Part 21
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart - how shall I say? - too soon made glad, Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace - all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men, - good! but thanked Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked My gift of a nine hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark" - and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, - E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
ADAM, LILITH, AND EVE
One day, it thundered and lightened. Two women, fairly frightened, Sank to their knees, transformed, transfixed, At the feet of the man who sat betwixt; And "Mercy!" cried each - "if I tell the truth Of a passage in my youth!"
Said This: "Do you mind the morning I met your love with scorning? As the worst of the venom left my lips, I thought, 'If, despite this lie, he strips The mask from my soul with a kiss - I crawl His slave, - soul, body, and all!'"
Said That: "We stood to be married; The priest, or some one, tarried; 'If Paradise-door prove locked?' smiled you. I thought, as I nodded, smiling too, 'Did one, that's away, arrive - nor late Nor soon should unlock Hell's gate!'"
It ceased to lighten and thunder. Up started both in wonder, Looked around and saw that the sky was clear, Then laughed "Confess you believed us, Dear!" "I saw through the joke!" the man replied They re-seated themselves beside.
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
THE LOST MISTRESS
All's over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves!
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully - You know the red turns gray.
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we, - well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign:
For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavor, - Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul forever! -
Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer!
Robert Browning [1812-1889]
FRIEND AND LOVER
When Psyche's friend becomes her lover, How sweetly these conditions blend! But, oh, what anguish to discover Her lover has become - her friend!
Mary Ainge de Vere [1844-1920]
LOST LOVE
Who wins his Love shall lose her, Who loses her shall gain, For still the spirit wooes her, A soul without a stain; And Memory still pursues her With longings not in vain!
He loses her who gains her, Who watches day by day The dust of time that stains her, The griefs that leave her gray, The flesh that yet enchains her Whose grace hath passed away!
Oh, happier he who gains not The Love some seem to gain: The joy that custom stains not Shall still with him remain, The loveliness that wanes not, The Love that ne'er can wane.
In dreams she grows not older The lands of Dream among, Though all the world wax colder, Though all the songs be sung, In dreams doth he behold her Still fair and kind and young.
Andrew Lang [1844-1912]
VOBISCUM EST IOPE
When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finished love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake: When thou hast told these honors done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
Thomas Campion [? -1619]
FOUR WINDS
"Four winds blowing through the sky, You have seen poor maidens die, Tell me then what I shall do That my lover may be true." Said the wind from out the south, "Lay no kiss upon his mouth," And the wind from out the west, "Wound the heart within his breast," And the wind from out the east, "Send him empty from the feast," And the wind from out the north, "In the tempest thrust him forth; When thou art more cruel than he, Then will Love be kind to thee."
Sara Teasdale [1884-1933]
TO MANON As To His Choice Of Her
If I had chosen thee, thou shouldst have been A virgin proud, untamed, immaculate, Chaste as the morning star, a saint, a queen, Scarred by no wars, no violence of hate. Thou shouldst have been of soul commensurate With thy fair body, brave and virtuous And kind and just; and if of poor estate, At least an honest woman for my house. I would have had thee come of honored blood And honorable nurture. Thou shouldst bear Sons to my pride and daughters to my heart, And men should hold thee happy, wise, and good. Lo, thou art none of this, but only fair, Yet must I love thee, dear, and as thou art.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840-1922]
CROWNED
You came to me bearing bright roses, Red like the wine of your heart; You twisted them into a garland To set me aside from the mart. Red roses to crown me your lover, And I walked aureoled and apart.
Enslaved and encircled, I bore it, Proud token of my gift to you. The petals waned paler, and shriveled, And dropped; and the thorns started through. Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover, A diadem woven with rue.
Amy Lowell [1874-1925]
HEBE
I saw the twinkle of white feet, I saw the flash of robes descending; Before her ran an influence fleet, That bowed my heart like barley bending.
As, in bare fields, the searching bees Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, It led me on, by sweet degrees Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.
Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates; With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me; The long-sought Secret's golden gates On musical hinges swung before me.
I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp Thrilling with godhood; like a lover I sprang the proffered life to clasp; - The beaker fell; the luck was over.
The Earth has drunk the vintage up; What boots it patch the goblet's splinters? Can Summer fill the icy cup Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's?
O spendthrift haste! await the Gods; Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience; Haste scatters on unthankful sods The immortal gift in vain libations.
Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, And shuns the hands would seize upon her; Follow thy life, and she will sue To pour for thee the cup of honor.
James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]
"JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT!" "Helas! vous ne m'aimez pas." - Piron
I know, Justine, you speak me fair As often as we meet; And 'tis a luxury, I swear, To hear a voice so sweet; And yet it does not please me quite, The civil way you've got; For me you're something too polite - Justine, you love me not!
I know Justine, you never scold At aught that I may do: If I am passionate or cold, 'Tis all the same to you. "A charming temper," say the men, "To smooth a husband's lot": I wish 'twere ruffled now and then - Justine you love me not!
I know, Justine, you wear a smile As beaming as the sun; But who supposes all the while It shines for only one? Though azure skies are fair to see, A transient cloudy spot In yours would promise more to me - Justine, you love me not!
I know, Justine, you make my name Your eulogistic theme, And say - if any chance to blame - You hold me in esteem. Such words, for all their kindly scope, Delight me not a jot; Just as you would have praised the Pope - Justine, you love me not!
I know, Justine - for I have heard What friendly voices tell - You do not blush to say the word, "You like me passing well"; And thus the fatal sound I hear That seals my lonely lot: There's nothing now to hope or fear - Justine, you love me not!
John Godfrey Saxe [1816-1887]
SNOWDROP
When, full of warm and eager love, I clasp you in my fond embrace, You gently push me back and say, "Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace."
You kiss me just as you would kiss Some woman friend you chanced to see; You call me "dearest." - All love's forms Are yours, not its reality.
Oh, Annie! cry, and storm, and rave! Do anything with passion in it! Hate me an hour, and then turn round And love me truly, just one minute.
William Wetmore Story [1819-1895]
WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN
When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan, Even before he gets so far As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room - Glittering squares of colored ice, Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice, Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, Limes, and citrons, and apricots, And wines that are known to Eastern princes; And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots Of spiced meats and costliest fish And all that the curious palate could wish, Pass in and out of the cedarn doors; Scattered over mosaic floors Are anemones, myrtles, and violets, And a musical fountain throws its jets Of a hundred colors into the air. The dusk Sultana loosens her hair, And stains with the henna-plant the tips Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips Till they bloom again; but, alas, that rose Not for the Sultan buds and blows, Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman When he goes to the city Ispahan.
Then at a wave of her sunny hand The dancing-girls of Samarcand Glide in like shapes from fairy-land, Making a sudden mist in air Of fleecy veils and floating hair And white arms lifted. Orient blood Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes. And there, in this Eastern Paradise, Filled with the breath of sandal-wood, And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh, Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan, Sipping the wines of Astrakhan; And her Arab lover sits with her. That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan.
Now, when I see an extra light, Flaming, flickering on the night From my neighbor's casement opposite, I know as well as I know to pray, I know as well as a tongue can say, That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman Has gone to the city Ispahan.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]
THE SHADOW DANCE
She sees her image in the glass, - How fair a thing to gaze upon! She lingers while the moments run, With happy thoughts that come and pass,
Like winds across the meadow grass When the young June is just begun: She sees her image in the glass, - How fair a thing to gaze upon!
What wealth of gold the skies amass! How glad are all things 'neath the sun! How true the love her love has won! She recks not that this hour will pass, - She sees her image in the glass.
Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]
"ALONG THE FIELD AS WE CAME BY"
Along the field as we came by A year ago, my love and I, The aspen over stile and stone Was talking to itself alone. "Oh, who are these that kiss and pass? A country lover and his lass; Two lovers looking to be wed; And time shall put them both to bed, But she shall lie with earth above, And he beside another love."
And sure enough beneath the tree There walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heaves Its rainy-sounding silver leaves; And I spell nothing in their stir, But now perhaps they speak to her, And plain for her to understand They talk about a time at hand When I shall sleep with clover clad, And she beside another lad.
Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936]
"WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY"
When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free." But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, "The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue." And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.
Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936]
"GRIEVE NOT, LADIES"
Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at night Ye wake to feel your beauty going; It was a web of frail delight, Inconstant as an April snowing.
In other eyes, in other lands, In deep fair pools new beauty lingers; But like spent water in your hands It runs from your reluctant fingers.
You shall not keep the singing lark That owes to earlier skies its duty. Weep not to hear along the dark The sound of your departing beauty.
The fine and anguished ear of night Is tuned to hear the smallest sorrow: Oh, wait until the morning light! It may not seem so gone to-morrow.
But honey-pale and rosy-red! Brief lights that make a little shining! Beautiful looks about us shed - They leave us to the old repining.
Think not the watchful, dim despair Has come to you the first, sweet-hearted! For oh, the gold in Helen's hair! And how she cried when that departed!
Perhaps that one that took the most, The swiftest borrower, wildest spender, May count, as we would not, the cost - And grow more true to us and tender.
Happy are we if in his eyes We see no shadow of forgetting. Nay - if our star sinks in those skies We shall not wholly see its setting.
Then let us laugh as do the brooks, That such immortal youth is ours, If memory keeps for them our looks As fresh as are the springtime flowers.
So grieve not, Ladies, if at night Ye wake to feel the cold December! Rather recall the early light, And in your loved one's arms, remember.
Anna Hempstead Branch [18
SUBURB
Dull and hard the low wind creaks Among the rustling pampas plumes. Drearily the year consumes Its fifty-two insipid weeks.
Most of the gray-green meadow land Was sold in parsimonious lots; The dingy houses stand Pressed by some stout contractor's hand Tightly together in their plots.
Through builded banks the sullen river Gropes, where its houses crouch and shiver. Over the bridge the tyrant train Shrieks, and emerges on the plain.
In all the better gardens you may pass, (Product of many careful Saturdays), Large red geraniums and tall pampas grass Adorn the plots and mark the gravelled ways.
Sometimes in the background may be seen A private summer-house in white or green. Here on warm nights the daughter brings Her vacillating clerk, To talk of small exciting things And touch his fingers through the dark.
He, in the uncomfortable breach Between her trilling laughters, Promises, in halting speech, Hopeless immense Hereafters.
She trembles like the pampas plumes. Her strained lips haggle. He assumes The serious quest. . . .
Now as the train is whistling past He takes her in his arms at last.
It's done. She blushes at his side Across the lawn - a bride, a bride.
. . . . . . . .
The stout contractor will design, The lazy laborers will prepare, Another villa on the line; In the little garden-square Pampas grass will rustle there.
Harold Monro [1879-1932]
THE BETROTHED "You must choose between me and your cigar" - Breach of Promise case, circa 1885.
Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarreled about Havanas - we fought o'er a good cheroot - And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.
Open the old cigar-box - let me consider a space, In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.
Maggie is pretty to look at - Maggie's a loving lass. But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.
There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay, But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away -
Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown - But I never could throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!
Maggie, my wife at fifty - gray and dour and old - With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold.
And the light of Days that have Been, the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar -
The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket - With never a new one to light, though it's charred and black to the socket.
Open the old cigar-box - let me consider awhile; Here is a mild Manilla - there is a wifely smile.
Which is the better portion - bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?
Counselors cunning and silent - comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.
Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.
This will the fifty give me, asking naught in return, With only a Suttee's passion - to do their duty and burn.
This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.
The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear that my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.
I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.
I will scent'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.
For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.
And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year;
And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship, and Pleasure, and Work, and Fight.
And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.
Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the mire? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?
Open the old cigar-box - let me consider anew - Old friends, and who is Maggie, that I should abandon you?
A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.
Light me another Cuba - I hold to my first-sworn vows, If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse!
Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]
LOVE'S SADNESS
"THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES"
The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done.
Francis William Bourdillon [1852-1921]
"I SAW MY LADY WEEP"
I saw my Lady weep, And Sorrow proud to be advanced so In those fair eyes where all perfections keep. Her face was full of Woe, But such a Woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing; Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare: She made her sighs to sing, And all things with so sweet a sadness move As made my heart at once both grieve and love.
O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve! Enough, enough: your joyful look excels: Tears kill the heart, believe. O strive not to be excellent in Woe, Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.
Unknown
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM
Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream; No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.