The Five Books of Youth Part 9

Love dwelled with me with music on her lips; Beauty has quickened me to pa.s.sion; prayer Has cried from me before I was aware When grief was scourging me with scarlet whips.

The G.o.ds gave me to follies false and fair; Made me the object of immortal quips, But I am recompensed with comrades.h.i.+ps That G.o.ds themselves would be content to share.

The time of play has been, of wisdom, is; Yet who can say which is the truly wise?

Enough that I have stayed Love with a kiss, That Beauty has found welcome in my eyes; Though the long poplar path leads dark before, Up to the white inevitable door.

II

Invoking not the wors.h.i.+p of the crowd As Hadrian divulged Antinous Would I denote Thy sanct.i.ty, not thus Should Love's deep litany be cried aloud.

There is a mountain set apart for us Where I have hid Thy soul as in a cloud, And there I dedicate as I have vowed My secret voice,--all else were impious.

Remote and undiscovered, rest secure Where I have set Thee up, that I may keep My faith of G.o.d-in-Thee unblent and pure; That I may be at one with Thee in sleep; That waking as a mortal, I may leap Into immortal dreams where love is sure.

III

And yet think not that I desire to seal Your earthly beauty from the eyes of praise, The Soul I wors.h.i.+p hath its holy-days, But being G.o.d is manifestly real.

The flesh resplendent in a lover's gaze Hath too its triumph; the divine ideal Is dual and can wonderfully reveal Itself in dust enriched by subtle ways.

You are no shadow, for in you combine Earth-music and a spirit's sanct.i.ty, And both are exquisite, and both are mine...

For holier men a Beatrice, for me The joyous sense of your reality, Not half so saintly,--but far more divine.

IV

With the young G.o.d who out of death creates The flame of life made manifest in spring, Let us go forth at day's awakening, The first to open wide the garden gates.

And resting where the blowing seasons sing, Await the voice of G.o.d who consecrates The pallid hands of the autumnal fates That beckon from the dusk, dream-harvesting.

When comes the grey G.o.d, eager to destroy Our garnered h.o.a.rd of wisdom and of joy, Fear not that phantom, desolate and stark, For the young G.o.d, the all-creating boy, Will come and find us sleeping in the dark, And from two deaths, bring forth life's single spark.

V

O it was gay! the wilderness was floral, The sea a bath of wine to the laughing swimmer; Dawn was a flaming fan; dusk was a glimmer Like undersea where sly dreams haunt the coral.

The garden sang of fame when the golden s.h.i.+mmer Of sun glowed on the proud leaves of the laurel,-- But time and love fought out their ancient quarrel; The songs are fainter now; the lights are dimmer.

For it is over, over, and the spring Is not quite spring to you who sit alone; A paradise entire has taken wing; Love and her merry company are gone The way of all delight and lyric measures, And the lone miser mourns his vanished treasures.

VI

The snow is thawing on the hanging eaves, The buds unroll upon the basking limb, And hidden birds are practising a hymn To sing when petals fall among the leaves.

And yet in life there is an interim So dull that stagnant loneliness bereaves Beauty of tenderness, and hope deceives Until the eyes grow sceptical and dim.

I know I have no right to solitude When every friendly grove is loud with calls From bird to mating bird, and all the wood Is throbbing with the voice of waterfalls, But merry song and liquid interlude Ring in my heart like mirth in empty halls.

VII

So ends the day with beauty in the west, Bending in holy peace above the land; It is not needful that we understand; Oblivion is ours, and that is best.

Oblivion of battles that command Our wan reluctance, and a starless rest Borne on in tideless twilight, where all quest Ends in the pressure of a quiet hand.

There is no morrow to this final dream That paints the past so wonderfully fair; No rising sun shall desecrate that gleam Of fragile colour hanging on the air.

Enshrined in sunset are all things that seem Happy and beautiful; and Thou art there.

VIII

Across the evening calm I faintly hear The melody you loved; a violin Sings through the listening air, far-off and thin, The infinite music of our happy year.

The soul's dim gates are broken to let in That gush of memories, and you are near, Poised on the shadowy threshold whence appear The prospects of the dreams we strove to win.

Rise wistfully, and fall away, and pa.s.s, Frail music of impossible delight, Steal into silence over the dark gra.s.s, Dreams of the inner caverns of the night.

Strange that in those few hesitating bars Are life and death, the orbits of the stars.

IX

Calmer than mirrored waters after rain, Calmer than all the swaying tides of sleep, Profounder than the stony eyes that keep Afternoon vigil on the ruined plain; So drift they by, the cloudy forms that creep In stealthy whiteness through the windless grain; The twilight ebbs, and washed in the long rain, I am their shepherd, pasturing my sheep.

They can not change; they can but wander here; That is their destiny and also mine; The fuel that I was, the flames they were, Are vanished down the lost horizon line.

Likewise the stars have died; the silence hears Only the footfall of the pastured years.

X

I stood like some worn image carved of stone Amid the thoughtful sands of eventide; When rolling back the grey, there opened wide The unsuspected gates of the Unknown.

Long hours I stood, amazed and deified, Beside that singing sh.o.r.e; that s.h.i.+ning zone, Myself like G.o.d, triumphantly alone, "And is this then the sh.o.r.e of death?" I cried.

A wind blew down from the tremendous sky, Fraught with a whisper fainter than a breath, Fanning my spirit with exalted wonder; But the great doors swung to with rumbling thunder; One more the winged faith had pa.s.sed me by, Like unto melody, like unto death.

XI

Through the deep night the leaves speak, tree to tree.

Where are the stars? the frantic clouds ride high, The swelling gusts of wind blow down the sky, Shaking the thoughts from the leaves, garrulously.

Through the deep night, articulate to me, They question your untimely pa.s.sing-by; Your spring is still in flower, must you fly Windswept so soon down lanes of memory?

Through the deep night the trees recount the past, The lovers that have long ago gone hence, And whom you joined ere love had reached her prime.

Chill with an early autumn's immanence, Through the dark night plunges the sudden blast, Sweeping the young leaves down before their time.

XII

I walked the hollow pavements of the town, Lost in the vast entirety of night, The moon was cankered with a greyish blight, And half her face was gathered in a frown.

A hooded watchman pa.s.sed me, and his gown Was dyed so black it made the darkness white, He turned upon my face his curious light, And whispered as he wandered up and down.

Then there were curling lanes and then a hill, And sentry stars that guard the Absolute, And spectral feet that followed me, until The vapours rose, and somewhere in the mute And hesitating dawn, a single flute Piped once again the grey, and then was still.