he lay and hardly dared to breathe,     55   
  And heard the cadenced drip of spilt-out wine,       
And the rose-petals falling from the wreath       
  As the night breezes wandered through the shrine,       
And seemed to be in some entrancèd swoon       
Till through the open roof above the full and brimming moon     60   
     
Flooded with sheeny waves the marble floor,       
  When from his nook upleapt the venturous lad,       
And flinging wide the cedar-carven door       
  Beheld an awful image saffron-clad       
And armed for battle! the gaunt Griffin glared     65   
From the huge helm, and the long lance of wreck and ruin flared       
     
Like a red rod of flame, stony and steeled       
  The Gorgon’s head its leaden eyeballs rolled,       
And writhed its snaky horrors through the shield,       
  And gaped aghast with bloodless lips and cold     70   
In passion impotent, while with blind gaze       
The blinking owl between the feet hooted in shrill amaze.       
     
The lonely fisher as he trimmed his lamp       
  Far out at sea off Sunium, or cast       
The net for tunnies, heard a brazen tramp     75   
  Of horses smite the waves, and a wild blast       
Divide the folded curtains of the night,       
And knelt upon the little poop, and prayed in holy fright.       
     
And guilty lovers in their venery       
  Forgat a little while their stolen sweets,     80   
Deeming they heard dread Dian’s bitter cry;       
  And the grim watchmen on their lofty seats       
Ran to their shields in haste precipitate,       
Or strained black-bearded throats across the dusky parapet.       
     
For round the temple rolled the clang of arms,     85   
  And the twelve Gods leapt up in marble fear,       
And the air quaked with dissonant alarums       
  Till huge Poseidon shook his mighty spear,       
And on the frieze the prancing horses neighed,       
And the low tread of hurrying feet rang from the cavalcade.     90   
     
Ready for death with parted lips he stood,       
  And well content at such a price to see       
That calm wide brow, that terrible maidenhood,       
  The marvel of that pitiless chastity,       
Ah! well content indeed, for never wight     95   
Since Troy’s young shepherd prince had seen so wonderful a sight.       
     
Ready for death he stood, but lo! the air       
  Grew silent, and the horses ceased to neigh,       
And off his brow he tossed the clustering hair,       
  And from his limbs he threw the cloak away,    100   
For whom would not such love make desperate,       
And nigher came, and touched her throat, and with hands violate       
     
Undid the cuirass, and the crocus gown,       
  And bared the breasts of polished ivory,       
Till from the waist the peplos falling down    105   
  Left visible the secret mystery       
Which to no lover will Athena show,       
The grand cool flanks, the crescent thighs, the bossy hills of snow.       
     
Those who have never known a lover’s sin       
  Let them not read my ditty, it will be    110   
To their dull ears so musicless and thin       
  That they will have no joy of it, but ye       
To whose wan cheeks now creeps the lingering smile,       
Ye who have learned who Eros is,—O listen yet a-while.       
     
A little space he let his greedy eyes    115   
  Rest on the burnished image, till mere sight       
Half swooned for surfeit of such luxuries,       
  And then his lips in hungering delight       
Fed on her lips, and round the towered neck       
He flung his arms, nor cared at all his passion’s will to check.    120   
     
Never I ween did lover hold such tryst,       
  For all night long he murmured honeyed word,       
And saw her sweet unravished limbs, and kissed       
  Her pale and argent body undisturbed,       
And paddled with the polished throat, and pressed    125   
His hot and beating heart upon her chill and icy breast.       
     
It was as if Numidian javelins       
  Pierced through and through his wild and whirling brain,       
And his nerves thrilled like throbbing violins       
  In exquisite pulsation, and the pain    130   
Was such sweet anguish that he never drew       
His lips from hers till overhead the lark of warning flew.       
     
They who have never seen the daylight peer       
  Into a darkened room, and drawn the curtain,       
And with dull eyes and wearied from some dear    135   
  And worshipped body risen, they for certain       
Will never know of what I try to sing,       
How long the last kiss was, how fond and late his lingering.       
     
The moon was girdled with a crystal rim,       
  The sign which shipmen say is ominous    140   
Of wrath in heaven, the wan stars were dim,       
  And the low lightening east was tremulous       
With the faint fluttering wings of flying dawn,       
Ere from the silent sombre shrine this lover had withdrawn.       
     
Down the steep rock with hurried feet and fast    145   
  Clomb the brave lad, and reached the cave of Pan,       
And heard the goat-foot snoring as he passed,       
  And leapt upon a grassy knoll and ran       
Like a young fawn unto an olive wood       
Which in a shady valley by the well-built city stood.    150   
     
And sought a little stream, which well he knew,       
  For oftentimes with boyish careless shout       
The green and crested grebe he would pursue,       
  Or snare in woven net the silver trout,       
And down amid the startled reeds he lay    155   
Panting in breathless sweet affright, and waited for the day.       
     
On the green bank he lay, and let one hand       
  Dip in the cool dark eddies listlessly,       
And soon the breath of morning came and fanned       
  His hot flushed cheeks, or lifted wantonly    160   
The tangled curls from off his forehead, while       
He on the running water gazed with strange and secret smile.       
     
And soon the shepherd in rough woollen cloak       
  With his long crook undid the wattled cotes,       
And from the stack a thin blue wreath of smoke    165   
  Curled through the air across the ripening oats,       
And on the hill the yellow house-dog bayed       
As through the crisp and rustling fern the heavy cattle strayed.       
     
And when the light-foot mower went afield       
  Across the meadows laced with threaded dew,    170   
And the sheep bleated on the misty weald,       
  And from its nest the waking corn-crake flew,       
Some woodmen saw him lying by the stream       
And marvelled much that any lad so beautiful could seem,       
     
Nor deemed him born of mortals, and one said,    175   
  “It is young Hylas, that false runaway       
Who with a Naiad now would make his bed       
  Forgetting Herakles,” but others, “Nay,       
It is Narcissus, his own paramour,       
Those are the fond and crimson lips no woman can allure.”    180   
     
And when they nearer came a third one cried,       
  “It is young Dionysos who has hid       
His spear and fawnskin by the river side       
  Weary of hunting with the Bassarid,       
And wise indeed were we away to fly    185   
They live not long who on the gods immortal come to spy.”       
     
So turned they back, and feared to look behind,       
  And told the timid swain how they had seen       
Amid the reeds some woodland God reclined,       
  And no man dared to cross the open green,    190   
And on that day no olive-tree was slain,       
Nor rushes cut, but all deserted was the fair domain.       
     
Save when the neat-herd’s lad, his empty pail       
  Well slung upon his back, with leap and bound       
Raced on the other side, and stopped to hail    195   
  Hoping that he some comrade new had found,       
And gat no answer, and then half afraid       
Passed on his simple way, or down the still and silent glade       
     
A little girl ran laughing from the farm       
  Not thinking of love’s secret mysteries,    200   
And when she saw the white and gleaming arm       
  And all his manlihood, with longing eyes       
Whose passion mocked her sweet virginity       
Watched him a-while, and then stole back sadly and wearily.       
     
Far off he heard the city’s hum and noise,    205   
  And now and then the shriller laughter where       
The passionate purity of brown-limbed boys       
  Wrestled or raced in the clear healthful air,       
And now and then a little tinkling bell       
As the shorn wether led the sheep down to the mossy well.    210   
     
Through the grey willows danced the fretful gnat,       
  The grasshopper chirped idly from the tree,       
In sleek and oily coat the water-rat       
  Breasting the little ripples manfully       
Made for the wild-duck’s nest, from bough to bough    215   
Hopped the shy finch, and the huge tortoise crept across the slough.       
     
On the faint wind floated the silky seeds,       
  As the bright scythe swept through the waving grass,       
The ousel-cock splashed circles in the reeds       
  And flecked with silver whorls the forest’s glass,    220   
Which scarce had caught again its imagery       
Ere from its bed the dusky tench leapt at the dragonfly.       
     
But little care had he for any thing       
  Though up and down the beech the squirrel played,       
And from the copse the linnet ’gan to sing    225   
  To her brown mate her sweetest serenade,       
Ah! little care indeed, for he had seen       
The breasts of Pallas and the naked wonder of the Queen.       
     
But when the herdsman called his straggling goats       
  With whistling pipe across the rocky road,    230   
And the shard-beetle with its trumpet-notes       
  Boomed through the darkening woods, and seemed to bode       
Of coming storm, and the belated crane       
Passed homeward like a shadow, and the dull big drops of rain       
     
Fell on the pattering fig-leaves, up he rose,    235   
  And from the gloomy forest went his way       
Past sombre homestead and wet orchard-close,       
  And came at last unto a little quay,       
And called his mates a-board, and took his seat       
On the high poop, and pushed from land, and loosed the dripping sheet,    240   
     
And steered across the bay, and when nine suns       
  Passed down the long and laddered way of gold,       
And nine pale moons had breathed their orisons       
  To the chaste stars their confessors, or told       
Their dearest secret to the downy moth    245   
That will not fly at noonday, through the foam and surging froth       
     
Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes       
  And lit upon the ship, whose timbers creaked       
As though the lading of three argosies       
  Were in the hold, and flapped its wings, and shrieked,    250   
And darkness straightway stole across the deep,       
Sheathed was Orion’s sword, dread Mars himself fled down the steep,       
     
And the moon hid behind a tawny mask       
  Of drifting cloud, and from the ocean’s marge       
Rose the red plume, the huge and hornèd casque,    255   
  The seven-cubit spear, the brazen targe!       
And clad in bright and burnished panoply       
Athena strode across the stretch of sick and shivering sea!       
     
To the dull sailors’ sight her loosened locks       
  Seemed like the jagged storm-rack, and her feet    260   
Only the spume that floats on hidden rocks,       
  And marking how the rising waters beat       
Against the rolling ship, the pilot cried       
To the young helmsman at the stern to luff to windward side.       
     
But he, the over-bold adulterer,    265   
  A dear profaner of great mysteries,       
An ardent amorous idolater,       
  When he beheld those grand relentless eyes       
Laughed loud for joy, and crying out “I come”       
Leapt from the lofty poop into the chill and churning foam.    270   
     
Then fell from the high heaven one bright star,       
  One dancer left the circling galaxy,       
And back to Athens on her clattering car       
  In all the pride of venged divinity       
Pale Pallas swept with shrill and steely clank,    275   
And a few gurgling bubbles rose where her boy lover sank.       
     
And the mast shuddered as the gaunt owl flew       
  With mocking hoots after the wrathful Queen,       
And the old pilot bade the trembling crew       
  Hoist the big sail, and told how he had seen    280   
Close to the stern a dim and giant form,       
And like a dipping swallow the stout ship dashed through the storm.       
     
And no man dared to speak of Charmides       
  Deeming that he some evil thing had wrought,       
And when they reached the strait Symplegades    285   
  They beached their galley on the shore, and sought       
The toll-gate of the city hastily,       
And in the market showed their brown and pictured pottery.       
     
II.

But some good Triton-god had ruth, and bare       
  The boy’s drowned body back to Grecian land,    290   
And mermaids combed his dank and dripping hair       
  And smoothed his brow, and loosed his clenching hand,       
Some brought sweet spices from far Araby,       
And others bade the halcyon sing her softest lullaby.       
     
And when he neared his old Athenian home,    295   
  A mighty billow rose up suddenly       
Upon whose oily back the clotted foam       
  Lay diapered in some strange fantasy,       
And clasping him unto its glassy breast,       
Swept landward, like a white-maned steed upon a venturous quest!    300   
     
Now where Colonos leans unto the sea       
  There lies a long and level stretch of lawn,       
The rabbit knows it, and the mountain bee       
  For it deserts Hymettus, and the Faun       
Is not afraid, for never through the day    305   
Comes a cry ruder than the shout of shepherd lads at play.       
     
But often from the thorny labyrinth       
  And tangled branches of the circling wood       
The stealthy hunter sees young Hyacinth       
  Hurling the polished disk, and draws his hood    310   
Over his guilty gaze, and creeps away,       
Nor dares to wind his horn, or—else at the first break of day       
     
The Dyrads come and throw the leathern ball       
  Along the reedy shore, and circumvent       
Some goat-eared Pan to be their seneschal    315   
  For fear of bold Poseidon’s ravishment,       
And loose their girdles, with shy timorous eyes,       
Lest from the surf his azure arms and purple beard should rise.       
     
On this side and on that a rocky cave,       
  Hung with the yellow-bell’d laburnum, stands,    320   
Smooth is the beach, save where some ebbing wave       
  Leaves its faint outline etched upon the sands,       
As though it feared to be too soon forgot       
By the green rush, its playfellow,—and yet, it is a spot       
     
So small, that the inconstant butterfly    325   
  Could steal the hoarded honey from each flower       
Ere it was noon, and still not satisfy       
  Its over-greedy love,—within an hour       
A sailor boy, were he but rude enow       
To land and pluck a garland for his galley’s painted prow,    330   
     
Would almost leave the little meadow bare,       
  For it knows nothing of great pageantry,       
Only a few narcissi here and there       
  Stand separate in sweet austerity,       
Dotting the unmown grass with silver stars,    335   
And here and there a daffodil waves tiny scimetars.       
     
Hither the billow brought him, and was glad       
  Of such dear servitude, and where the land       
Was virgin of all waters laid the lad       
  Upon the golden margent of the strand,    340   
And like a lingering lover oft returned       
To kiss those pallid limbs which once with intense fire burned,       
     
Ere the wet seas had quenched that holocaust,       
  That self-fed flame, that passionate lustihead,       
Ere grisly death with chill and nipping frost    345   
  Had withered up those lilies white and red       
Which, while the boy would through the forest range,       
Answered each other in a sweet antiphonal counterchange.       
     
And when at dawn the woodnymphs, hand-in-hand,       
  Threaded the bosky dell, their satyr spied    350   
The boy’s pale body stretched upon the sand,       
  And feared Poseidon’s treachery, and cried,       
And like bright sunbeams flitting through a glade,       
Each startled Dryad sought some safe and leafy ambuscade.       
     
Save one white girl, who deemed it would not be    355   
  So dread a thing to feel a sea-god’s arms       
Crushing her breasts in amorous tyranny,       
  And longed to listen to those subtle charms       
Insidious lovers weave when they would win       
Some fencèd fortress, and stole back again, nor thought it sin    360   
     
To yield her treasure unto one so fair,       
  And lay beside him, thirsty with love’s drouth,       
Called him soft names, played with his tangled hair,       
  And with hot lips made havoc of his mouth       
Afraid he might not wake, and then afraid    365   
Lest he might wake too soon, fled back, and then, fond renegade,       
     
Returned to fresh assault, and all day long       
  Sat at his side, and laughed at her new toy,       
And held his hand, and sang her sweetest song,       
  Then frowned to see how froward was the boy    370   
Who would not with her maidenhood entwine,       
Nor knew that three days since his eyes had looked on Proserpine,       
     
Nor knew what sacrilege his lips had done,       
  But said, “He will awake, I know him well,       
He will awake at evening when the sun    375   
  Hangs his red shield on Corinth’s citadel,       
This sleep is but a cruel treachery       
To make me love him more, and in some cavern of the sea       
     
Deeper than ever falls the fisher’s line       
  Already a huge Triton blows his horn,    380   
And weaves a garland from the crystalline       
  And drifting ocean-tendrils to adorn       
The emerald pillars of our bridal bed,       
For sphered in foaming silver, and with coral-crownèd head,       
     
We two will sit upon a throne of pearl,    385   
  And a blue wave will be our canopy,       
And at our feet the water-snakes will curl       
  In all their amethystine panoply       
Of diamonded mail, and we will mark       
The mullets swimming by the mast of some storm-foundered bark,    390   
     
Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold       
  Like flakes of crimson light, and the great deep       
His glassy-portaled chamber will unfold,       
  And we will see the painted dolphins sleep       
Cradled by murmuring halcyons on the rocks    395   
Where Proteus in quaint suit of green pastures his monstrous flocks.       
     
And tremulous opal-hued anemones       
  Will wave their purple fringes where we tread       
Upon the mirrored floor, and argosies       
  Of fishes flecked with tawny scales will thread    400   
The drifting cordage of the shattered wreck,       
And honey-coloured amber beads our twining limbs will deck.”       
     
But when that baffled Lord of War the Sun       
  With gaudy pennon flying passed away       
Into his brazen House, and one by one    405   
  The little yellow stars began to stray       
Across the field of heaven, ah! then indeed       
She feared his lips upon her lips would never care to feed,       
     
And cried, “Awake, already the pale moon       
  Washes the trees with silver, and the wave    410   
Creeps grey and chilly up this sandy dune,       
  The croaking frogs are out, and from the cave       
The night-jar shrieks, the fluttering bats repass,       
And the brown stoat with hollow flanks creeps through the dusky grass.       
     
Nay, though thou art a God, be not so coy,    415   
  For in yon stream there is a little reed       
That often whispers how a lovely boy       
  Lay with her once upon a grassy mead,       
Who when his cruel pleasure he had done       
Spread wings of rustling gold and soared aloft into the sun.    420   
     
Be not so coy, the laurel trembles still       
  With great Apollo’s kisses, and the fir       
Whose clustering sisters fringe the sea-ward hill       
  Hath many a tale of that bold ravisher       
Whom men call Boreas, and I have seen    425   
The mocking eyes of Hermes through the poplar’s silvery sheen.       
     
Even the jealous Naiads call me fair,       
  And every morn a young and ruddy swain       
Wooes me with apples and with locks of hair,       
  And seeks to soothe my virginal disdain    430   
By all the gifts the gentle wood-nymphs love;       
But yesterday he brought to me an iris-plumaged dove       
     
With little crimson feet, which with its store       
  Of seven spotted eggs the cruel lad       
Had stolen from the lofty sycamore    435   
  At day-break, when her amorous comrade had       
Flown off in search of berried juniper       
Which most they love; the fretful wasp, that earliest vintager       
     
Of the blue grapes, hath not persistency       
  So constant as this simple shepherd-boy    440   
For my poor lips, his joyous purity       
  And laughing sunny eyes might well decoy       
A Dryad from her oath to Artemis;       
For very beautiful is he, his mouth was made to kiss,       
     
His argent forehead, like a rising moon    445   
  Over the dusky hills of meeting brows,       
Is crescent shaped, the hot and Tyrian noon       
  Leads from the myrtle-grove no goodlier spouse       
For Cytheræa, the first silky down       
Fringes his blushing cheeks, and his young limbs are strong and brown:    450   
     
And he is rich, and fat and fleecy herds       
  Of bleating sheep upon his meadows lie,       
And many an earthen bowl of yellow curds       
  Is in his homestead for the thievish fly       
To swim and drown in, the pink clover mead    455   
Keeps its sweet store for him, and he can pipe on oaten reed.       
     
And yet I love him not, it was for thee       
  I kept my love, I knew that thou would’st come       
To rid me of this pallid chastity;       
  Thou fairest flower of the flowerless foam    460   
Of all the wide Ægean, brightest star       
Of ocean’s azure heavens where the mirrored planets are!       
     
I knew that thou would’st come, for when at first       
  The dry wood burgeoned, and the sap of Spring       
Swelled in my green and tender bark or burst    465   
  To myriad multitudinous blossoming       
Which mocked the midnight with its mimic moons       
That did not dread the dawn, and first the thrushes’ rapturous tunes       
     
Startled the squirrel from its granary,       
  And cuckoo flowers fringed the narrow lane,    470   
Through my young leaves a sensuous ecstasy       
  Crept like new wine, and every mossy vein       
Throbbed with the fitful pulse of amorous blood,       
And the wild winds of passion shook my slim stem’s maidenhood.       
     
The trooping fawns at evening came and laid    475   
  Their cool black noses on my lowest boughs       
And on my topmost branch the blackbird made       
  A little nest of grasses for his spouse,       
And now and then a twittering wren would light       
On a thin twig which hardly bare the weigh of such delight.    480   
     
I was the Attic shepherd’s trysting place,       
  Beneath my shadow Amaryllis lay,       
And round my trunk would laughing Daphnis chase       
  The timorous girl, till tired out with play       
She felt his hot breath stir her tangled hair,    485   
And turned, and looked, and fled no more from such delightful snare.       
     
Then come away unto my ambuscade       
  Where clustering woodbine weaves a canopy       
For amorous pleasaunce, and the rustling shade       
  Of Paphian myrtles seems to sanctify    490   
The dearest rites of love, there in the cool       
And green recesses of its farthest depth there is a pool,       
     
The ouzel’s haunt, the wild bee’s pasturage,       
  For round its rim great creamy lilies float       
Through their flat leaves in verdant anchorage,    495   
  Each cup a white-sailed golden-laden boat       
Steered by a dragon-fly,—be not afraid       
To leave this wan and wave-kissed shore, surely the place were made       
     
For lovers such as we, the Cyprian Queen,       
  One arm around her boyish paramour,    500   
Strays often there at eve, and I have seen       
  The moon strip off her misty vestiture       
For young Endymion’s eyes, be not afraid,       
The panther feet of Dian never tread that secret glade.       
     
Nay if thou wil’st, back to the beating brine,    505   
  Back to the boisterous billow let us go,       
And walk all day beneath the hyaline       
  Huge vault of Neptune’s watery portico,       
And watch the purple monsters of the deep       
Sport in ungainly play, and from his lair keen Xiphias leap.    510   
     
For if my mistress find me lying here       
  She will not ruth or gentle pity show,       
But lay her boar-spear down, and with austere       
  Relentless fingers string the cornel bow,       
And draw the feathered notch against her breast,    515   
And loose the archèd cord, ay, even now upon the quest       
     
I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake,       
  Thou laggard in love’s battle! once at least       
Let me drink deep of passion’s wine, and slake       
  My parchèd being with the nectarous feast    520   
Which even Gods affect! O come Love come,       
Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.”       
     
Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees       
  Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air       
Grew conscious of a God, and the grey seas    525   
  Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare       
Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,       
And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade.       
     
And where the little flowers of her breast       
  Just brake into their milky blossoming,    530   
This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,       
  Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,       
And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,       
And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart.       
     
Sobbing her life out with a bitter cry    535   
  On the boy’s body fell the Dryad maid,       
Sobbing for incomplete virginity,       
  And raptures unenjoyed, and pleasures dead,       
And all the pain of things unsatisfied,       
And the bright drops of crimson youth crept down her throbbing side.    540   
     
Ah! pitiful it was to hear her moan,       
  And very pitiful to see her die       
Ere she had yielded up her sweets, or known       
  The joy of passion, that dread mystery       
Which not to know is not to live at all,    545   
And yet to know is to be held in death’s most deadly thrall.       
     
But as it hapt the Queen of Cythere,       
  Who with Adonis all night long had lain       
Within some shepherd’s hut in Arcady,       
  On team of silver doves and gilded wane    550   
Was journeying Paphos-ward, high up afar       
From mortal ken between the mountains and the morning star,       
     
And when low down she spied the hapless pair,       
  And heard the Oread’s faint despairing cry,       
Whose cadence seemed to play upon the air    555   
  As though it were a viol, hastily       
She bade her pigeons fold each straining plume,       
And dropt to earth, and reached the strand, and saw their dolorous doom.       
     
For as a gardener turning back his head       
  To catch the last notes of the linnet, mows    560   
With careless scythe too near some flower bed,       
  And cuts the thorny pillar of the rose,       
And with the flower’s loosened loveliness       
Strews the brown mould, or as some shepherd lad in wantonness       
     
Driving his little flock along the mead    565   
  Treads down two daffodils which side by side       
Have lured the lady-bird with yellow brede       
  And made the gaudy moth forget its pride,       
Treads down their brimming golden chalices       
Under light feet which were not made for such rude ravages,    570   
     
Or as a schoolboy tired of his book       
  Flings himself down upon the reedy grass       
And plucks two water-lilies from the brook,       
  And for a time forgets the hour glass,       
Then wearies of their sweets, and goes his way,    575   
And lets the hot sun kill them, even so these lovers lay.       
     
And Venus cried, “It is dread Artemis       
  Whose bitter hand hath wrought this cruelty,       
Or else that mightier may whose care it is       
  To guard her strong and stainless majesty    580   
Upon the hill Athenian,—alas!       
That they who loved so well unloved into Death’s house should pass.       
     
So with soft hands she laid the boy and girl       
  In the great golden waggon tenderly,       
Her white throat whiter than a moony pearl    585   
  Just threaded with a blue vein’s tapestry       
Had not yet ceased to throb, and still her breast       
Swayed like a wind-stirred lily in ambiguous unrest.       
     
And then each pigeon spread its milky van,       
  The bright car soared into the dawning sky,    590   
And like a cloud the aerial caravan       
  Passed over the Ægean silently,       
Till the faint air was troubled with the song       
From the wan mouths that call on bleeding Thammuz all night long.       
     
But when the doves had reached their wonted goal    595   
  Where the wide stair of orbèd marble dips       
Its snows into the sea, her fluttering soul       
  Just shook the trembling petals of her lips       
And passed into the void, and Venus knew       
That one fair maid the less would walk amid her retinue,    600   
     
And bade her servants carve a cedar chest       
  With all the wonder of this history,       
Within whose scented womb their limbs should rest       
  Where olive-trees make tender the blue sky       
On the low hills of Paphos, and the faun    605   
Pipes in the noonday, and the nightingale sings on till dawn.       
     
Nor failed they to obey her hest, and ere       
  The morning bee had stung the daffodil       
With tiny fretful spear, or from its lair       
  The waking stag had leapt across the rill    610   
And roused the ouzel, or the lizard crept       
Athwart the sunny rock, beneath the grass their bodies slept.       
     
And when day brake, within that silver shrine       
  Fed by the flames of cressets tremulous,       
Queen Venus knelt and prayed to Proserpine    615   
  That she whose beauty made Death amorous       
Should beg a guerdon from her pallid Lord,       
And let Desire pass across dread Charon’s icy ford.       
     
III.

In melancholy moonless Acheron,       
  Far from the goodly earth and joyous day,    620   
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun       
  Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May       
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,       
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,       
     
There by a dim and dark Lethæan well    625   
  Young Charmides was lying, wearily       
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,       
  And with its little rifled treasury       
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,       
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,    630   
     
When as he gazed into the watery glass       
  And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned       
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass       
  Across the mirror, and a little hand       
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly    635   
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a sigh.       
     
Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,       
  And ever nigher still their faces came,       
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw       
  Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,    640   
And longing arms around her neck he cast,       
And felt her throbbing bosom, and his breath came hot and fast,       
     
And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,       
  And all her maidenhood was his to slay,       
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss    645   
  Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay       
To pipe again of love too venturous reed!       
Enough, enough that Erôs laughed upon that flowerless mead.       
     
Too venturous poesy O why essay       
  To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings    650   
O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay       
  Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings,       
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,       
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quill!       
     
Enough, enough that he whose life had been    655   
  A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,       
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean       
  One scorching harvest from those fields of flame       
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet       
And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet    660   
     
In that wild throb when all existences       
  Seem narrowed to one single ecstasy       
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress       
  Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone       
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne    665   
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.

34. Les Silhouettes



    THE sea is flecked with bars of grey       
    The dull dead wind is out of tune,       
    And like a withered leaf the moon       
Is blown across the stormy bay.       
     
    Etched clear upon the pallid sand            5   
    The black boat lies: a sailor boy       
    Clambers aboard in careless joy       
With laughing face and gleaming hand.       
     
    And overhead the curlews cry,       
    Where through the dusky upland grass     10   
    The young brown-throated reapers pass,       
Like silhouettes against the sky.

35. La Fuite de la Lune



    TO outer senses there is peace,       
    A dreamy peace on either hand,       
    Deep silence in the shadowy land,       
Deep silence where the shadows cease.       
     
    Save for a cry that echoes shrill            5   
    From some lone bird disconsolate;       
    A corncrake calling to its mate;       
The answer from the misty hill.       
     
    And suddenly the moon withdraws       
    Her sickle from the lightening skies,     10   
    And to her sombre cavern flies,       
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.   

36. The Grave of Keats



RID of the world’s injustice, and his pain,       
  He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue:       
  Taken from life when life and love were new       
The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,       
Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.            5   
  No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,       
  But gentle violets weeping with the dew       
Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.       
O proudest heart that broke for misery!       
  O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!     10   
  O poet-painter of our English Land!       
Thy name was writ in water——it shall stand:       
  And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,       
  As Isabella did her Basil-tree.


ROME

37. Theocritus: a Villanelle



O SINGER of Persephone!       
  In the dim meadows desolate       
Dost thou remember Sicily?       
     
Still through the ivy flits the bee       
  Where Amaryllis lies in state;            5   
O Singer of Persephone!       
     
Simætha calls on Hecate       
  And hears the wild dogs at the gate;       
Dost thou remember Sicily?       
     
Still by the light and laughing sea     10   
  Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate:       
O Singer of Persephone!       
     
And still in boyish rivalry       
  Young Daphnis challenges his mate:       
Dost thou remember Sicily?     15   
     
Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,       
  For thee the jocund shepherds wait,       
O Singer of Persephone!       
Dost thou remember Sicily?

38. In the Gold Room: a Harmony



HER ivory hands on the ivory keys       
  Strayed in a fitful fantasy,       
Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees       
  Rustle their pale leaves listlessly,       
Or the drifting foam of a restless sea            5   
When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.       
     
Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold       
  Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun       
On the burnished disk of the marigold,       
  Or the sun-flower turning to meet the sun     10   
  When the gloom of the jealous night is done,       
And the spear of the lily is aureoled.       
     
And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine       
  Burned like the ruby fire set       
In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,     15   
  Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,       
  Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet       
With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

39. Ballade de Marguerite

(NORMANDE.)



I AM weary of lying within the chase       
When the knights are meeting in market-place.       
     
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town       
Lest the hooves of the war-horse tread thee down.       
     
But I would not go where the Squires ride,            5   
I would only walk by my Lady’s side.       
     
Alack! and alack! thou art over bold,       
A Forester’s son may not eat off gold.       
     
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen,       
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?     10   
     
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,       
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.       
     
Ah, if she is working the arras bright       
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.       
     
Perchance she is hunting of the deer,     15   
How could you follow o’er hill and meer?       
     
Ah, if she is riding with the court,       
I might run beside her and wind the morte.       
     
Perchance she is kneeling in S. Denys,       
(On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!)     20   
     
Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle,       
I might swing the censer and ring the bell.       
     
Come in my son, for you look sae pale,       
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.       
     
But who are these knights in bright array?     25   
Is it a pageant the rich folks play?       
     
’Tis the King of England from over sea,       
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.       
     
But why does the curfew toll sae low       
And why do the mourners walk a-row?     30   
     
O ’tis Hugh of Amiens my sister’s son       
Who is lying stark, for his day is done.       
     
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear,       
It is no strong man who lies on the bier.       
     
O ’tis old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall,     35   
I knew she would die at the autumn fall.       
     
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair,       
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.       
     
O ’tis none of our kith and none of our kin,       
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!)     40   
     
But I hear the boy’s voice chaunting sweet,       
“Elle est morte, la Marguerite.”       
     
Come in my son and lie on the bed,       
And let the dead folk bury their dead.       
     
O mother, you know I loved her true:     45   
O mother, hath one grave room for two?