Poems

THE MORNING STAR

I

Backward betwixt the gates of steepest heaven,Faint from the insupportable advanceOf light confederate in the East, is drivenThe starry chivalry, and helm and lance,Which held keen ward upon the shadowy plain,Yield to the stress and stern predominanceOf Day; no wanderer morning-moon awaneFloats through dishevelled clouds, exanimate,In disarray, with gaze of weariest pain;O thou, sole Splendour, sprung to vindicateNight’s ancient fame, thou in dread strife serene,With back-blown locks, joyous yet desperateFlamest; from whose pure ardour Earth doth winHigh passionate pangs, thou radiant paladin.

II

Nay; strife must cease in song: far-sent and clearPiercing the silence of this summer mornI hear thy swan-song rapturous; I hearLife’s ecstasy; sharp cries of flames which burnWith palpitating joy, intense and pure,From altars of the universe, and yearnIn eager spires; and under these the sureStrong ecstasy of Death, in phrase too deepFor thought, too bright for dim investiture.Of mortal words, and sinking more than sleepDown holier places of the soul’s delight;Cry, through the quickening dawn, to us who creep’Mid dreams and dews of the dividing night,Thou searcher of the darkness and the light.

III

I seek thee, and thou art not; for the skyHas drawn thee in upon her breast to beA hidden talisman, while light soars high,Virtuous to make wide heaven’s tranquillityMore tranquil, and her steadfast truth more true,Yea even her overbowed infinity.Of tenderness, when o’er wet woods the blueShows past white edges of a sundering cloud,More infinitely tender. Day is new,Night ended; how the hills are overflowedWith spaciousness of splendour, and each treeIs touched; only not yet the lark is loud,Since viewless still o’er city and plain and seaVibrates thy spirit-wingèd ecstasy.

A CHILD’S NOONDAY SLEEP

Because you sleep, my child, with breathing lightAs heave of the June sea,Because your lips soft petals dewy-brightDispart so tenderly;Because the slumbrous warmth is on your cheekUp from the hushed heart sent,And in this midmost noon when winds are weakNo cloud lies more content;Because nor song of bird, nor lamb’s keen callMay reach you sunken deep,Because your lifted arm I thus let fallHeavy with perfect sleep;Because all will is drawn from you, all power,And Nature through dark rootsWill hold and nourish you for one sweet hourAmid her flowers and fruits;Therefore though tempests gather, and the galeThrough autumn skies will roar,Though Earth send up to heaven the ancient wailHeard by dead Gods of yore;Though spectral faiths contend, and for her courseThe soul confused must try,While through the whirl of atoms and of forceLooms an abandoned sky;Yet, know I, Peace abides, of earth’s wild thingsCentre, and ruling thence;Behold, a spirit folds her budded wingsIn confident innocence.

IN THE GARDEN

I. THE GARDEN

Past the town’s clamour is a garden fullOf loneness and old greenery; at noonWhen birds are hushed, save one dim cushat’s croon,A ripen’d silence hangs beneath the coolGreat branches; basking roses dream and dropA petal, and dream still; and summer’s boonOf mellow grasses, to be levelled soonBy a dew-drenchèd scythe, will hardly stopAt the uprunning mounds of chestnut trees.Still let me muse in this rich haunt by day,And know all night in dusky placidnessIt lies beneath the summer, while great easeBroods in the leaves, and every light wind’s stressLifts a faint odour down the verdurous way.

II. VISIONS

Here I am slave of visions. When noon heatStrikes the red walls, and their environ’d airLies steep’d in sun; when not a creature dareAffront the fervour, from my dim retreatWhere woof of leaves embowers a beechen seat,With chin on palm, and wide-set eyes I stare,Beyond the liquid quiver and the glare,Upon fair shapes that move on silent feet.Those Three strait-robed, and speechless as they pass,Come often, touch the lute, nor heed me moreThan birds or shadows heed; that naked childIs dove-like Psyche slumbering in deep grass;Sleep, sleep,—he heeds thee not, you Sylvan wildMunching the russet apple to its core.

III. AN INTERIOR

The grass around my limbs is deep and sweet;Yonder the house has lost its shadow wholly,The blinds are dropped, and softly now and slowlyThe day flows in and floats; a calm retreatOf tempered light where fair things fair things meet;White busts and marble Dian make it holy,Within a niche hangs Dürer’s MelancholyBrooding; and, should you enter, there will greetYour sense with vague allurement effluence faintOf one magnolia bloom; fair fingers drawFrom the piano Chopin’s heart-complaint;Alone, white-robed she sits; a fierce macawOn the verandah, proud of plume and paint,Screams, insolent despot, showing beak and claw.

IV. THE SINGER

“That was the thrush’s last good-night,” I thought,And heard the soft descent of summer rainIn the drooped garden leaves; but hush! againThe perfect iterance,—freer than unsoughtOdours of violets dim in woodland ways,Deeper than coilèd waters laid a-dreamBelow mossed ledges of a shadowy stream,And faultless as blown roses in June days.Full-throated singer! art thou thus anewVoiceful to hear how round thyself aloneThe enrichèd silence drops for thy delightMore soft than snow, more sweet than honey-dew?Now cease: the last faint western streak is gone,Stir not the blissful quiet of the night.

V. A SUMMER MOON

Queen-moon of this enchanted summer night,One virgin slave companioning thee,—I lieVacant to thy possession as this skyConquered and calmed by thy rejoicing might;Swim down through my heart’s deep, thou dewy brightWanderer of heaven, till thought must faint and die,And I am made all thine inseparably,Resolved into the dream of thy delight.Ah no! the place is common for her feet,Not here, not here,—beyond the amber mist,And breadths of dusky pine, and shining lawn,And unstirred lake, and gleaming belts of wheat,She comes upon her Latmos, and has kissedThe sidelong face of blind Endymion.

VI. A PEACH

If any sense in mortal dust remainsWhen mine has been refined from flower to flower,Won from the sun all colours, drunk the showerAnd delicate winy dews, and gained the gainsWhich elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swingThrough half a summer day, for love bestow,Then in some warm old garden let me growTo such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thingAs this. Upon a southward-facing wallI bask, and feel my juices dimly fedAnd mellowing, while my bloom comes golden grey:Keep the wasps from me! but before I fallPluck me, white fingers, and o’er two ripe-redGirl lips O let me richly swoon away!

VII. EARLY AUTUMN

If while I sit flatter’d by this warm sunDeath came to me, and kissed my mouth and brow,And eyelids which the warm light hovers through,I should not count it strange. Being half wonBy hours that with a tender sadness run,Who would not softly lean to lips which wooIn the Earth’s grave speech? Nor could it aught undoOf Nature’s calm observances begunStill to be here the idle autumn day.Pale leaves would circle down, and lie unstirr’dWhere’er they fell; the tired wind hither callHer gentle fellows; shining beetles strayUp their green courts; and only yon shy birdA little bolder grow ere evenfall.

VIII. LATER AUTUMN

This is the year’s despair: some wind last nightUtter’d too soon the irrevocable word,And the leaves heard it, and the low clouds heard;So a wan morning dawned of sterile light;Flowers drooped, or showed a startled face and white;The cattle cowered, and one disconsolate birdChirped a weak note; last came this mist and blurredThe hills, and fed upon the fields like blight.Ah, why so swift despair! There yet will beWarm noons, the honey’d leavings of the year,Hours of rich musing, ripest autumn’s core,And late-heaped fruit, and falling hedge-berry,Blossoms in cottage-crofts, and yet, once more,A song, not less than June’s, fervent and clear.

THE HEROINES

HELENA

(Tenth year of Troy-Siege)She stood upon the wall of windy Troy,And lifted high both arms, and cried aloudWith no man near:—“Troy-town and glory of GreeceStrive, let the flame aspire, and pride of lifeGlow to white heat! Great lords be strong, rejoice,Lament, know victory, know defeat—then die;Fair is the living many-coloured playOf hates and loves, and fair it is to cease,To cease from these and all Earth’s comely things.I, Helena, impatient of a couchDim-scented, and dark eyes my face had fed,And soft captivity of circling arms,Come forth to shed my spirit on you, a windAnd sunlight of commingling life and death.City and tented plain behold who standsBetwixt you! Seems she worth a play of swords,And glad expense of rival hopes and hates?Have the Gods given a prize which may content,Who set your games afoot,—no fictile vase,But a sufficient goblet of great gold,Embossed with heroes, filled with perfumed wine?How! doubt ye? Thus I draw the robe asideAnd bare the breasts of Helen.YesterdayA mortal maiden I beheld, the lightTender within her eyes, laying white armsAround her sire’s mailed breast, and heard her chideBecause his cheek was blood-splashed,—I beheldAnd did not wish me her. O, not for thisA God’s blood thronged within my mother’s veins!For no such tender purpose rose the swanWith ruffled plumes, and hissing in his joyFlashed up the stream, and held with heavy wingsLeda, and curved the neck to reach her lips,And stayed, nor left her lightly. It is wellTo have quickened into glory one supreme,Swift hour, the century’s fiery-hearted bloom,Which falls,—to stand a splendour paramount,A beacon of high hearts and fates of men,A flame blown round by clear, contending winds,Which gladden in the contest and wax strong.Cities of Greece, fair islands, and Troy town,Accept a woman’s service; these my handsHold not the distaff, ply not at the loom;I store from year to year no well-wrought webFor daughter’s dowry; wide the web I make,Fine-tissued, costly as the Gods desire,Shot with a gleaming woof of lives and deaths,Inwrought with colours flowerlike, piteous, strange.Oblivion yields before me: ye winged yearsWhich make escape from darkness, the red lightOf a wild dawn upon your plumes, I standThe mother of the stars and winds of heaven,Your eastern Eos; cry across the storm!Through me man’s heart grows wider; little townAsleep in silent sunshine and smooth air,While babe grew man beneath your girdling towers,Wake, wonder, lift the eager head alert,Snake-like, and swift to strike, while altar-flameRises for plighted faith with neighbour townThat slept upon the mountain-shelf, and showedA small white temple in the morning sun.Oh, ever one way tending you keen prowsWhich shear the shadowy waves when stars are faintAnd break with emulous cries unto the dawn,I gaze and draw you onward; splendid namesLurk in you, and high deeds, and unachievedVirtues, and house-o’erwhelming crimes, while lifeLeaps in sharp flame ere all be ashes grey.Thus have I willed it ever since the hourWhen that great lord, the one man worshipful,Whose hands had haled the fierce HippolytaLightly from out her throng of martial maids,Would grace his triumph, strengthen his large joyWith splendour of the swan-begotten child,Nor asked a ten years’ siege to make acquistOf all her virgin store. No dream that was,—The moonlight in the woods, our singing stream,Eurotas, the sleek panther at my feet,And on my heart a hero’s strong right hand.O draught of love immortal! Dastard worldToo poor for great exchange of soul, too poorFor equal lives made glorious! O too poorFor Theseus and for Helena!Yet nowIt yields once more a brightness, if no love;Around me flash the tides, and in my earsA dangerous melody and piercing-clearSing the twin siren-sisters, Death and Life;I rise and gird my spirit for the close.Last night Cassandra cried ‘Ruin, ruin, and ruin!’I mocked her not, nor disbelieved; the gloomGathers, and twilight takes the unwary world.Hold me, ye Gods, a torch across the night,With one long flare blown back o’er tower and town,Till the last things of Troy complete themselves:—Then blackness, and the grey dust of a heart.”

ATALANTA

“Milanion, seven years ago this dayYou overcame me by a golden fraud,Traitor, and see I crown your cup with flowers,With violets and white sorrel from dim haunts,—A fair libation—ask you to what God?To Artemis, to Artemis my Queen.Not by my will did you escape the spearThough piteous I might be for your glad life,Husband, and for your foolish love: the GodsWho heard your vows had care of you: I stoopedHalf toward the beauty of the shining thingThrough some blind motion of an instant joy,—As when our babe reached arms to pluck the moonA great, round fruit between dark apple-boughs,—And half, marking your wile, to fling awayNeedless advantage, conquer carelessly,And pass the goal with one light finger-touchJust while you leaned forth the bent body’s lengthTo reach it. Could I guess I strove with three,With Aphrodite, Eros, and the third—Milanion? There upon the maple-postYour right hand rested: the event had sprungComplete from darkness, and possessed the worldEre yet conceived: upon the edge of doomI stood with foot arrested and blind heart,Aware of nought save some unmastered fateAnd reddening neck and brow. I heard you cry‘Judgment, both umpires!’ saw you stand erect,Panting, and with a face so glad, so greatIt shone through all my dull bewildermentA beautiful uncomprehended joy,One perfect thing and bright in a strange world.But when I looked to see my father shamed,A-choke with rage and words of proper scorn,He nodded, and the beard upon his breastPulled twice or thrice, well-pleased, and laughed aloud,And while the wrinkles gathered round his eyesCried ‘Girl, well done! My brother’s son retainShrewd head upon your shoulders! Maidens ho!A veil for Atalanta, and a zoneMale fingers may unclasp! Lead home the bride,Prepare the nuptial chamber!’ At his wordMy life turned round: too great the shame had grownWith all men leagued to mock me. Could I stay,Confront the vulgar gladness of the worldAt high emprise defeated, a free lifeTethered, light dimmed, a virtue singularSubdued to ways of common use and wont?Must I become the men’s familiar jest,The comment of the matron-guild? I turned,I sought the woods, sought silence, solitude,Green depths divine, where the soft-footed ounceLurks, and the light deer comes and drinks and goes,Familiar paths in which the mind might gainFooting, and haply from a vantage-groundDrive this new fate an arm’s-length, hand’s-breadth offA little while, till certitude of sightAnd strength returned.At evening I went back,Walked past the idle groups at gossipry,Sought you, and laid my hand upon your wrist,Drew you apart, and with no shaken voiceSpoke, while the swift, hard strokes my heart out-beatSeemed growing audible, ‘Milanion,I am your wife for freedom and fair deeds:Choose: am I such an one a man could love?What need you? Some soft song to soothe your life,Or a clear cry at daybreak?’ And I ceased.How deemed you that first moment? That the GodsHad changed my heart? That I since morn had grownHaunter of Aphrodite’s golden shrine,Had kneeled before the victress, vowed my vow,Besought her pardon, ‘Aphrodite, grace!Accept the rueful Atalanta’s gifts,Rose wreaths and snow-white doves’?In the dim woodsThere is a sacred place, a solitudeWithin their solitude, a heart of strengthWithin their strength. The rocks are heaped aroundA goblet of great waters ever fedBy one swift stream which flings itself in airWith all the madness, mirth and melodyOf twenty rivulets gathered in the hillsWhere might escapes in gladness. Here the treesStrike deeper roots into the heart of earth,And hold more high communion with the heavens;Here in the hush of noon the silence broodsMore full of vague divinity; the lightSlow-changing and the shadows as they shiftSeem characters of some inscrutable law,And one who lingers long will almost hopeThe secret of the world may be surprisedEre he depart. It is a haunt belovedOf Artemis, the echoing rocks have heardHer laughter and her lore, and the brown streamFlashed, smitten by the splendour of her limbs.Hither I came; here turned, and dared confrontPursuing thoughts; here held my life at gaze,If ruined at least to clear loose wrack away,Study its lines of bare dismantlement,And shape a strict despair. With fixed hard lips,Dry-eyed, I set my face against the streamTo deal with fate; the play of woven lightGleaming and glancing on the rippled floodGrew to a tyranny; and one visioned faceWould glide into the circle of my sight,Would glide and pass away, so glad, so greatThe imminent joy it brought seemed charged with fear.I rose, and paced from trunk to trunk, brief trackThis way and that; at least my will maintainedHer law upon my limbs; they needs must turnAt the appointed limit. A keen cryRose from my heart—‘Toils of the world grow strong,‘Yield strength, yield strength to rend them to my hands;‘Be thou apparent, Queen! in dubious ways‘Lo my feet fail; cry down the forest glade,‘Pierce with thy voice the tangle and dark boughs,‘Call, and I follow thee.’What things made upMemorial for the Presence of the placeThenceforth to hold? Only the torrent’s leapEndlessly vibrating, monotonous rhythmOf the swift footstep pacing to and fro,Only a soul’s reiterated cryUnder the calm, controlling, ancient trees,And tutelary ward and watch of heavenFelt through steep inlets which the upper airsBlew wider.On the grass at last I laySeized by a peace divine, I know not how;Passive, yet never so possessed of power,Strong, yet content to feel not use my strengthSustained a babe upon the breasts of lifeYet armed with adult will, a shining spear.O strong deliverance of the larger lawWhich strove not with the less! impetuous youthCaught up in ampler force of womanhood!Co-operant ardours of joined lives! the callsOf heart to heart in chase of strenuous deeds!Virgin and wedded freedom not disjoined,And loyal married service to my Queen!Husband, have lesser gains these seven good yearsBeen yours because you chose no gracious maidWhose hands had woven in the women’s roomMany fair garments, while her dreaming heartHad prescience of the bridal; one whose claims,Tender exactions feminine, had pleasedFond husband, one whose gentle gifts had pleased,Soft playful touches, little amorous words,Untutored thoughts that widened up toward yours,With trustful homage of uplifted eyes,And sweetest sorrows lightly comforted?Have we two challenged each the other’s heartToo highly? Have our joys been all too large,No gleaming gems on finger or on neckA man may turn and touch caressingly,But ampler than this heaven we stand beneath—Wide wings of Presences august? Our lives,Were it not better they had stood apartA little space, letting the sweet sense grow

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1

“Sechzehn Parabeln,” Gedichte, Leoper’s edition (p. 180) of Goethe’s Gedichte.