Poems, with The Ballad of Reading Gaol · Chapter 15Uncollected Poems
This chapter is not translated yet. You are reading the original.
(FOR MUSIC)
In the glad springtime when leaves were green, O merrily the throstle sings! I sought, amid the tangled sheen, Love whom mine eyes had never seen, O the glad dove has golden wings!
Between the blossoms red and white, O merrily the throstle sings! My love first came into my sight, O perfect vision of delight, O the glad dove has golden wings!
The yellow apples glowed like fire, O merrily the throstle sings! O Love too great for lip or lyre, Blown rose of love and of desire, O the glad dove has golden wings!
But now with snow the tree is grey, Ah, sadly now the throstle sings! My love is dead: ah! well-a-day, See at her silent feet I lay A dove with broken wings! Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain— Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!
Αἴλινον, αἴλινον εἰπέ, τὸ δ’ εὖ νικάτω
O well for him who lives at ease With garnered gold in wide domain, Nor heeds the splashing of the rain, The crashing down of forest trees.
O well for him who ne’er hath known The travail of the hungry years, A father grey with grief and tears, A mother weeping all alone.
But well for him whose foot hath trod The weary road of toil and strife, Yet from the sorrows of his life. Builds ladders to be nearer God.
. . . ἀναyκαίως δ’ ἔχει Βίον θερίζειν ὥστε κάρπιμον στάχυν, καὶ τὸν yὲν εἶναι τὸν δὲ yή.
Thou knowest all; I seek in vain What lands to till or sow with seed— The land is black with briar and weed, Nor cares for falling tears or rain.
Thou knowest all; I sit and wait With blinded eyes and hands that fail, Till the last lifting of the veil And the first opening of the gate.
Thou knowest all; I cannot see. I trust I shall not live in vain, I know that we shall meet again In some divine eternity.
The lily’s withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.
Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk.
A white mist drifts across the shrouds, A wild moon in this wintry sky Gleams like an angry lion’s eye Out of a mane of tawny clouds.
The muffled steersman at the wheel Is but a shadow in the gloom;— And in the throbbing engine-room Leap the long rods of polished steel.
The shattered storm has left its trace Upon this huge and heaving dome, For the thin threads of yellow foam Float on the waves like ravelled lace.
O beautiful star with the crimson mouth! O moon with the brows of gold! Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south! And light for my love her way, Lest her little feet should stray On the windy hill and the wold! O beautiful star with the crimson mouth! O moon with the brows of gold!
O ship that shakes on the desolate sea! O ship with the wet, white sail! Put in, put in, to the port to me! For my love and I would go To the land where the daffodils blow In the heart of a violet dale! O ship that shakes on the desolate sea! O ship with the wet, white sail!
O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note! O bird that sits on the spray! Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat! And my love in her little bed Will listen, and lift her head From the pillow, and come my way! O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note! O bird that sits on the spray!
O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air! O blossom with lips of snow! Come down, come down, for my love to wear! You will die on her head in a crown, You will die in a fold of her gown, To her little light heart you will go! O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air! O blossom with lips of snow!
We caught the tread of dancing feet, We loitered down the moonlit street, And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.
Inside, above the din and fray, We heard the loud musicians play The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques, Making fantastic arabesques, The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin To sound of horn and violin, Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons, Slim silhouetted skeletons Went sidling through the slow quadrille,
Then took each other by the hand, And danced a stately saraband; Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed A phantom lover to her breast, Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette Came out, and smoked its cigarette Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said, ‘The dead are dancing with the dead, The dust is whirling with the dust.’
But she—she heard the violin, And left my side, and entered in: Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false, The dancers wearied of the waltz, The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street, The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet, Crept like a frightened girl.
This winter air is keen and cold, And keen and cold this winter sun, But round my chair the children run Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk The mimic soldiers strut and stride, Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons Her book, they steal across the square, And launch their paper navies where Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
And now in mimic flight they flee, And now they rush, a boisterous band— And, tiny hand on tiny hand, Climb up the black and leafless tree.
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you, And children climbed me, for their sake Though it be winter I would break Into spring blossoms white and blue!
These are the letters which Endymion wrote To one he loved in secret, and apart. And now the brawlers of the auction mart Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note, Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote The merchant’s price. I think they love not art Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.
Is it not said that many years ago, In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran With torches through the midnight, and began To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw Dice for the garments of a wretched man, Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?
The sin was mine; I did not understand. So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand. And in the withered hollow of this land Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave, That hardly can the leaden willow crave One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.
But who is this who cometh by the shore? (Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this Who cometh in dyed garments from the South? It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss The yet unravished roses of thy mouth, And I shall weep and worship, as before.
Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade There stands a little ivory girl, Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl With pale green nails of polished jade.
The red leaves fall upon the mould, The white leaves flutter, one by one, Down to a blue bowl where the sun, Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.
The white leaves float upon the air, The red leaves flutter idly down, Some fall upon her yellow gown, And some upon her raven hair.
She takes an amber lute and sings, And as she sings a silver crane Begins his scarlet neck to strain, And flap his burnished metal wings.
She takes a lute of amber bright, And from the thicket where he lies Her lover, with his almond eyes, Watches her movements in delight.
And now she gives a cry of fear, And tiny tears begin to start: A thorn has wounded with its dart The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.
And now she laughs a merry note: There has fallen a petal of the rose Just where the yellow satin shows The blue-veined flower of her throat.
With pale green nails of polished jade, Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl, There stands a little ivory girl Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade.
Against these turbid turquoise skies The light and luminous balloons Dip and drift like satin moons, Drift like silken butterflies;
Reel with every windy gust, Rise and reel like dancing girls, Float like strange transparent pearls, Fall and float like silver dust.
Now to the low leaves they cling, Each with coy fantastic pose, Each a petal of a rose Straining at a gossamer string.
Then to the tall trees they climb, Like thin globes of amethyst, Wandering opals keeping tryst With the rubies of the lime.
I have no store Of gryphon-guarded gold; Now, as before, Bare is the shepherd’s fold. Rubies nor pearls Have I to gem thy throat; Yet woodland girls Have loved the shepherd’s note.
Then pluck a reed And bid me sing to thee, For I would feed Thine ears with melody, Who art more fair Than fairest fleur-de-lys, More sweet and rare Than sweetest ambergris.
What dost thou fear? Young Hyacinth is slain, Pan is not here, And will not come again. No hornèd Faun Treads down the yellow leas, No God at dawn Steals through the olive trees.
Hylas is dead, Nor will he e’er divine Those little red Rose-petalled lips of thine. On the high hill No ivory dryads play, Silver and still Sinks the sad autumn day.
An omnibus across the bridge Crawls like a yellow butterfly, And, here and there, a passer-by Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay Are moored against the shadowy wharf, And, like a yellow silken scarf, The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade And flutter from the Temple elms, And at my feet the pale green Thames Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
Out of the mid-wood’s twilight Into the meadow’s dawn, Ivory limbed and brown-eyed, Flashes my Faun!
He skips through the copses singing, And his shadow dances along, And I know not which I should follow, Shadow or song!
O Hunter, snare me his shadow! O Nightingale, catch me his strain! Else moonstruck with music and madness I track him in vain!
WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS
I can write no stately proem As a prelude to my lay; From a poet to a poem I would dare to say.
For if of these fallen petals One to you seem fair, Love will waft it till it settles On your hair.
And when wind and winter harden All the loveless land, It will whisper of the garden, You will understand.
Go, little book, To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl, Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl: And bid him look Into thy pages: it may hap that he May find that golden maidens dance through thee.
(To L. L.)
Could we dig up this long-buried treasure, Were it worth the pleasure, We never could learn love’s song, We are parted too long.
Could the passionate past that is fled Call back its dead, Could we live it all over again, Were it worth the pain!
I remember we used to meet By an ivied seat, And you warbled each pretty word With the air of a bird;
And your voice had a quaver in it, Just like a linnet, And shook, as the blackbird’s throat With its last big note;
And your eyes, they were green and grey Like an April day, But lit into amethyst When I stooped and kissed;
And your mouth, it would never smile For a long, long while, Then it rippled all over with laughter Five minutes after.
You were always afraid of a shower, Just like a flower: I remember you started and ran When the rain began.
I remember I never could catch you, For no one could match you, You had wonderful, luminous, fleet, Little wings to your feet.
I remember your hair—did I tie it? For it always ran riot— Like a tangled sunbeam of gold: These things are old.
I remember so well the room, And the lilac bloom That beat at the dripping pane In the warm June rain;
And the colour of your gown, It was amber-brown, And two yellow satin bows From your shoulders rose.
And the handkerchief of French lace Which you held to your face— Had a small tear left a stain? Or was it the rain?
On your hand as it waved adieu There were veins of blue; In your voice as it said good-bye Was a petulant cry,
‘You have only wasted your life.’ (Ah, that was the knife!) When I rushed through the garden gate It was all too late.
Could we live it over again, Were it worth the pain, Could the passionate past that is fled Call back its dead!
Well, if my heart must break, Dear love, for your sake, It will break in music, I know, Poets’ hearts break so.
But strange that I was not told That the brain can hold In a tiny ivory cell God’s heaven and hell.
The seasons send their ruin as they go, For in the spring the narciss shows its head Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red, And in the autumn purple violets blow, And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow; Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again And this grey land grow green with summer rain And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.
But what of life whose bitter hungry sea Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night Covers the days which never more return? Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn We lose too soon, and only find delight In withered husks of some dead memory.
DOUBLE VILLANELLE
I
O goat-foot God of Arcady! This modern world is grey and old, And what remains to us of thee?
No more the shepherd lads in glee Throw apples at thy wattled fold, O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Nor through the laurels can one see Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold, And what remains to us of thee?
And dull and dead our Thames would be, For here the winds are chill and cold, O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Then keep the tomb of Helice, Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold, And what remains to us of thee?
Though many an unsung elegy Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold, O goat-foot God of Arcady! Ah, what remains to us of thee?
II
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady, Thy satyrs and their wanton play, This modern world hath need of thee.
No nymph or Faun indeed have we, For Faun and nymph are old and grey, Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This is the land where liberty Lit grave-browed Milton on his way, This modern world hath need of thee!
A land of ancient chivalry Where gentle Sidney saw the day, Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This fierce sea-lion of the sea, This England lacks some stronger lay, This modern world hath need of thee!
Then blow some trumpet loud and free, And give thine oaten pipe away, Ah, leave the hills of Arcady! This modern world hath need of thee!