Sonnets and Songs Part 7

Youth and its pensive agonies! How soon The restless heart forgets to crave the moon!

Age is too weary for the b.u.t.terflies-- Spring's rainbow radiance fluttering through sweet skies, Hope merrily deferred. We see the morn, We who are old, in shattered fragments. Scorn For laughter and for singing clouds our breast.

Youth, take your fill of pleasure, for the rest Of Age is endless. Sing, nor grudge the song-- Youth is so short, and Age, quiet Age, so long!

XX

_Persephone_

Persephone, Persephone--her sweet face wanders up to me, Through this bewildering maze of spring.

At length she daunts the tyrannous year, Her little laugh usurps the tear, Her little song she dares to fling Against the black stars, merrily.

Persephone, Persephone--her hands lean through the spring to me.

Sweet, could I show you in what wise Your song has blossomed--how the air Is mad with gold because your hair, Tossed golden 'neath your sea-blue eyes, And earth goes laughing with your glee?

Persephone, Persephone, this hour sends out your heart to me.

Child of the Dark, with soul sun-bright, Ah, give me largesse, give me May, So shall I charm the saddest day, And life--one amber dawn's delight-- Shall bear your song eternally.

XXI

_etoiles d'Enfer_

The four wide winds of evening have their stars, Fas.h.i.+oned in fire, in purity of snow, Tossed to their height by endless avatars-- These all the righteous know.

What of the stars of Hades? On the gloom The outcast see them s.h.i.+ne like angels' eyes, And in the living night that is their tomb They dream of Paradise.

They know the stars of Hades. They are deeds, Wickedly born, which came to good at last-- Fair blossoms spring from villany of weeds, Rest--and redeem the past.

XXII

_Enough of Singing_

Enough of singing; since your heart is tired, We'll leave the lute, so long, so long desired, And in the silence speak one quiet word, Simple as earth, forgetting song and bird.

No more of singing; mating-time has sped, In the broad fields the poppy-lips are red.

Crush them, Beloved, drink the lethe deep; Song being dead, what else is left but sleep?

XXIII

_Truth_

Up from the soul, as a blade of gra.s.s from the sod, Springs the intent of the prayer as a cry to G.o.d.

Blossoms may veil it or visions with ways uncouth, He sees the ultimate gra.s.s-blade, the heart of Truth.

XXIV

_The Philosopher_

The grim immensities are mine, The sunlight on the brook is theirs; I drink the lees of bitter wine, Fate grants a gift to all their prayers.

I stammer, all afire to tell The thoughts that urge for life like pain; For them words brim the shallow well Like easy drops of summer rain.

And which, ah, Heaven, which is best-- The little lute for every mood, Or, shrinking coldly from life's test, The heights and depths of solitude?

XXV

_Prayers_

Prayers that were birds winging wide, Daring the flame of the sun, How have you faltered and died, Now the day's done!

Prayers must be brave for the dark, Strong for the chill of the star, Fearing no fate to embark Over the bar.

Prayers of the sun and the moon, Prayers for the sky and the nest, All must reach haven so soon-- Which shall reach rest?

XXVI

_A South-Sea Lover Scorned_

When the red coral of your lip is pale As the bleached sea-sand, ah, wearily, wearily, Will you behold your face, your fingers frail, Gnarled like a wind-blown tree; your star-bright eyes Blind as a cloudy midnight without moon.

No more fair necklaces nor scarlet dyes Can make you cruel to men, for soon, so soon, Your heart will bear the years--ah, wearily, wearily.