Kitabı oku: «The Rainbow and the Rose», sayfa 2

 
  Of bud and blossom—red rose and green leaf.
  No blight born of my grief
  Shall touch your garden, love; but my heart's prayer
  Shall draw down blessings on you from the air,
  And all we learned of leaf and plant and tree
  Shall serve you when you walk no more with me
  In garden ways; and when with her you tread
  The pleasant ways with blossoms overhead
  And when she asks, "How did you come to know
  The secrets of the ways these green things grow?"
  Then you will answer—and I, please God, hear,
  "I had another garden once, my dear".
 

SONG

 
  I HEAR the waves to-night
  Piteously calling, calling
  Though the light
  Of the kind moon is falling,
  Like kisses, on the sea
  That calls for sunshine, dear, as my soul calls for thee.
 
 
  I see the sea lie gray
  Wrinkling her brows in sorrow,
  Hear her say:—
  "Bright love of yesterday, return to-morrow,
  Sun, I am thine, am thine!"
  Oh sea, thy love will come again, but what of mine?
 

RENUNCIATION

 
  ROSE of the desert of my heart,
  Moon of the night that is my soul,
  Thou can'st not know how sweet thou art,
  Nor what wild tides thy beams control.
 
 
  For all thy heart a garden is,
  Thy soul is like a dawn of May.
  And garden and dawn might both be his,
  Who from them both must turn away.
 
 
  Oh, garden of the Spring's delight!
  Oh, dewy dawn of perfect noon!
  I will not pluck thy roses white
  Or warm thy May-time into June.
 
 
  I can but bless thee, moon and rose,
  And journey far and very far
  To where the night no moonbeam shows,
  To where no happy roses are!
 

III

THE VEIL OF MAYA

 
  SWEET, I have loved before. I know
  This longing that invades my days;
  This shape that haunts life's busy ways
  I know since long and long ago.
 
 
  This starry mystery of delight
  That floats across my eager eyes,
  This pain that makes earth Paradise,
  These magic songs of day and night—
 
 
  I know them for the things they are:
  A passing pain, a longing fleet,
  A shape that soon I shall not meet,
  A fading dream of veil and star.
 
 
  Yet, even as my lips proclaim
  The wisdom that the years have lent,
  Your absence is joy's banishment,
  And life's one music is your name.
 
 
  I love you to my heart's hid core:
  Those other loves? how should one learn
  From marshlights how the great fires burn?
  Ah, no! I never loved before!
 

SONG

 
  THE sunshine of your presence lies
  On the glad garden of my heart
  And bids the leaves of silence part
  To show the flowers to your dear eyes,
  And flower on flower blooms there and dies
  And still new buds awakened spring,
  For sunshine makes the garden wise,
  To know the time for blossoming.
 
 
  Night is no time for blossoming,
  Your garden then dreams otherwise,
  Of vanished Summer, vanished Spring,
  And how the dearest flower first dies.
  Yet from your ministering eyes
  Though night hath drawn me far apart
  On the still garden of my heart
  The moonlight of your memory lies.
 

TO VERA, WHO ASKED A SONG

 
  IF I only had time!
  I could make you a rhyme.
  But my time is kept flying
  By smiling and sighing
  And living and dying for you.
  The song-seed, I sow it,
  I water and hoe it,
  But never can grow it.
  Ah, traitress, you know it!
  What is a poor poet to do?
 
 
  Ah, let me take breath!
  I am harried to death
  By the loves and the graces
  That crowd where your face is
  That lurk in your laces and throng.
  Call them off for a minute,
  Once let me begin it
  The devil is in it
  If I can not spin it
  As sweet as a linnet, your song!
 

THE POET TO HIS LOVE

 
  ALL the flight of thoughts here, shy, bold, scared, intrusive,
  Fluttering in the sun, between the green and blue,
  Wheeling, whirling, poising, lovely and elusive,
  How to cage the flying thoughts, my winged delight, for you?
 
 
  Set a springe of rhyme, and hope to catch them in it?
  Strew my love as grain to lure them to the snare?
  Watch the hours built up, slow minute piled on minute?
  Still the wide sky guards their flight, and still the cage is bare.
 
 
  Gleam of hovering feathers, brushing me to flout me!
  Wings, be weary! Rest! Who loves you more than I?
  Caught? Oh fluttering pinions whitening air about me!
  Rustling wings, and distant flight, and empty cage and sky!
 

THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER

 
  SPRING, pretty Spring, what treasure do you bring to me?
  Green grass and buttercups, cherry-bloom and may?
  Sunshine to be glad with me, and little birds to sing to me?
  Warm nests to call me along the woodland way?
 
 
  Spring, happy Spring, what wonder will you do for me?
  Light the tulip lanterns, and set the furze a-fire?
  Fill your sky with sails of cloud on waves of living blue for me?
  Show me green cornfields and budding of the briar?
 
 
  Spring, darling Spring, my days will not return to me,
  You who see them fleeting, you, all time above,
  You who move the whole world's heart, ah move one heart to turn to me,
  —Bring me a lover, and teach me how to love!
 

SONG

 
  "LOVE me little, love me long,"
  Is the burden of my song,
  And if nothing more may be
  Little shall suffice for me.
 
 
  But if you could crown with flowers
  All my radiant, festal hours,
  And console for hours of sorrow
  Love me more with each to-morrow.
 
 
  And if you would turn my days
  To one splendid hymn of praise,
  And set hopes like stars above me
  Love me much, and always love me!
 

THE MAGIC FLOWER

 
  THROUGH many days and many days
  The seed of love lay hidden close;
  We walked the dusty tiresome ways
  Where never a leaf or blossom grows.
  And in the darkness, all the while,
  The little seed its heart uncurled,
  And we by many a weary mile
  Travelled towards it, round the world.
 
 
  To the hid centre of the maze
  At last we came, and there we found—
  O happy day, O day of days!
  —Twin seed-leaves breaking holy ground.
  We dropped life's joys, a garnered sheaf,
  And spell-bound watched, still hour by hour,
  Magic on magic, leaf by leaf,
  The unfolding of our love's white flower.
 

LA DERNIERE ROBE DE SOI

 
  OH, silken gown, all pink and pretty,
  Bought, quite a bargain, in the City,
  Your ill-trained soul full false has played me—
  No Paris gown would have betrayed me.
 
 
  You knew, my pretty silken treasure,
  I must not wed for love or pleasure,
  But for a settlement and title;
  Yet you encouraged his recital!
 
 
  He said—oh, faithless gown, you listened
  While on your sheen two tear drops glistened—
  He said . . . let love to music set it,
  I'll never speak it—nor forget it!
 
 
  "No, no!" I cried, I tried to save you—
  False gown, you showed the tears I gave you!
  You looked discreet when first I found you.
  How could you let his arm go round you?
 
 
  You darling dress—I'll smooth your creases,
  I'll wear you till you drop to pieces;
  But poor men's wives wear cotton only—
  Dear gown—I hope you won't feel lonely!
 

THE LEAST POSSIBLE

 
  DEAR goddess of the shining shrine
  Where all my votive tapers burn,
  Where every gold-embroidered thought
  And all my flowers of life are brought
  —With many, alas! that are not mine—
  What will you give me in return?
 
 
  The bow in Bond Street—in the Park
  The smile all worship on your lips,
  The courteous word at dinner—dance—
  But never a blush—a conscious glance;
  At most, at Henley, in the dark,
  Your fleet mistaken finger-tips?
 
 
  Ah, just for once, once only, be
  An altar-server—stoop and set me
  Upon the altar richly wrought
  Of your most secret flower-sweet thought:
  One nightlight's flicker burn for me
  Before you sleep and quite forget me.
 

EN TOUT CAS

 
  WHEN I am glad I need your eyes
  To be the stars of Paradise;
  Your lips to be the seal of all
  The joy life grants, and dreams recall;
  Your hand, to lie my hands between
  What time we walk the garden green.
 
 
  But most in grief I need your face
  To lean to mine in the desert place;
  Your lips to mock the evil years,
  To sweeten me my cup of tears,
  Your eyes to shine, in cloud's despite,
  Your hands to hold mine through the night.
 

APPEAL

 
  Daphnis dearest, wherefore weave me
  Webs of lies lest truth should grieve me?
  I could pardon much, believe me:
  Dower me, Daphnis, or bereave me,
  Kill me, kill me, love me, leave me—
  Damn me, dear, but don't deceive me!
 

ST. VALENTINE'S DAY

 
  THE South is a dream of flowers
  With a jewel for sky and sea,
  Rose-crowns for the dancing hours,
  Gold fruits upon every tree;
  But cold from the North
  The wind blows forth
  That blows my love to me.
 
 
  The stars in the South are gold
  Like lamps between sky and sea;
  The flowers that the forests hold
  Like stars between tree and tree;
  But little and white
  Is the pale moon's light
  That lights my love to me.
 
 
  In the South the orange grove
  Makes dusk by the dusky sea,
  White palaces wrought for love
  Gleam white between tree and tree,
  But under bare boughs
  Is the little house
  Warm-lit for my love and me.
 

CHAGRIN D'AMOUR

 
  IF Love and I were all alone
  I might forget to grieve,
  And for his pleasure and my own
  Might happier garlands weave;
  But you sit there, and watch us wear
  The mourning wreaths you wove:
  And while such mocking eyes you bear
  I am not friends with Love.
 
 
  Withdraw those cruel eyes, and let
  Me search the garden through
  That I may weave, ere Love be set,
  The wreath of Love for you;
  Till you, whom Love so well adorns,
  Its hidden thorns discover,
  And know at last what crown of thorns
  It was you gave your lover.
 

BRIDAL EVE

 
  GOOD-NIGHT, my Heart, my Heart, good-night—
  Oh, good and dear and fair,
  With lips of life and eyes of light
  And roses in your hair.
 
 
  To-morrow brings the other crown,
  The orange blossoms, Sweet,
  And then the rose will be cast down
  With lilies at your feet.
 
 
  But in your soul a garden stands
  Where fair the white rose blows—
  God, teach my foolish clumsy hands
  The way to tend my rose.
 
 
  That in the white-rose garden still
  The lily may bloom fair
  God help my heart and soul and will
  To keep the lily there.
 

LOVE AND LIFE

 
  LOVE only sings when Love is young,
  When Love is young and still at play,
  How shall we count the sweet songs sung
  When Love and Joy kept holiday?
  But now Love has to earn his bread
  By lifelong stress and toil of tears,
  He finds his nest of song-birds dead
  That sang so sweet in other years.
 
 
  For Love's a man now, strong and brave,
  To fight for you, for you to live,
  And Love, that once such bright songs gave,
  Has better things than songs to give;
  He gives you now a lifelong faith,
  A hand to help in joy or pain,
  And he will sing no more, till Death
  Shall come to make him young again!
 

FROM THE ITALIAN

 
  AS a little child whom his mother has chidden,
  Wrecked in the dark in a storm of weeping,
  Sleeps with his tear-stained eyes closed hidden
  And, with fists clenched, sobs still in his sleeping,
 
 
  So in my breast sleeps Love, O white lady,
  What does he care though the rest are playing,
  With rattles and drums in the woodlands shady,
  Happy children, whom Joy takes maying!
 
 
  Ah, do not wake him, lest you should hear him
  Scolding the others, breaking their rattles,
  Smashing their drums, when their play comes near him—
  Love who, for me, is a god of battles!