You who are old — And have fought the fight — And have won or lost or left the field — Weigh us not down With fears of the world, as we run! With the wisdom that is too right, The warning to which we cannot yield, The shadow that follows the sun, Follows forever! And with all that desire must leave undone, Though as a god it endeavor; Weigh, weigh us not down!
But gird our hope to believe — That all that is done Is done by dream and daring — Bid us dream on! That Earth was not born Or Heaven built of bewaring — Yield us the dawn! You dreamt your hour – and dared, but we Would dream till all you despaired of be; Would dare – till the world, Won to a new wayfaring, Be thence forever easier upward drawn!
OFF THE IRISH COAST
Gulls on the wind, Crying! crying! Are you the ghosts Of Erin's dead? Of the forlorn Whose days went sighing Ever for Beauty That ever fled?
Ever for Light That never kindled? Ever for Song No lips have sung? Ever for Joy That ever dwindled? Ever for Love that stung?
A VISION OF VENUS AND ADONIS
I know not where it was I saw them sit, For in my dreams I had outwandered far That endless wanderer men call the sea — Whose winds like incantations wrap the world And help the moon in her high mysteries. I know not how it was that I was led Unto their tryst; or what dim infinite Of perfect and imperishable night Hung round, a radiance ineffable; For I was too intoxicate and tranced With beauty that I knew was very love. So when divinity from her had stolen Into his spirit, as, from fields of myrrh Or forests of red sandal by the sea, Steal slaking airs, and he began to speak, I could but gather these few fleeting words: "Your glance sends fragrance sweeter than the lily, Your hands are visible bodiments of song You are the voice that April light has lost, Her silence that was music of glad birds. The wind's heart have you, and its mystery, When poet Spring comes piping o'er the hills To make of Tartarus forgotten fear. Yea all the generations of the world, Whose whence and whither but the gods shall know. Are vassal to your vows forevermore." And she, I knew, made answer, for her words Fell warm as womanhood with wordless things, But I had drifted on within my dream, To that pale space which is oblivion.
SOMNAMBULISM
I
Night is above me, And Night is above the night. The sea is beside me soughing, or is still. The earth as a somnambulist moves on In a strange sleep … A sea-bird cries. And the cry wakes in me Dim, dead sea-folk, my sires — Who more than myself are me. Who sat on their beach long nights ago and saw The sea in its silence; And cursed it or implored: Or with the Cross defied; Then on the morrow in their boats went down.
II
Night is above me … And Night is above the night. Rocks are about me, and, beyond, the sand … And the low reluctant tide, That rushes back to ebb a last farewell To the flotsam borne so long upon its breast. Rocks… But the tide is out, And the slime lies naked, like a thing ashamed That has no hiding-place. And the sea-bird hushes — The bird and all far cries within my blood — And earth as a somnambulist moves on.
SERENATA MAGICA
(Venetian)
My gondola is a black sea-swan, And glides beneath the moon. Dark palaces beside me pass, Like visions in a beryl-glass Of what shall never be, alas, Or what has been too soon. Like what shall never be, but in The breathing of a swoon.
My gondola is a black sea-swan, And makes her mystic way From door to phantom water-door, While carven balconies hang o'er And casements framed for love say more Than love can ever say. Say more than any voice but voice Of silent magic may.
My gondola is a black sea-swan — Rialto lies behind. And by me the Salute swings, A loveliness that must take wings And vanish, as imaginings Within an Afrit's mind; As vague and vast imaginings That can no substance find.
My gondola is a black sea-swan: San Marco and the shaft Of the slim Campanile steal Into my trance and leave a seal Upon my senses, like the feel Of long enchantment quaffed: Of long enchantments such as songs Of sage Al Raschid waft.
My gondola is a black sea-swan And gains to the lagoon, Where samphire and sea-lavender Around me float or softly stir, While far-off Venice still lifts her Fair witchery to the moon And all that wonder e'er gave birth Seems out of beauty hewn.
O-SHICHI AND MOTO
I
O-Shichi, all my heart today Is dreaming of your fate; And of your little house that stood Beside the temple gate; Of its plum-garden hid away Behind white paper doors; And of the young boy-priest who read too late with you love-lores.
II
O-Shichi dwelt in Yedo – where A thousand wonders dwell. Gods, golden palaces and shrines That like a charm enspell. O-Shichi dwelt among them there, More wondrous, she, than all — A flower some forgetful god had from his hand let fall.
III
And all her days were as the dream On flowers in the sun. And all her ways were as the waves That by Shin-bashi run. And in her gaze there was the gleam Of stars that cannot wait Too long for love and so fare forth from heaven to find a mate.
IV
O-Shichi dwelt so, till one night When all the city slept, When not a paper lantern swung, When only fire-flies swept Soft cipherings of spirit-light Across the temple's gloom — Sudden a cry was heard – the cry that should O-Shichi doom.
V
For following the cry came flame, A Chaya's roof a-blaze. And quickly was the street a stream Of stricken folk, whose gaze Knew well that when the morning came Their homes would be but smoke Vanished upon the winds: now had O-Shichi's fate awoke.
VI
And waited. For at morning priests In pity of her years And desolation led her back Behind the great god's spheres; The great god Buddha, who of beasts And men all mindful was. O Buddha, in thy very courts O-Shichi learned love's laws!
VII
Love of the body and the soul, Not of Nirvana's state! Love that beyond itself can see No beauty wise or great. O-Shichi for a moon – a whole Moon happy there beheld The young boy-priest whose yearning e'er into his eyes upwelled.
VIII
So all too soon for her was found Elsewhere a kindly thatch. And all too soon O-Shichi heard Behind her close love's latch. They led her from the temple's ground Into untrysting days. And all too soon that happy moon was hid in sorrow's haze.
IX
For now at dawn she rose to dress With blooms some honored vase, Or to embroider or brew tea's Sweet ceremonial grace. Or she at dusk, in sick distress, Before the butsudan, Must to ancestral tablets pray – not to her Moto-San!
X
Not unto him, her love, who sways Her breast, as moon the tide, Whose breath is incense – Ah, again To see him softly glide Before the grave god-idol's gaze Of inward ecstasy, To watch the great bell boom for him its mystic sutra-plea.
XI
But weeks grew into weariness, And weariness to pain, And pain to lonely wildness, which Set fire unto her brain. And, "I will see my love!" distress Made fair O-Shichi cry, "Tho for ten lives away from him I then must live and die."
XII
Yet – no! She dared not go to him, To her he could not come. Then, sudden a thought her being swept And struck her loud heart dumb. Till in her rose confusion dim, Fear fighting with Desire — Which to O-Shichi took the shape of Fudo, god of fire.
XIII
And Fudo won her: for that night Did fond O-Shichi dare To set aflame her father's house, Hoping again to share The temple with her acolyte, Her lover-priest, who, spent With speechless passion for her face, in vain strove to repent.
XIV
But ah! what destiny can do Is not for folly's hand. The flames O-Shichi kindled were From sea to Shiba fanned. And it was learned a love-sick girl Had charred a thousand homes. Then were the fury-smitten folk like to a sea that foams.
XV
And so they seized her: but not in The temple – O not there Had she been led again by priests In pity – led to share Her lover's eyes; no, but her sin Brought not one dear delight To poor O-Shichi – who was now to look on her last rite.
XVI
For to the stake they bound her – fire They lit – to be her fate… O-Shichi, have I dreamt it all? Your face, the temple gate, The fair boy-priest shut from desire In Buddhahood to-be? Then let me dream and ever dream, O flower by Yedo's sea.
AS OF OLD
The fishermen bade their wives farewell, (The sun floated merry up the morning) They sang, to the rhythm of the low-swung swell, "O come, lads, scorning The highlands high, There's no warning In the blue south sky, There's no warning, O come, lads, free, We'll cross the harbor bar and put to sea!"
The fisherwives prayed, the sails blew fast, (O home it is happy where there's hoping) They prayed – till the mist dimmed each dim mast: Then "We're not moping," They sweetly sang, "Winds come groping And clouds o'erhang, But we're not moping Tho left ashore; They'll come to us at dusk when day is o'er."
But swifter than God the sea-quake came, (The fishers they were swallowed in its swirling) O swifter than men could name God's name. And white waves curling Hissed in to shore. The sea-birds whirling Saw what, dashed hoar? The sea-birds whirling Saw dead upborne The fishers that went forth upon the morn.