Poems & Ballads Volume I Part 13

Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire, Dividing my delight and my desire, The crescent life and love the plenilune, Love me though dusk begin and dark retire; Ah G.o.d, ah G.o.d, that day should be so soon.

Ah, my heart fails, my blood draws back; I know, When life runs over, life is near to go; And with the slain of love love's ways are strewn, And with their blood, if love will have it so; Ah G.o.d, ah G.o.d, that day should be so soon.

Ah, do thy will now; slay me if thou wilt; There is no building now the walls are built, No quarrying now the corner-stone is hewn, No drinking now the vine's whole blood is spilt; Ah G.o.d, ah G.o.d, that day should be so soon.

Nay, slay me now; nay, for I will be slain; Pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain, Break down thy vine ere yet grape-gatherers prune, Slay me ere day can slay desire again; Ah G.o.d, ah G.o.d, that day should be so soon.

Yea, with thy sweet lips, with thy sweet sword; yea, Take life and all, for I will die, I say; Love, I gave love, is life a better boon?

For sweet night's sake I will not live till day; Ah G.o.d, ah G.o.d, that day should be so soon.

Nay, I will sleep then only; nay, but go.

Ah sweet, too sweet to me, my sweet, I know Love, sleep, and death go to the sweet same tune; Hold my hair fast, and kiss me through it so.

Ah G.o.d, ah G.o.d, that day should be so soon.

A MATCH

If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death, We'd s.h.i.+ne and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath; If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy, We'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain.

FAUSTINE

_Ave Faustina Imperatrix, morituri te salutant._

Lean back, and get some minutes' peace; Let your head lean Back to the shoulder with its fleece Of locks, Faustine.

The shapely silver shoulder stoops, Weighed over clean With state of splendid hair that droops Each side, Faustine.

Let me go over your good gifts That crown you queen; A queen whose kingdom ebbs and s.h.i.+fts Each week, Faustine.

Bright heavy brows well gathered up: White gloss and sheen; Carved lips that make my lips a cup To drink, Faustine,

Wine and rank poison, milk and blood, Being mixed therein Since first the devil threw dice with G.o.d For you, Faustine.

Your naked new-born soul, their stake, Stood blind between; G.o.d said "let him that wins her take And keep Faustine."

But this time Satan throve, no doubt; Long since, I ween, G.o.d's part in you was battered out; Long since, Faustine.

The die rang sideways as it fell, Rang cracked and thin, Like a man's laughter heard in h.e.l.l Far down, Faustine,

A shadow of laughter like a sigh, Dead sorrow's kin; So rang, thrown down, the devil's die That won Faustine.

A suckling of his breed you were, One hard to wean; But G.o.d, who lost you, left you fair, We see, Faustine.

You have the face that suits a woman For her soul's screen-- The sort of beauty that's called human In h.e.l.l, Faustine.

You could do all things but be good Or chaste of mien; And that you would not if you could, We know, Faustine.

Even he who cast seven devils out Of Magdalene Could hardly do as much, I doubt, For you, Faustine.

Did Satan make you to spite G.o.d?

Or did G.o.d mean To scourge with scorpions for a rod Our sins, Faustine?

I know what queen at first you were, As though I had seen Red gold and black imperious hair Twice crown Faustine.

As if your fed sarcophagus Spared flesh and skin, You come back face to face with us, The same Faustine.

She loved the games men played with death, Where death must win; As though the slain man's blood and breath Revived Faustine.

Nets caught the pike, pikes tore the net; Lithe limbs and lean From drained-out pores dripped thick red sweat To soothe Faustine.

She drank the steaming drift and dust Blown off the scene; Blood could not ease the bitter l.u.s.t That galled Faustine.

All round the foul fat furrows reeked, Where blood sank in; The circus splashed and seethed and shrieked All round Faustine.

But these are gone now: years entomb The dust and din; Yea, even the bath's fierce reek and fume That slew Faustine.

Was life worth living then? and now Is life worth sin?

Where are the imperial years? and how Are you Faustine?

Your soul forgot her joys, forgot Her times of teen; Yea, this life likewise will you not Forget, Faustine?

For in the time we know not of Did fate begin Weaving the web of days that wove Your doom, Faustine.

The threads were wet with wine, and all Were smooth to spin; They wove you like a Baccha.n.a.l, The first Faustine.

And Bacchus cast your mates and you Wild grapes to glean; Your flower-like lips were dashed with dew From his, Faustine.

Your drenched loose hands were stretched to hold The vine's wet green, Long ere they coined in Roman gold Your face, Faustine.

Then after change of soaring feather And winnowing fin, You woke in weeks of feverish weather, A new Faustine.

A star upon your birthday burned, Whose fierce serene Red pulseless planet never yearned In heaven, Faustine.