Part 2

I wonder why the wind, even the wind doth seem To mock me now, all night, all night, and I have strayed among the cliffs here. They say, some day I’ll fall Down through the sea-bit fissures, and no more Know the warm cloak of sun, or bathe The dew across my tired eyes to comfort them. They try to keep me hid within four walls. I will not stay! Oimè! And the wind saith, “Oimè!”

I am quite tired now.

I know the grass Must grow somewhere along this Thracian coast, If only he would come some little while and find it me.

ENDETH THE LAMENT FOR GLAUCUS

MARVOIL[8]

A poor clerk I, “Arnaut the less” they call me, And because I have small mind to sit Day long, long day cooped on a stool A-jumbling o’ figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha’ taken to rambling the South here.

The Vicomte of Beziers’s not such a bad lot. I made rimes to his lady this three year: Vers and canzone, till that damn’d son of Aragon, Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging _His_ helmet at Beziers. Then came what might come, to wit: three men and one woman, Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends:

Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers— Bored to an inch of extinction, Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me! in this damn’d inn of Avignon, Stringing long verse for the Burlatz; All for one half-bald, knock-knee’d king of the Aragonese, Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.

And if when I am dead They take the trouble to tear out this wall here, They’ll know more of Arnaut of Marvoil Than half his canzoni say of him.

As for will and testament I leave none, Save this: “Vers and canzone to the Countess of Beziers In return for the first kiss she gave me.” May her eyes and her cheek be fair To all men except the King of Aragon, And may I come speedily to Beziers Whither my desire and my dream have preceded me.

O hole in the wall here! be thou my jongleur As ne’er had I other, and when the wind blows, Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers, For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with this parchment, So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes, And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly my thought.

Wherefore, O hole in the wall here, When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here. Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment.

O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur, And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind, Keep yet my secret in thy breast here; Even as I keep her image in my heart here.

_Mihi pergamena deëst._

[8] See note at end of volume.

IN THE OLD AGE OF THE SOUL

I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me Some strange old lust for deeds. As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old— Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going— Till now they send him dreams and no more deed; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of the elders, Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him; So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.

REVOLT

AGAINST THE CREPUSCULAR SPIRIT IN MODERN POETRY

I would shake off the lethargy of this our time, and give For shadows—shapes of power, For dreams—men.

“It is better to dream than do?” Aye! and, No!

Aye! if we dream great deeds, strong men, Hearts hot, thoughts mighty.

No! if we dream pale flowers, Slow-moving pageantry of hours that languidly Drop as o’er-ripened fruit from sallow trees. If so we live and die not life but dreams, Great God, grant life in dreams, Not dalliance, but life!

Let us be men that dream, Not cowards, dabblers, waiters For dead Time to reawaken and grant balm For ills unnamed.

Great God, if we be damn’d to be not men but only dreams, Then let us be such dreams the world shall tremble at And know we be its rulers though but dreams! Then let us be such shadows as the world shall tremble at And know we be its masters though but shadow!

High God, if men are grown but pale sick phantoms That must live only in these mists and tempered lights And tremble for dim hours that knock o’er loud Or tread too violent in passing them;

Great God, if these thy sons are grown such thin ephemera, I bid thee grapple chaos and beget Some new titanic spawn to pile the hills and stir This earth again.

AND THUS IN NINEVEH

“Aye! I am a poet and upon my tomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword.

“Lo! this thing is not mine Nor thine to hinder, For the custom is full old, And here in Nineveh have I beheld Many a singer pass and take his place In those dim halls where no man troubleth His sleep or song. And many a one hath sung his songs More craftily, more subtle-souled than I; And many a one now doth surpass My wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers, Yet am I poet, and upon my tomb Shall all men scatter rose leaves ere the night Slay light with her blue sword.

“It is not, Raana, that my song rings highest Or more sweet in tone than any, but that I Am here a Poet, that doth drink of life As lesser men drink wine.”

THE WHITE STAG

I ha’ seen them mid the clouds on the heather. Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow, Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover, When the white hart breaks his cover And the white wind breaks the morn.

“_’Tis the white stag, Fame, we’re a-hunting,_ _Bid the world’s hounds come to horn!_”

PICCADILLY

Beautiful, tragical faces, Ye that were whole, and are so sunken; And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved, That are so sodden and drunken, Who hath forgotten you?

O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!

The gross, the coarse, the brazen, God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should do, But, oh, ye delicate, wistful faces, Who hath forgotten you?

EXULTATIONS

_I am an eternal spirit and the things I make are but ephemera,_ _yet I endure:_ _Yea, and the little earth crumbles beneath our feet_ _and we endure._

TO CARLOS TRACY CHESTER

NIGHT LITANY

O Dieu, purifiez nos cœurs! Purifiez nos cœurs!

Yea, the lines hast thou laid unto me in pleasant places, And the beauty of this thy Venice hast thou shown unto me Until is its loveliness become unto me a thing of tears.

O God, what great kindness have we done in times past and forgotten it, That thou givest this wonder unto us, O God of waters?

O God of the night, What great sorrow Cometh unto us, That thou thus repayest us Before the time of its coming?

O God of silence, Purifiez nos cœurs, Purifiez nos cœurs, For we have seen The glory of the shadow of the likeness of thine handmaid, Yea, the glory of the shadow of thy Beauty hath walked Upon the shadow of the waters In this thy Venice. And before the holiness Of the shadow of thy handmaid Have I hidden mine eyes, O God of waters.

O God of silence, Purifiez nos cœurs, Purifiez nos cœurs, O God of waters, make clean our hearts within us And our lips to show forth thy praise, For I have seen the Shadow of this thy Venice Floating upon the waters, And thy stars Have seen this thing, out of their far courses Have they seen this thing, O God of waters, Even as are thy stars Silent unto us in their far-coursing, Even so is mine heart become silent within me.

_Purifiez nos cœurs,_ _O God of the silence,_ _Purifiez nos cœurs,_ _O God of waters._

SESTINA: ALTAFORTE

Loquitur: _En_ Bertrans de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer-up of strife. Eccovi! Judge ye! Have I dug him up again? The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. “Papiols” is his jongleur. The “Leopard,” the _device_ of Richard (Cœur de Lion).

I

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace. You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let’s to music! I have no life save when the swords clash. But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson, Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

In hot summer have I great rejoicing When the tempests kill the earth’s foul peace, And the lightnings from black heav’n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing, And through all the riven skies God’s swords clash.

III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing, Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing! Better one hour’s stour than a year’s peace With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music! Bah! there’s no wine like the blood’s crimson!

IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson. And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace, His lone might ’gainst all darkness opposing.

V

The man who fears war and squats opposing My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson, But is fit only to rot in womanish peace Far from where worth’s won and the swords clash For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing; Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music! There’s no sound like to swords swords opposing, No cry like the battle’s rejoicing When our elbows and swords drip the crimson And our charges ’gainst “The Leopard’s” rush clash. May God damn for ever all who cry “Peace!”

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! Hell blot black for alway the thought “Peace!”

BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE[9]

SIMON ZELOTES SPEAKETH IT SOMEWHILE AFTER THE CRUCIFIXION

Ha’ we lost the goodliest fere o’ all For the priests and the gallows tree? Aye lover he was of brawny men, O’ ships and the open sea.

When they came wi’ a host to take Our Man His smile was good to see, “First let these go!” quo’ our Goodly Fere, “Or I’ll see ye damned,” says he.

Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears And the scorn of his laugh rang free, “Why took ye not me when I walked about Alone in the town?” says he.

Oh we drank his “Hale” in the good red wine When we last made company, No capon priest was the Goodly Fere, But a man o’ men was he.

I ha’ seen him drive a hundred men Wi’ a bundle o’ cords swung free, That they took the high and holy house For their pawn and treasury.

They’ll no’ get him a’ in a book, I think, Though they write it cunningly; No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere, But aye loved the open sea.

If they think they ha’ snared our Goodly Fere They are fools to the last degree. “I’ll go to the feast,” quo’ our Goodly Fere, “Though I go to the gallows tree.”

“Ye ha’ seen me heal the lame and blind, And wake the dead,” says he, “Ye shall see one thing to master all: ’Tis how a brave man dies on the tree.”

A son of God was the Goodly Fere That bade us his brothers be. I ha’ seen him cow a thousand men. I have seen him upon the tree.

He cried no cry when they drave the nails And the blood gushed hot and free, The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue But never a cry cried he.

I ha’ seen him cow a thousand men On the hills o’ Galilee, They whined as he walked out calm between, Wi’ his eyes like the grey o’ the sea.

Like the sea that brooks no voyaging With the winds unleashed and free, Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret Wi’ twey words spoke’ suddently.

A master of men was the Goodly Fere, A mate of the wind and sea, If they think they ha’ slain our Goodly Fere They are fools eternally.

I ha’ seen him eat o’ the honey-comb Sin’ they nailed him to the tree.

[9] Fere = Mate, Companion.

PORTRAIT

From “La Mère Inconnue.”

Now would I weave her portrait out of all dim splendour. Of Provence and far halls of memory, Lo, there come echoes, faint diversity Of blended bells at even’s end, or As the distant seas should send her The tribute of their trembling, ceaselessly Resonant. Out of all dreams that be, Say, shall I bid the deepest dreams attend her?

Nay! For I have seen the purplest shadows stand Alway with reverent chere that looked on her, Silence himself is grown her worshipper And ever doth attend her in that land Wherein she reigneth, wherefore let there stir Naught but the softest voices, praising her.

THE EYES

Rest, Master, for we be a-weary, weary, And would feel the fingers of the wind Upon these lids that lie over us Sodden and lead-heavy.

Rest, brother, for lo! the dawn is without! The yellow flame paleth And the wax runs low.

Free us, for without be goodly colours, Green of the wood-moss and flower-colours, And coolness beneath the trees.

Free us, for we perish In this ever-flowing monotony Of ugly print marks, black Upon white parchment.

Free us, for there is one Whose smile more availeth Than all the age-old knowledge of thy books: And we would look thereon.

NILS LYKKE

“Beautiful, infinite memories That are a-plucking at my heart, Why will you be ever calling and a-calling, And a-murmuring in the dark there? And a-reaching out your long hands Between me and my beloved?

“And why will you be ever a-casting The black shadow of your beauty On the white face of my beloved And a-glinting in the pools of her eyes?”

“FAIR HELENA” BY RACKHAM

“_What I love best in all the world?_”

When the purple twilight is unbound, To watch her slow, tall grace and its wistful loveliness, And to know her face is in the shadow there, Just by two stars beneath that cloud— The soft, dim cloud of her hair, And to think my voice can reach to her As but the rumour of some tree-bound stream, Heard just beyond the forest’s edge, Until she all forgets I am, And knows of me Naught but my dream’s felicity.

GREEK EPIGRAM

Day and night are never weary, Nor yet is God of creating For day and night their torch-bearers, The aube and the crepuscule.

So, when I weary of praising the dawn and the sunset, Let me be no more counted among the immortals; But number me amid the wearying ones, Let me be a man as the herd, And as the slave that is given in barter.

HISTRION

No man hath dared to write this thing as yet, And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great At times pass through us, And we are melted into them, and are not Save reflexions of their souls. Thus am I Dante for a space and am One François Villon, ballad-lord and thief Or am such holy ones I may not write, Lest blasphemy be writ against my name; This for an instant and the flame is gone.

’Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere Translucent, molten gold, that is the “I” And into this some form projects itself: Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine; And as the clear space is not if a form’s Imposed thereon, So cease we from all being for the time, And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on.

PARACELSUS IN EXCELSIS

“Being no longer human, why should I Pretend humanity or don the frail attire? Men have I known and men, but never one Was grown so free an essence, or become So simply element as what I am. The mist goes from the mirror and I see! Behold! the world of forms is swept beneath— Turmoil grown visible beneath our peace, And we that are grown formless rise above, Fluids intangible that have been men, We seem as statues round whose high risen base Some overflowing river is run mad; In us alone the element of calm!

A SONG OF THE VIRGIN MOTHER

_In “Los Pastores de Belen.”_

From the Spanish of Lope de Vega.

As ye go through these palm-trees, O holy angels; Sith sleepeth my child here Still ye the branches.

O Bethlehem palm-trees That move to the anger Of winds in their fury, Tempestuous voices, Make ye no clamour, Run ye less swiftly, Sith sleepeth the child here Still ye your branches.

He the divine child Is here a-wearied Of weeping the earth-pain, Here for his rest would he Cease from his mourning, Only a little while, Sith sleepeth this child here Stay ye the branches.

Cold be the fierce winds, Treacherous round him. Ye see that I have not Wherewith to guard him, O angels, divine ones That pass us a-flying, Sith sleepeth my child here Stay ye the branches.

_Ya veis que no tengo_ _Con que guardarlo,_ _O angeles santos_ _Que vais volando_ _Por que duerme mi niño_ _Tened los ramos!_

SONG

Love thou thy dream All base love scorning, Love thou the wind And here take warning That dreams alone can truly be, For ’tis in dream I come to thee.

PLANH FOR THE YOUNG ENGLISH KING

THAT IS, PRINCE HENRY PLANTAGENET, ELDER BROTHER TO RICHARD “CŒUR DE LION”

From the Provençal of Bertrans de Born, “_Si tuit li dol elh plor elh marrimen_.”

If all the grief and woe and bitterness, All dolour, ill and every evil chance That ever came upon this grieving world Were set together, they would seem but light Against the death of the young English King. Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous, The world o’ershadowed, soiled and overcast, Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness.

Grieving and sad and full of bitterness Are left in teen the liegemen courteous, The joglars supple and the troubadours. O’er much hath ta’en Sir Death, that deadly warrior, In taking from them the young English King, Who made the freest hand seem covetous. ’Las! Never was nor will be in this world The balance for this loss in ire and sadness!

O skilful Death and full of bitterness, Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalier That any folk e’er had, hast from us taken; Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth But had its life in the young English King, And better were it, should God grant his pleasure That he should live than many a living dastard That doth but wound the good with ire and sadness.

From this faint world, now full of bitterness Love takes his way and holds his joy deceitful, Sith no thing is but turneth unto anguish And each to-day ’vails less than yestere’en, Let each man visage this young English King That was most valiant mid all worthiest men! Gone is his body fine and amorous, Whence have we grief, discord and deepest sadness.

Him, whom it pleased for our great bitterness To come to earth to draw us from misventure, Who drank of death for our salvacioun, Him do we pray as to a Lord most righteous And humble eke, that the young English King He please to pardon, as true pardon is, And bid go in with honourèd companions There where there is no grief, nor shall be sadness.

ALBA INNOMINATA

From the Provençal.

In a garden where the whitethorn spreads her leaves My lady hath her love lain close beside her, Till the warder cries the dawn—Ah dawn that grieves! Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!

“Please God that night, dear night, should never cease, Nor that my love should parted be from me, Nor watch cry ‘Dawn’—Ah dawn that slayeth peace! Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!

“Fair friend and sweet, thy lips! Our lips again Lo, in the meadow there the birds give song! Ours be the love and Jealousy’s the pain! Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!

“Sweet friend and fair, take we our joy again Down in the garden, where the birds are loud, Till the warder’s reed astrain Cry God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!

“Of that sweet wind that comes from Far-Away Have I drunk deep of my Belovèd’s breath, Yea! of my Love’s that is so dear and gay. Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!”

_Envoi_

Fair is this damsel and right courteous, And many watch her beauty’s gracious ways. Her heart toward love is no wise traitorous. Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon!

LAUDANTES

I

When your beauty is grown old in all men’s songs, And my poor words are lost amid that throng, Then you will know the truth of my poor words, And mayhap dreaming of the wistful throng That hopeless sigh your praises in their songs, You will think kindly then of these mad words.

II

I am torn, torn with thy beauty, O Rose of the sharpest thorn! O Rose of the crimson beauty, Why hast thou awakened the sleeper? Why hast thou awakened the heart within me, O Rose of the crimson thorn?

III

The unappeasable loveliness is calling to me out of the wind, And because your name is written upon the ivory doors, The wave in my heart is as a green wave, unconfined, Tossing the white foam toward you; And the lotus that pours Her fragrance into the purple cup Is more to be gained with the foam Than are you with these words of mine.

IV

_He speaks to the moonlight concerning the Belovèd._

Pale hair that the moon has shaken Down over the dark breast of the sea, O magic her beauty has shaken About the heart of me; Out of you have I woven a dream That shall walk in the lonely vale Betwixt the high hill and the low hill, Until the pale stream Of the souls of men quench and grow still.

V

_Voices speaking to the sun._

Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over The green sheaf of the world, And through the dim forest and under The shadowed arches and the aisles, We, who are older than thou art, Met and remembered when his eyes beheld her In the garden of the peach-trees, In the day of the blossoming.

VI