Part 32
The lover of her body said: "To know one secret of her heart, For all the joy that I have had, Is past the reach of all my art."
The lover of her soul replied: "The secrets of her heart are mine, - Save how she lives, a riven bride, Between the dust and the divine."
The lover of her body sware: "Though she should hate me, wit you well, Rather than yield one kiss of her I give my soul to burn in hell."
The lover of her soul cried out: "Rather than leave her to your greed, I would that I were walled about With death, - and death were death indeed!"
The lover of her body wept, And got no good of all his gain, Knowing that in her heart she kept The penance of the other's pain.
The lover of her soul went mad, But when he did himself to death, Despite of all the woe he had, He smiled as one who vanquisheth.
Richard Hovey [1864-1900]
THE VAMPIRE As suggested By The Painting By Philip Burne-Jones
A fool there was and he made his prayer (Even as you and I!) To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair (We called her the woman who did not care), But the fool he called her his lady fair (Even as you and I!)
Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste, And the work of our head and hand, Belong to the woman who did not know (And now we know that she never could know) And did not understand.
A fool there was and his goods he spent (Even as you and I!) Honor and faith and a sure intent (And it wasn't the least what the lady meant), But a fool must follow his natural bent (Even as you and I!)
Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost, And the excellent things we planned, Belong to the woman who didn't know why (And now we know she never knew why) And did not understand.
The fool was stripped to his foolish hide (Even as you and I!) Which she might have seen when she threw him aside, - (But it isn't on record the lady tried) So some of him lived but the most of him died - (Even as you and I!)
And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame That stings like a white-hot brand. It's coming to know that she never knew why (Seeing at last she could never know why) And never could understand.
Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]
AGATHA
She wanders in the April woods, That glisten with the fallen shower; She leans her face against the buds, She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. She feels the ferment of the hour: She broodeth when the ringdove broods; The sun and flying clouds have power Upon her cheek and changing moods. She cannot think she is alone, As o'er her senses warmly steal Floods of unrest she fears to own. And almost dreads to feel.
Along the summer woodlands wide Anew she roams, no more alone; The joy she feared is at her side, Spring's blushing secret now is known. The thrush's ringing note hath died; But glancing eye and glowing tone Fall on her from her god, her guide. She knows not, asks not, what the goal, She only feels she moves towards bliss, And yields her pure unquestioning soul To touch and fondling kiss.
And still she haunts those woodland ways, Though all fond fancy finds there now To mind of spring or summer days, Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widowed on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, To walls that house a hollow vow, To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze: Watches the clammy twilight wane, With grief too fixed for woe or tear; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year.
Alfred Austin [1835-1913]
"A ROSE WILL FADE"
You were always a dreamer, Rose - red Rose, As you swung on your perfumed spray, Swinging, and all the world was true, Swaying, what did it trouble you? A rose will fade in a day.
Why did you smile to his face, red Rose, As he whistled across your way? And all the world went mad for you, All the world it knelt to woo. A rose will bloom in a day.
I gather your petals, Rose - red Rose, The petals he threw away. And all the world derided you; Ah! the world, how well it knew A rose will fade in a day!
Dora Sigerson Shorter [1862-1918]
AFFAIRE D'AMOUR
One pale November day Flying Summer paused, They say: And growing bolder, O'er rosy shoulder Threw her lover such a glance That Autumn's heart began to dance. (O happy lover!)
A leafless peach-tree bold Thought for him she smiled, I'm told; And, stirred by love, His sleeping sap did move, Decking each naked branch with green To show her that her look was seen! (Alas, poor lover!)
But Summer, laughing fled, Nor knew he loved her! 'Tis said The peach-tree sighed, And soon he gladly died: And Autumn, weary of the chase, Came on at Winter's sober pace (O careless lover!)
Margaret Deland [1857-
A CASUAL SONG
She sang of lovers met to play "Under the may bloom, under the may," But when I sought her face so fair, I found the set face of Despair.
She sang of woodland leaves in spring, And joy of young love dallying; But her young eyes were all one moan, And Death weighed on her heart like stone.
I could not ask, I know not now, The story of that mournful brow; It haunts me as it haunted then, A flash from fire of hellbound men.
Roden Noel [1834-1894]
THE WAY OF IT
The wind is awake, pretty leaves, pretty leaves, Heed not what he says; he deceives, he deceives: Over and over To the lowly clover He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too) He will soon be lisping and pledging to you.
The boy is abroad, pretty maid, pretty maid, Beware his soft words; I'm afraid, I'm afraid: He has said them before Times many a score, Ay, he died for a dozen ere his beard pricked through, And the very same death he will die for you.
The way of the boy is the way of the wind, As light as the leaves is dainty maid-kind; One to deceive, And one to believe - That is the way of it, year to year; But I know you will learn it too late, my dear.
John Vance Cheney [1848-1922]
"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY" From "The Vicar of Wakefield"
When lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray, - What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover And wring his bosom, is - to die.
Oliver Goldsmith [1728-1774]
FOLK-SONG
Back she came through the trembling dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What is it makes you late to-day, And why do you smile and sing as gay As though you just were wed?" "Oh mother, my hen that never had chicks Has hatched out six!"
Back she came through the flaming dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "What gives your eyes that dancing light, What makes your lips so strangely bright, And why are your cheeks so red?" "Oh mother, the berries I ate in the lane Have left a stain."
Back she came through the faltering dusk; And her mother spoke and said: "You are weeping; your footstep is heavy with care - What makes you totter and cling to the stair, And why do you hang your head?" "Oh mother - oh mother - you never can know - I loved him so!"
Louis Untermeyer [1885-
A VERY OLD SONG
"Daughter, thou art come to die: Sound be thy sleeping, lass." "Well: without lament or cry, Mother, let me pass."
"What things on mould were best of all? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The apples reddening till they fall In the sun beside the convent wall. Let me pass."
"Whom on earth hast thou loved best? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "Him that shared with me thy breast; Thee and a knight last year our guest. He hath an heron to his crest. Let me pass."
"What leavest thou of fame or hoard? (Soft be thy sleeping, lass.)" "My far-blown shame for thy reward; To my brother, gold to get him a sword. Let me pass."
"But what wilt leave thy lover, Grim? (Sound be thy sleeping, lass.)" "The hair he kissed to strangle him. Mother, let me pass."
William Laird [1888-
"SHE WAS YOUNG AND BLITHE AND FAIR"
She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.
Yesterday beneath an oak, She was chanting in the wood: Wandering harmonies awoke; Sleeping echoes understood.
To-day without a song, without a word, She seems to drag one piteous fallen wing Along the ground, and, like a wounded bird, Move silent, having lost the heart to sing.
She was young and blithe and fair, Firm of purpose, sweet and strong; Perfect was her crown of hair, Perfect most of all her song.
Harold Monro [1879-1932]
THE LASS THAT DIED OF LOVE
Life is not dear or gay Till lovers kiss it, Love stole my life away Ere I might miss it. In sober March I vowed I'd have no lover, Love laid me in my shroud Ere June was over.
I felt his body take My body to it, And knew my heart would break Ere I should rue it; June roses are not sad When dew-drops steep them, My moments were so glad I could not keep them.
Proud was I love had made Desire to fill me, I shut my eyes and prayed That he might kill me. I saw new wonders wreathe The stars above him. And oh, I could not breathe For kissing of him.
Is love too sweet to last, Too fierce to cherish, Can kisses fall too fast And lovers perish? Who heeds since love disarms Death, ere we near him? Within my lover's arms I did not fear him!
But since I died in sin And all unshriven, They would not let me win Into their heaven; They would not let my bier Into God's garden, But bade me tarry here And pray for pardon.
I lie and wait for grace That shall surround me, His kisses on my face, His arms around me; And sinless maids draw near To drop above me A virginal sad tear For envy of me.
Richard Middleton [1882-1911]
THE PASSION-FLOWER
My love gave me a passion-flower. I nursed it well - so brief its hour! My eyelids ache, my throat is dry: He told me that it would not die.
My love and I are one, and yet Full oft my cheeks with tears are wet - So sweet the night is and the bower! My love gave me a passion-flower.
So sweet! Hold fast my hands. Can God Make all this joy revert to sod, And leave to me but this for dower - My love gave me a passion-flower.
Margaret Fuller [1871-
NORAH
I knew his house by the poplar-trees, Green and silvery in the breeze;
"A heaven-high hedge," were the words he said, "And holly-hocks, pink and white and red. . . ."
It seemed so far from McChesney's Hall - Where first he told me about it all.
A long path runs inside from the gate, - He still can take it, early or late;
But where in the world is the path for me Except the river that runs to the sea!
Zoe Akins [1886-
OF JOAN'S YOUTH
I would unto my fair restore A simple thing: The flushing cheek she had before! Out-velveting No more, no more, On our sad shore, The carmine grape, the moth's auroral wing.
Ah, say how winds in flooding grass Unmoor the rose; Or guileful ways the salmon pass To sea, disclose; For so, alas, With Love, alas, With fatal, fatal Love a girlhood goes.
Louise Imogen Guiney [1861-1920]
THERE'S WISDOM IN WOMEN
"On love is fair, and love is rare;" my dear one she said, "But love goes lightly over." I bowed her foolish head, And kissed her hair and laughed at her. Such a child was she; So new to love, so true to love, and she spoke so bitterly.
But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own, Or how should my dear one, being ignorant and young, Have cried on love so bitterly, with so true a tongue?
Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]
GOETHE AND FREDERIKA
Wander, oh, wander, maiden sweet, In the fairy bower, while yet you may; See in rapture he lies at your feet; Rest on the truth of the glorious youth, Rest - for a summer day. That great clear spirit of flickering fire You have lulled awhile in magic sleep, But you cannot fill his wide desire. His heart is tender, his eyes are deep, His words divinely flow; But his voice and his glance are not for you; He never can be to a maiden true; Soon will he wake and go. Well, well, 'twere a piteous thing To chain forever that strong young wing. Let the butterfly break for his own sweet sake The gossamer threads that have bound him; Let him shed in free flight his rainbow light, And gladden the world around him. Short is the struggle and slight is the strain; Such a web was made to be broken, And she that wove it may weave again Or, if no power of love to bless Can heal the wound in her bosom true, It is but a lorn heart more or less, And hearts are many and poets few, So his pardon is lightly spoken.
Henry Sidgwick [1838-1901]
THE SONG OF THE KING'S MINSTREL
I sing no longer of the skies, And the swift clouds like driven ships, For there is earth upon my eyes And earth between my singing lips. Because the King loved not my song That he had found so sweet before, I lie at peace the whole night long, And sing no more. The King liked well my song that night; Upon the palace roof he lay With his fair Queen, and as I might I sang, until the morning's gray Crept o'er their faces, and the King, Mocked by the breaking dawn above, Clutched at his youth and bade me sing A song of love.
Well it might be - the King was old, And though his Queen was passing fair, His dull eyes might not catch the gold That tangled in her wayward hair, It had been much to see her smile, But with my song I made her weep. Our heavens last but a little while, So now I sleep.
More than the pleasures that I had I would have flung away to know My song of love could make her sad, Her sweet eyes fill and tremble so. What were my paltry store of years, My body's wretched life to stake, Against the treasure of her tears, For my love's sake?
Not lightly is a King made wise; My body ached beneath his whips, And there is earth upon my eyes, And earth between my singing lips. But I sang once - and for that grace I am content to lie and store The vision of her dear, wet face, And sing no more.
Richard Middleton [1882-1911]
ANNIE SHORE AND JOHNNIE DOON
Annie Shore, 'twas, sang last night Down in South End saloon; A tawdry creature in the light, Painted cheeks, eyes over bright, Singing a dance-hall tune.
I'd be forgetting Annie's singing - I'd not have thought again - But for the thing that cried and fluttered Through all the shrill refrain: Youth crying above foul words, cheap music, And innocence in pain.
They sentenced Johnnie Doon today For murder, stark and grim: Death's none too dear a price, they say, For such-like men as him to pay: No need to pity him!
And Johnnie Doon I'd not be pitying - I could forget him now - But for the childish look of trouble That fell across his brow, For the twisting hands he looked at dumbly As if they'd sinned, he knew not how.
Patrick Orr [18
EMMY
Emmy's exquisite youth and her virginal air, Eyes and teeth in the flash of a musical smile, Come to me out of the past, and I see her there As I saw her once for a while.
Emmy's laughter rings in my ears, as bright, Fresh and sweet as the voice of a mountain brook, And still I hear her telling us tales that night, Out of Boccaccio's book.
There, in the midst of the villainous dancing-hall, Leaning across the table, over the beer, While the music maddened the whirling skirts of the ball, As the midnight hour drew near,
There with the women, haggard, painted and old, One fresh bud in a garland withered and stale, She, with her innocent voice and her clear eyes, told Tale after shameless tale.
And ever the witching smile, to her face beguiled, Paused and broadened, and broke in a ripple of fun, And the soul of a child looked out of the eyes of a child, Or ever the tale was done.
O my child, who wronged you first, and began First the dance of death that you dance so well? Soul for soul: and I think the soul of a man Shall answer for yours in hell.
Arthur Symons [1865-
THE BALLAD OF CAMDEN TOWN
I walked with Maisie long years back The streets of Camden Town, I splendid in my suit of black, And she divine in brown.
Hers was a proud and noble face, A secret heart, and eyes Like water in a lonely place Beneath unclouded skies.
A bed, a chest, a faded mat, And broken chairs a few, Were all we had to grace our flat In Hazel Avenue.
But I could walk to Hampstead Heath, And crown her head with daisies, And watch the streaming world beneath, And men with other Maisies.
When I was ill and she was pale And empty stood our store, She left the latchkey on its nail, And saw me nevermore.
Perhaps she cast herself away Lest both of us should drown: Perhaps she feared to die, as they Who die in Camden Town.
What came of her? The bitter nights Destroy the rose and lily, And souls are lost among the lights Of painted Piccadilly.
What came of her? The river flows So deep and wide and stilly, And waits to catch the fallen rose And clasp the broken lily.
I dream she dwells in London still And breathes the evening air, And often walk to Primrose Hill, And hope to meet her there.
Once more together we will live, For I will find her yet: I have so little to forgive; So much, I can't forget.
James Elroy Flecker [1884-1915]
LOVE AND DEATH
HELEN OF KIRCONNELL
I wish I were where Helen lies, Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell lea!
Cursed be the heart that thought the thought, And cursed the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropped, And died to succor me!
O think na ye my heart was sair, When my Love dropped and spak nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea;
I lighted down my sword to draw, I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me.
O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll mak a garland o' thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee!
O that I were where Helen lies Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, Haste, and come to me!"
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I'd be blest, Where thou lies low and taks thy rest, On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn owre my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me.
Unknown
WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW
"Willy's rare, and Willy's fair, And Willy's wondrous bonny; And Willy hecht to marry me, Gin e'er he married ony.
"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, This night I'll make it narrow; Fpr a' the livelang winter night I lie twined of my marrow.
"Oh came you by yon water-side? Pu'd you the rose or lily? Or came you by yon meadow green? Or saw you my sweet Willy?"
She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow; Syne in the cleaving of a craig, She found him drowned in Yarrow.
Unknown
ANNAN WATER
"Annan Water's wading deep, And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny; And I am laith she should wet her feet, Because I love her best of ony."
He's loupen on his bonny gray, He rade the right gate and the ready; For all the storm he wadna stay, For seeking of his bonny lady.
And he has ridden o'er field and fell, Through moor, and moss, and many a mire; His spurs of steel were sair to bide, And from her four feet flew the fire.
"My bonny gray, now play your part! If ye be the steed that wins my dearie, With corn and hay ye'll be fed for aye, And never spur shall make you wearie."
The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare; But when she wan the Annan Water, She could not have ridden the ford that night Had a thousand merks been wadded at her.
"O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, Put off your boat for golden money!" But for all the gold in fair Scotland, He dared not take him through to Annie.
"Oh, I was sworn so late yestreen, Not by a single oath, but mony! I'll cross the drumly stream tonight, Or never could I face my honey."
The side was stey, and the bottom deep, From bank to brae the water pouring; The bonny gray mare she swat for fear, For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.
He spurred her forth into the flood, I wot she swam both strong and steady; But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny lady!
Unknown
THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW
My love he built me a bonnie bower, And clad it a' wi' lily flower; A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, Than my true-love he built for me.
There came a man, by middle day, He spied his sport, and went away; And brought the king that very night, Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.
He slew my knight, to me sae dear; He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear: My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie.