Poems of Passion

TIRED. Why art thou sad, my Beppo? But last eve, Here at my feet, thy dear head on my breast, I heard thee say thy heart would no more grieve Or feel the olden ennui and unrest. What troubles thee? Am I not all thine own?— I, so long sought, so sighed for and so dear? And do I not live but for thee alone? " Thou hast seen Lippo, whom I loved last year !" Well, what of that? Last year is naught to me— 'Tis swallowed in the ocean of the past. Art thou not glad 'twas Lippo, and not thee, Whose brief bright day in that great gulf was cast. Thy day is all before thee. Let no cloud, Here in the very morn of our delight, Drift up from distant foreign skies, to shroud Our sun of love whose radiance is so bright. "Thou art not first?" Nay, and he who would be Defeats his own heart's dearest purpose then. No truer truth was ever told to thee— Who has loved most, he best can love again . If Lippo (and not he alone) has taught The arts that please thee, wherefore art thou sad? Since all my vast love-lore to thee is brought, Look up and smile, my Beppo, and be glad. TIRED. I am tired to-night, and something, The wind maybe, or the rain, Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside, Has brought back the past and its pain. And I feel, as I sit here thinking, That the hand of a dead old June Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings, And is drawing them up in tune. I am tired to-night, and I miss you, And long for you, love, through tears; And it seems but to-day that I saw you go— You, who have been gone for years. And I seem to be newly lonely— I, who am so much alone; And the strings of my heart are well in tune, But they have not the same old tone. I am tired; and that old sorrow Sweeps down the bed of my soul, As a turbulent river might suddenly break way from a dam's control. It beareth a wreck on its bosom, A wreck with a snow-white sail; And the hand on my heart strings thrums away, But they only respond with a wail. THE BURDEN OF DEAR HUMAN TIES THE SPEECH OF SILENCE. The solemn Sea of Silence lies between us; I know thou livest, and thou lovest me, And yet I wish some white ship would come sailing Across the ocean, bearing word from thee. The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness. No anxious doubts or fears disturb my breast; I only ask some little wave of language, To stir this vast infinitude of rest. I am oppressed with this great sense of loving; So much I give, so much receive from thee; Like subtle incense, rising from a censer, So floats the fragrance of thy love round me. All speech is poor, and written words unmeaning; Yet such I ask, blown hither by some wind, To give relief to this too perfect knowledge, The Silence so impresses on my mind. How poor the love that needeth word or message, To banish doubt or nourish tenderness! I ask them but to temper love's convictions The Silence all too fully doth express. Too deep the language which the spirit utters; Too vast the knowledge which my soul hath stirred. Send some white ship across the Sea of Silence, And interrupt its utterance with a word. CONVERSION. I have lived this life as the skeptic lives it; I have said the sweetness was less than the gall; Praising, nor cursing, the Hand that gives it, I have drifted aimlessly through it all. I have scoffed at the tale of a so-called heaven; I have laughed at the thought of a Supreme Friend; I have said that it only to man was given To live, to endure; and to die was the end. But I know that a good God reigneth, Generous-hearted and kind and true; Since unto a worm like me he deigneth To send so royal a gift as you. Bright as a star you gleam on my bosom, Sweet as a rose that the wild bee sips; And I know, my own, my beautiful blossom, That none but a God could mould such lips. And I believe, in the fullest measure That ever a strong man's heart could hold, In all the tales of heavenly pleasure By poets sung or by prophets told; For in the joy of your shy, sweet kisses, Your pulsing touch and your languid sigh I am filled and thrilled with better blisses Than ever were claimed for souls on high. And now I have faith in all the stories Told of the beauties of unseen lands; Of royal splendors and marvellous glories Of the golden city not made with hands For the silken beauty of falling tresses, Of lips all dewy and cheeks aglow, With—what the mind in a half trance guesses Of the twin perfection of drifts of snow; Of limbs like marble, of thigh and shoulder Carved like a statue in high relief— These, as the eyes and the thoughts grow bolder, Leave no room for an unbelief. So my lady, my queen most royal, My skepticism has passed away; If you are true to me, true and loyal, I will believe till the Judgment-day. LOVE'S COMING. She had looked for his coming as warriors come, With the clash of arms and the bugle's call: But he came instead with a stealthy tread, Which she did not hear at all. She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun, As he rode like a prince to claim his bride: In the sweet dim light of the falling night She found him at her side. She had dreamed how the gaze of his strange, bold eye Would wake her heart to a sudden glow: She found in his face the familiar grace Of a friend she used to know. She had dreamed how his coming would stir her soul, As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife: He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm, And a peace which crowned her life. OLD AND NEW. Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays, Old times, old loves, old friendship, and old wine. Why should the old monopolize all praise? Then let the new claim mine. Give me strong new friends when the old prove weak Or fail me in my darkest hour of need; Why perish with the ship that springs a leak Or lean upon a reed? Give me new love, warm, palpitating, sweet, When all the grace and beauty leave the old; When like a rose it withers at my feet, Or like a hearth grows cold. Give me new times, bright with a prosperous cheer, In place of old, tear-blotted, burdened days; I hold a sunlit present far more dear, And worthy of my praise. When the old deeds are threadbare and worn through, And all too narrow for the broadening soul, Give me the fine, firm texture of the new, Fair, beautiful, and whole! PERFECTNESS. All perfect things are saddening in effect. The autumn wood robed in its scarlet clothes, The matchless tinting on the royal rose Whose velvet leaf by no least flaw is flecked, Love's supreme moment, when the soul unchecked Soars high as heaven, and its best rapture knows— These hold a deeper pathos than our woes, Since they leave nothing better to expect. Resistless change, when powerless to improve, Can only mar. The gold will pale to gray; Nothing remains tomorrow as to-day; The lose will not seem quite so fait, and love Must find its measures of delight made less. Ah, how imperfect is all Perfectness! LOVE AND LIFE ATTRACTION. The meadow and the mountain with desire Gazed on each other, till a fierce unrest Surged 'neath the meadow's seemingly calm breast, And all the mountain's fissures ran with fire. A mighty river rolled between them there. What could the mountain do but gaze and burn? What could the meadow do but look and yearn, And gem its bosom to conceal despair? Their seething passion agitated space, Till, lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook, The river fled, the meadow leaped and took The leaning mountain in a close embrace. GRACIA. Nay, nay, Antonio! nay, thou shalt not blame her, My Gracia, who hath so deserted me. Thou art my friend, but if thou dost defame her I shall not hesitate to challenge thee. "Curse and forget her?" So I might another, One not so bounteous-natured or so fair; But she, Antonio, she was like no other— I curse her not, because she was so rare. She was made out of laughter and sweet kisses; Not blood, but sunshine, through her blue veins ran Her soul spilled over with its wealth of blisses; She was too great for loving but a man. None but a god could keep so rare a creature: I blame her not for her inconstancy; When I recall each radiant smile and feature, I wonder she so long was true to me. Call her not false or fickle. I, who love her, Do hold her not unlike the royal sun, That, all unmated, roams the wide world over And lights all worlds, but lingers not with one. If she were less a goddess, more a woman, And so had dallied for a time with me, And then had left me, I, who am but human, Would slay her and her newer love, maybe. But since she seeks Apollo, or another Of those lost gods (and seeks him all in vain) And has loved me as well as any other Of her men loves, why, I do not complain. AD FINEM. On the white throat of the' useless passion That scorched my soul with its burning breath I clutched my fingers in murderous fashion, And gathered them close in a grip of death; For why should I fan, or feed with fuel, A love that showed me but blank despair? So my hold was firm, and my grasp was cruel— I meant to strangle it then and there! I thought it was dead. But with no warning, It rose from its grave last night, and came And stood by my bed till the early morning, And over and over it spoke your name. Its throat was red where my hands had held it; It burned my brow with its scorching breath; And I said, the moment my eyes beheld it, "A love like this can know no death." For just one kiss that your lips have given In the lost and beautiful past to me I would gladly barter my hopes of Heaven And all the bliss of Eternity. For never a joy are the angels keeping, To lay at my feet in Paradise, Like that of into your strong arms creeping, And looking into your love-lit eyes. I know, in the way that sins are reckoned, This thought is a sin of the deepest dye; But I know, too, if an angel beckoned, Standing close by the Throne on High, And you, adown by the gates infernal, Should open your loving arms and smile, I would turn my back on things supernal, To lie on your breast a little while. To know for an hour you were mine completely— Mine in body and soul, my own— I would bear unending tortures sweetly, With not a murmur and not a moan. A lighter sin or a lesser error Might change through hope or fear divine; But there is no fear, and hell has no terror, To change or alter a love like mine. BLEAK WEATHER. Dear Love, where the red lilies blossomed and grew The white snows are falling; And all through the woods where I wandered with you The loud winds are calling; And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune, Neath the oak, you remember, O'er hill-top and forest has followed the June And left us December. He has left like a friend who is true in the sun And false in the shadows; He has found new delights in the land where he's gone, Greener woodlands and meadows. Let him go! what care we? let the snow shroud the lea, Let it drift on the heather; We can sing through it all: I have you, you have me. And we'll laugh at the weather. The old year may die and a new year be born That is bleaker and colder: It cannot dismay us; we dare it, we scorn, For our love makes us bolder. Ah, Robin! sing loud on your far distant lea, You friend in fair weather! But here is a song sung that's fuller of glee, By two warm hearts together. AN ANSWER. If all the year was summer time, And all the aim of life Was just to lilt on like a rhyme, Then I would be your wife. If all the days were August days, And crowned with golden weather, How happy then through green-clad ways We two could stray together! If all the nights were moonlit nights, And we had naught to do But just to sit and plan delights, Then I would wed with you. If life was all a summer fete, Its soberest pace the "glide," Then I would choose you for my mate, And keep you at my side. But winter makes full half the year, And labor half of life, And all the laughter and good cheer Give place to wearing strife. Days will grow cold, and moons wax old. And then a heart that's true Is better far than grace or gold— And so, my love, adieu! I cannot wed with you. YOU WILL FORGET ME. You will forget me. The years are so tender, They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep; This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor Fades from the skies when the sun sinks to sleep; The cloud of forgetfulness, over and over Will banish the last rosy colors away, And the fingers of time will weave garlands to cover The scar which you think is a life-mark to-day. You will forget me. The one boon you covet Now above all things will soon seem no prize; And the heart, which you hold not in keeping to prove it True or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes. The one drop to-day, that you deem only wanting To fill your life-cup to the brim, soon will seem But a valueless mite; and the ghost that is haunting The aisles of your heart will pass out with the dream. You will forget me; will thank me for saying The words which you think are so pointed with pain. Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playing Will change for you soon to a livelier strain. I shall pass from your life—I shall pass out forever, And these hours we have spent will be sunk in the past. Youth buries its dead; grief kills seldom or never, And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last. THE FAREWELL OF CLARIMONDE. (Suggested by the "Clarimonde" Of Théophile Gautier. Adieu, Romauld! But thou canst not forget me. Although no more I haunt thy dreams at night, Thy hungering heart forever must regret me, And starve for those lost moments of delight. Naught shall avail thy priestly rites and duties, Nor fears of Hell, nor hopes of Heaven beyond: Before the Cross shall rise my fair form's beauties—- The lips, the limbs, the eyes of Clarimonde. Like gall the wine sipped from the sacred chalice Shall taste to one who knew my red mouth's bliss, When Youth and Beauty dwelt in Love's own palace, And life flowed on in one eternal kiss. Through what strange ways I come, dear heart, to reach thee, From viewless lands, by paths no man e'er trod! I braved all fears, all dangers dared, to teach thee A love more mighty than thy love of God. Think not in all His Kingdom to discover Such joys, Romauld, as ours, when fierce yet fond I clasped thee—kissed thee—crowned thee my one lover: Thou canst not find another Clarimonde. I knew all arts of love: he who possessed me Possessed all women, and could never tire; A new life dawned for him who once caressed me; Satiety itself I set on fire. Inconstancy I chained: men died to win me; Kings cast by crowns for one hour on my breast: And all the passionate tide of love within me I gave to thee, Romauld. Wert thou not blest? Yet, for the love of God, thy hand hath riven Our welded souls. But not in prayer well conned, Not in thy dearly-purchased peace of Heaven, Canst thou forget those hours with Clarimonde. THE TRIO. We love but once. The great gold orb of light From dawn to even-tide doth cast his ray; But the full splendor of his perfect might Is reached but once throughout the livelong day. We love but once. The waves, with ceaseless motion, Do day and night plash on the pebbled shore; But the strong tide of the resistless ocean Sweeps in but one hour of the twenty-four. We love but once. A score of times, perchance, We may be moved in fancy's fleeting fashion— May treasure up a word, a tone, a glance; But only once we feel the soul's great passion. We love but once. Love walks with death and birth (The saddest, the unkindest of the three); And only once while we sojourn on earth Can that strange trio come to you or me. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE LOST GARDEN. There was a fair green garden sloping From the south-east side of the mountain-ledge; And the earliest tint of the dawn came groping Down through its paths, from the day's dim edge. The bluest skies and the reddest roses Arched and varied its velvet sod; And the glad birds sang, as the soul supposes The angels sing on the hills of God. I wandered there when my veins seemed bursting With life's rare rapture and keen delight, And yet in my heart was a constant thirsting For something over the mountain-height. I wanted to stand in the blaze of glory That turned to crimson the peaks of snow, And the winds from the west all breathed a story Of realms and regions I longed to know. I saw on the garden's south side growing The brightest blossoms that breathe of June; I saw in the east how the sun was glowing, And the gold air shook with a wild bird's tune; I heard the drip of a silver fountain, And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with glee But still I looked out over the mountain Where unnamed wonders awaited me. I came at last to the western gateway, That led to the path I longed to climb; But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway, For close at my side stood gray-beard Time. I paused, with feet that were fain to linger, Hard by that garden's golden gate, But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger; "Pass on," he said, "for the day grows late." And now on the chill gray cliffs I wander, The heights recede which I thought to find, And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder, When I think of the garden I left behind. Should I stand at last on its summit's splendor, I know full well it would not repay For the fair lost tints of the dawn so tender That crept up over the edge o' day. I would go back, but the ways are winding, If ways there are to that land, in sooth, For what man succeeds in ever finding A path to the garden of his lost youth? But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten, That a rose scent drifts from far away, And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen, That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray. ART AND HEART. Though critics may bow to art, and I am its own true lover, It is not art, but heart , which wins the wide world over. Though smooth be the heartless prayer, no ear in Heaven will mind it, And the finest phrase falls dead if there is no feeling behind it. Though perfect the player's touch, little, if any, he sways us, Unless we feel his heart throb through the music he plays us. Though the poet may spend his life in skilfully rounding a measure, Unless he writes from a full, warm heart he gives us little pleasure. So it is not the speech which tells, but the impulse which goes with the saying; And it is not the words of the prayer, but the yearning back of the praying. It is not the artist's skill which into our soul comes stealing With a joy that is almost pain, but it is the player's feeling. And it is not the poet's song, though sweeter than sweet bells chiming, Which thrills us through and through, but the heart which beats under the rhyming. And therefore I say again, though I am art's own true lover, That it is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over. RECOLLECTIONS MOCKERY. Why do we grudge our sweets so to the living Who, God knows, find at best too much of gall, And then with generous, open hands kneel, giving Unto the dead our all? Why do we pierce the warm hearts, sin or sorrow, With idle jests, or scorn, or cruel sneers, And when it cannot know, on some to-morrow, Speak of its woe through tears? What do the dead care, for the tender token— The love, the praise, the floral offerings? But palpitating, living hearts are broken For want of just these things. AS BY FIRE. Sometimes I feel so passionate a yearning For spiritual perfection here below, This vigorous frame, with healthful fervor burning, Seems my determined foe, So actively it makes a stern resistance, So cruelly sometimes it wages war Against a wholly spiritual existence Which I am striving for. It interrupts my soul's intense devotions; Some hope it strangles, of divinest birth, With a swift rush of violent emotions Which link me to the earth. It is as if two mortal foes contended Within my bosom in a deadly strife, One for the loftier aims for souls intended, One for the earthly life. And yet I know this very war within me, Which brings out all my will-power and control, This very conflict at the last shall win me The loved and longed-for goal. The very fire which seems sometimes so cruel Is the white light that shows me my own strength. A furnace, fed by the divinest fuel, It may become at length. Ah! when in the immortal ranks enlisted, I sometimes wonder if we shall not find That not by deeds, but by what we've resisted, Our places are assigned. IF I SHOULD DIE. RONDEAU. If I should die, how kind you all would grow! In that strange hour I would not have one foe. There are no words too beautiful to say Of one who goes forevermore away Across that ebbing tide which has no flow. With what new lustre my good deeds would glow! If faults were mine, no one would call them so, Or speak of me in aught but praise that day, If I should die. Ah, friends! before my listening ear lies low, While I can hear and understand, bestow That gentle treatment and fond love, I pray, The lustre of whose late though radiant way Would gild my grave with mocking light, I know, If I should die. MÉSALLIANCE. I am troubled to-night with a curious pain; It is not of the flesh, it is not of the brain, Nor yet of a heart that is breaking: But down still deeper, and out of sight— In the place where the soul and the body unite— There lies the seat of the aching. They have been lovers in days gone by; But the soul is fickle, and longs to fly From the fettering mesalliance: And she tears at the bonds which are binding her so, And pleads with the body to let her go, But he will not yield compliance. For the body loves, as he loved in the past, When he wedded the soul; and he holds her fast, And swears that he will not loose her; That he will keep her and hide her away For ever and ever and for a day From the arms of Death, the seducer. Ah! this is the strife that is wearying me— The strife 'twixt a soul that would be free And a body that will not let her. And I say to my soul, "Be calm, and wait; For I tell ye truly that soon or late Ye surely shall drop each fetter." And I say to the body, "Be kind, I pray; For the soul is not of thy mortal clay, But is formed in spirit fashion." And still through the hours of the solemn night I can hear my sad soul's plea for flight, And my body's reply of passion.

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