The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson, With a Memoir by Arthur Symons Part 6

I know not where nor when I come, Nor through what wanderings and toils, To crave of you Viatic.u.m.

Yet, when the walls of flesh grow weak, In such an hour, it well may be, Through mist and darkness, light will break, And each anointed sense will see.

AMANTIUM IRAE

When this, our rose, is faded, And these, our days, are done, In lands profoundly shaded From tempest and from sun: Ah, once more come together, Shall we forgive the past, And safe from worldly weather Possess our souls at last?

Or in our place of shadows Shall still we stretch an hand To green, remembered meadows, Of that old pleasant land?

And vainly there foregathered, Shall we regret the sun?

The rose of love, ungathered?

The bay, we have not won?

Ah, child! the world's dark marges May lead to Nevermore, The stately funeral barges Sail for an unknown sh.o.r.e, And love we vow to-morrow, And pride we serve to-day: What if they both should borrow Sad hues of yesterday?

Our pride! Ah, should we miss it, Or will it serve at last?

Our anger, if we kiss it, Is like a sorrow past.

While roses deck the garden, While yet the sun is high, Doff sorry pride for pardon, Or ever love go by.

IMPENITENT ULTIMA

Before my light goes out for ever if G.o.d should give me a choice of graces, I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be; But cry: "One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces, Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see.

"For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world's sad roses, And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat, But at Thy terrible judgment-seat, when this my tired life closes, I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt.

"But once before the sand is run and the silver thread is broken, Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years, Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token Her pure and pitiful eyes s.h.i.+ne out, and bathe her feet with tears."

Her pitiful hands should calm, and her hair stream down and blind me, Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear, And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out behind me, And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear.

Before the ruining waters fall and my life be carried under, And Thine anger cleave me through as a child cuts down a flower, I will praise Thee, Lord in h.e.l.l, while my limbs are racked asunder, For the last sad sight of her face and the little grace of an hour.

A VALEDICTION

If we must part, Then let it be like this; Not heart on heart, Nor with the useless anguish of a kiss; But touch mine hand and say: "_Until to-morrow or some other day, If we must part._"

Words are so weak When love hath been so strong: Let silence speak: "_Life is a little while, and love is long; A time to sow and reap, And after harvest a long time to sleep.

But words are weak._"

SAPIENTIA LUNAE

The wisdom of the world said unto me: "_Go forth and run, the race is to the brave; Perchance some honour tarrieth for thee!_"

"As tarrieth," I said, "for sure, the grave."

For I had pondered on a rune of roses, Which to her votaries the moon discloses.

The wisdom of the world said: "_There are bays: Go forth and run, for victory is good, After the stress of the laborious days._"

"Yet," said I, "shall I be the worms' sweet food,"

As I went musing on a rune of roses, Which in her hour, the pale, soft moon discloses.

Then said my voices: "_Wherefore strive or run, On dusty highways ever, a vain race?

The long night cometh, starless, void of sun, What light shall serve thee like her golden face?_"

For I had pondered on a rune of roses, And knew some secrets which the moon discloses.

"Yea," said I, "for her eyes are pure and sweet As lilies, and the fragrance of her hair Is many laurels; and it is not meet To run for shadows when the prize is here"; And I went reading in that rune of roses Which to her votaries the moon discloses.

_Dum nos fata sinunt, oculos satiemus Amore._--PROPERTIUS

Cease smiling, Dear! a little while be sad, Here in the silence, under the wan moon; Sweet are thine eyes, but how can I be glad, Knowing they change so soon?

For Love's sake, Dear, be silent! Cover me In the deep darkness of thy falling hair: Fear is upon me and the memory Of what is all men's share.

O could this moment be perpetuate!

Must we grow old, and leaden-eyed and gray, And taste no more the wild and pa.s.sionate Love sorrows of to-day?

Grown old, and faded, Sweet! and past desire, Let memory die, lest there be too much ruth, Remembering the old, extinguished fire Of our divine, lost youth.

O red pomegranate of thy perfect mouth!

My lips' life-fruitage, might I taste and die Here in thy garden, where the scented south Wind chastens agony;

Reap death from thy live lips in one long kiss, And look my last into thine eyes and rest: What sweets had life to me sweeter than this Swift dying on thy breast?

Or, if that may not be, for Love's sake, Dear!

Keep silence still, and dream that we shall lie, Red mouth to mouth, entwined, and always hear The south wind's melody,

Here in thy garden, through the sighing boughs, Beyond the reach of time and chance and change, And bitter life and death, and broken vows, That sadden and estrange.

SERAPHITA

Come not before me now, O visionary face!

Me tempest-tost, and borne along life's pa.s.sionate sea; Troublous and dark and stormy though my pa.s.sage be; Not here and now may we commingle or embrace, Lest the loud anguish of the waters should efface The bright illumination of thy memory, Which dominates the night; rest, far away from me, In the serenity of thine abiding place!

But when the storm is highest, and the thunders blare, And sea and sky are riven, O moon of all my night!

Stoop down but once in pity of my great despair, And let thine hand, though over late to help, alight But once upon my pale eyes and my drowning hair, Before the great waves conquer in the last vain fight.

EPIGRAM

Because I am idolatrous and have besought, With grievous supplication and consuming prayer, The admirable image that my dreams have wrought Out of her swan's neck and her dark, abundant hair: The jealous G.o.ds, who brook no wors.h.i.+p save their own, Turned my live idol marble and her heart to stone.

QUID NON SUPREMUS, AMANTES?

Why is there in the least touch of her hands More grace than other women's lips bestow, If love is but a slave in fleshly bands Of flesh to flesh, wherever love may go?

Why choose vain grief and heavy-hearted hours For her lost voice, and dear remembered hair, If love may cull his honey from all flowers, And girls grow thick as violets, everywhere?