Part 10

But the arm of the elders is broken, their strength is unbound and undone: They wait for a sign of a token; they cry, and there cometh none.

Their moan is in every place, the cry of them filleth the land: There is shame in the sight of their face, there is fear in the thews of their hand.

They are girdled about the reins with a curse for the girdle thereon: For the noise of the rending of chains the face of their colour is gone.

For the sound of the shouting of men they are grievously stricken at heart: They are smitten asunder with pain, their bones are smitten apart.

There is none of them all that is whole; their lips gape open for breath; They are clothed with sickness of soul, and the shape of the shadow of death.

The wind is thwart in their feet; it is full of the shouting of mirth; As one shaketh the sides of a sheet, so it shaketh the ends of the earth.

The sword, the sword is made keen; the iron has opened its mouth; The corn is red that was green; it is bound for the sheaves of the south.

The sound of a word was shed, the sound of the wind as a breath, In the ears of the souls that were dead, in the dust of the deepness of death;

Where the face of the moon is taken, the ways of the stars undone, The light of the whole sky shaken, the light of the face of the sun:

Where the waters are emptied and broken, the waves of the waters are stayed; Where God has bound for a token the darkness that maketh afraid;

Where the sword was covered and hidden, and dust had grown in its side, A word came forth which was bidden, the crying of one that cried:

The sides of the two-edged sword shall be bare, and its mouth shall be red, For the breath of the face of the Lord that is felt in the bones of the dead.

TO VICTOR HUGO

In the fair days when God By man as godlike trod, And each alike was Greek, alike was free, God's lightning spared, they said, Alone the happier head Whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for thee, To whom the high gods gave of right Their thunders and their laurels and their light.

Sunbeams and bays before Our master's servants wore, For these Apollo left in all men's lands; But far from these ere now And watched with jealous brow Lay the blind lightnings shut between God's hands, And only loosed on slaves and kings The terror of the tempest of their wings.

Born in those younger years That shone with storms of spears And shook in the wind blown from a dead world's pyre, When by her back-blown hair Napoleon caught the fair And fierce Republic with her feet of fire, And stayed with iron words and hands Her flight, and freedom in a thousand lands:

Thou sawest the tides of things Close over heads of kings, And thine hand felt the thunder, and to thee Laurels and lightnings were As sunbeams and soft air Mixed each in other, or as mist with sea Mixed, or as memory with desire, Or the lute's pulses with the louder lyre.

For thee man's spirit stood Disrobed of flesh and blood, And bare the heart of the most secret hours; And to thine hand more tame Than birds in winter came High hopes and unknown flying forms of powers, And from thy table fed, and sang Till with the tune men's ears took fire and rang.

Even all men's eyes and ears With fiery sound and tears Waxed hot, and cheeks caught flame and eyelid light, At those high songs of thine That stung the sense like wine, Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night, Or wailed as in some flooded cave Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave.

But we, our master, we Whose hearts, uplift to thee, Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song, We ask not nor await From the clenched hands of fate, As thou, remission of the world's old wrong; Respite we ask not, nor release; Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace.

Though thy most fiery hope Storm heaven, to set wide ope The all-sought-for gate whence God or Chance debars All feet of men, all eyes-- The old night resumes her skies, Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars, Where nought save these is sure in sight; And, paven with death, our days are roofed with night.

One thing we can; to be Awhile, as men may, free; But not by hope or pleasure the most stern Goddess, most awful-eyed, Sits, but on either side Sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn, Sad faith that cannot hope or fear, And memory grey with many a flowerless year.

Not that in stranger's wise I lift not loving eyes To the fair foster-mother France, that gave Beyond the pale fleet foam Help to my sires and home, Whose great sweet breast could shelter those and save Whom from her nursing breasts and hands Their land cast forth of old on gentler lands.

Not without thoughts that ache For theirs and for thy sake, I, born of exiles, hail thy banished head; I whose young song took flight Toward the great heat and light On me a child from thy far splendour shed, From thine high place of soul and song, Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong.

Ah, not with lessening love For memories born hereof, I look to that sweet mother-land, and see The old fields and fair full streams, And skies, but fled like dreams The feet of freedom and the thought of thee; And all between the skies and graves The mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves.

She, killed with noisome air, Even she! and still so fair, Who said "Let there be freedom," and there was Freedom; and as a lance The fiery eyes of France Touched the world's sleep and as a sleep made pass Forth of men's heavier ears and eyes Smitten with fire and thunder from new skies.

Are they men's friends indeed Who watch them weep and bleed? Because thou hast loved us, shall the gods love thee? Thou, first of men and friend, Seest thou, even thou, the end? Thou knowest what hath been, knowest thou what shall be? Evils may pass and hopes endure; But fate is dim, and all the gods obscure.

O nursed in airs apart, O poet highest of heart, Hast thou seen time, who hast seen so many things? Are not the years more wise, More sad than keenest eyes, The years with soundless feet and sounding wings? Passing we hear them not, but past The clamour of them thrills us, and their blast.

Thou art chief of us, and lord; Thy song is as a sword Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers; Thou art lord and king; but we Lift younger eyes, and see Less of high hope, less light on wandering hours; Hours that have borne men down so long, Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong.

But thine imperial soul, As years and ruins roll To the same end, and all things and all dreams With the same wreck and roar Drift on the dim same shore, Still in the bitter foam and brackish streams Tracks the fresh water-spring to be And sudden sweeter fountains in the sea.

As once the high God bound With many a rivet round Man's saviour, and with iron nailed him through, At the wild end of things, Where even his own bird's wings Flagged, whence the sea shone like a drop of dew, From Caucasus beheld below Past fathoms of unfathomable snow;

So the strong God, the chance Central of circumstance, Still shows him exile who will not be slave; All thy great fame and thee Girt by the dim strait sea With multitudinous walls of wandering wave; Shows us our greatest from his throne Fate-stricken, and rejected of his own.

Yea, he is strong, thou say'st, A mystery many-faced, The wild beasts know him and the wild birds flee; The blind night sees him, death Shrinks beaten at his breath, And his right hand is heavy on the sea: We know he hath made us, and is king; We know not if he care for anything.

Thus much, no more, we know; He bade what is be so, Bade light be and bade night be, one by one; Bade hope and fear, bade ill And good redeem and kill, Till all men be aweary of the sun And his world burn in its own flame And bear no witness longer of his name.

Yet though all this be thus, Be those men praised of us Who have loved and wrought and sorrowed and not sinned For fame or fear or gold, Nor waxed for winter cold, Nor changed for changes of the worldly wind; Praised above men of men be these, Till this one world and work we know shall cease.

Yea, one thing more than this, We know that one thing is, The splendour of a spirit without blame, That not the labouring years Blind-born, nor any fears, Nor men nor any gods can tire or tame; But purer power with fiery breath Fills, and exalts above the gulfs of death.

Praised above men be thou, Whose laurel-laden brow, Made for the morning, droops not in the night; Praised and beloved, that none Of all thy great things done Flies higher than thy most equal spirit's flight; Praised, that nor doubt nor hope could bend Earth's loftiest head, found upright to the end.

BEFORE DAWN

Sweet life, if life were stronger, Earth clear of years that wrong her, Then two things might live longer, Two sweeter things than they; Delight, the rootless flower, And love, the bloomless bower; Delight that lives an hour, And love that lives a day.

From evensong to daytime, When April melts in Maytime, Love lengthens out his playtime, Love lessens breath by breath, And kiss by kiss grows older On listless throat or shoulder Turned sideways now, turned colder Than life that dreams of death.

This one thing once worth giving Life gave, and seemed worth living; Sin sweet beyond forgiving And brief beyond regret: To laugh and love together And weave with foam and feather And wind and words the tether Our memories play with yet.

Ah, one thing worth beginning, One thread in life worth spinning, Ah sweet, one sin worth sinning With all the whole soul's will; To lull you till one stilled you, To kiss you till one killed you, To feed you till one filled you, Sweet lips, if love could fill;

To hunt sweet Love and lose him Between white arms and bosom, Between the bud and blossom, Between your throat and chin; To say of shame--what is it? Of virtue--we can miss it, Of sin--we can but kiss it, And it's no longer sin:

To feel the strong soul, stricken Through fleshly pulses, quicken Beneath swift sighs that thicken, Soft hands and lips that smite; Lips that no love can tire, With hands that sting like fire, Weaving the web Desire To snare the bird Delight.

But love so lightly plighted, Our love with torch unlighted, Paused near us unaffrighted, Who found and left him free; None, seeing us cloven in sunder, Will weep or laugh or wonder; Light love stands clear of thunder, And safe from winds at sea.

As, when late larks give warning Of dying lights and dawning, Night murmurs to the morning, "Lie still, O love, lie still;" And half her dark limbs cover The white limbs of her lover, With amorous plumes that hover And fervent lips that chill;

As scornful day represses Night's void and vain caresses, And from her cloudier tresses Unwinds the gold of his, With limbs from limbs dividing And breath by breath subsiding; For love has no abiding, But dies before the kiss;

So hath it been, so be it; For who shall live and flee it? But look that no man see it Or hear it unaware; Lest all who love and choose him See Love, and so refuse him; For all who find him lose him, But all have found him fair.

DOLORES

(NOTRE-DAME DES SEPT DOULEURS)

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour; The heavy white limbs, and the cruel Red mouth like a venomous flower; When these are gone by with their glories, What shall rest of thee then, what remain, O mystic and sombre Dolores, Our Lady of Pain?

Seven sorrows the priests give their Virgin; But thy sins, which are seventy times seven, Seven ages would fail thee to purge in, And then they would haunt thee in heaven: Fierce midnights and famishing morrows, And the loves that complete and control All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows That wear out the soul.

O garment not golden but gilded, O garden where all men may dwell, O tower not of ivory, but builded By hands that reach heaven from hell; O mystical rose of the mire, O house not of gold but of gain, O house of unquenchable fire, Our Lady of Pain!

O lips full of lust and of laughter, Curled snakes that are fed from my breast, Bite hard, lest remembrance come after And press with new lips where you pressed. For my heart too springs up at the pressure, Mine eyelids too moisten and burn; Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure, Ere pain come in turn.

In yesterday's reach and to-morrow's, Out of sight though they lie of to-day, There have been and there yet shall be sorrows That smite not and bite not in play. The life and the love thou despisest, These hurt us indeed, and in vain, O wise among women, and wisest, Our Lady of Pain.

Who gave thee thy wisdom? what stories That stung thee, what visions that smote? Wert thou pure and a maiden, Dolores, When desire took thee first by the throat? What bud was the shell of a blossom That all men may smell to and pluck? What milk fed thee first at what bosom? What sins gave thee suck?

We shift and bedeck and bedrape us, Thou art noble and nude and antique; Libitina thy mother, Priapus Thy father, a Tuscan and Greek. We play with light loves in the portal, And wince and relent and refrain; Loves die, and we know thee immortal, Our Lady of Pain.

Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges; Thou art fed with perpetual breath, And alive after infinite changes, And fresh from the kisses of death; Of languors rekindled and rallied, Of barren delights and unclean, Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid And poisonous queen.

Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you? Men touch them, and change in a trice The lilies and languors of virtue For the raptures and roses of vice; Those lie where thy foot on the floor is, These crown and caress thee and chain, O splendid and sterile Dolores, Our Lady of Pain.

There are sins it may be to discover, There are deeds it may be to delight. What new work wilt thou find for thy lover, What new passions for daytime or night? What spells that they know not a word of Whose lives are as leaves overblown? What tortures undreamt of, unheard of, Unwritten, unknown?

Ah beautiful passionate body That never has ached with a heart! On thy mouth though the kisses are bloody, Though they sting till it shudder and smart, More kind than the love we adore is, They hurt not the heart or the brain, O bitter and tender Dolores, Our Lady of Pain.

As our kisses relax and redouble, From the lips and the foam and the fangs Shall no new sin be born for men's trouble, No dream of impossible pangs? With the sweet of the sins of old ages Wilt thou satiate thy soul as of yore? Too sweet is the rind, say the sages, Too bitter the core.

Hast thou told all thy secrets the last time, And bared all thy beauties to one? Ah, where shall we go then for pastime, If the worst that can be has been done? But sweet as the rind was the core is; We are fain of thee still, we are fain, O sanguine and subtle Dolores, Our Lady of Pain.

By the hunger of change and emotion, By the thirst of unbearable things, By despair, the twin-born of devotion, By the pleasure that winces and stings, The delight that consumes the desire, The desire that outruns the delight, By the cruelty deaf as a fire And blind as the night,

By the ravenous teeth that have smitten Through the kisses that blossom and bud, By the lips intertwisted and bitten Till the foam has a savour of blood, By the pulse as it rises and falters, By the hands as they slacken and strain, I adjure thee, respond from thine altars, Our Lady of Pain.

Wilt thou smile as a woman disdaining The light fire in the veins of a boy? But he comes to thee sad, without feigning, Who has wearied of sorrow and joy; Less careful of labour and glory Than the elders whose hair has uncurled; And young, but with fancies as hoary And grey as the world.

I have passed from the outermost portal To the shrine where a sin is a prayer; What care though the service be mortal? O our Lady of Torture, what care? All thine the last wine that I pour is, The last in the chalice we drain, O fierce and luxurious Dolores, Our Lady of Pain.

All thine the new wine of desire, The fruit of four lips as they clung Till the hair and the eyelids took fire, The foam of a serpentine tongue, The froth of the serpents of pleasure, More salt than the foam of the sea, Now felt as a flame, now at leisure As wine shed for me.

Ah thy people, thy children, thy chosen, Marked cross from the womb and perverse! They have found out the secret to cozen The gods that constrain us and curse; They alone, they are wise, and none other; Give me place, even me, in their train, O my sister, my spouse, and my mother, Our Lady of Pain.

For the crown of our life as it closes Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust; No thorns go as deep as a rose's, And love is more cruel than lust. Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division Make barren our lives.

And pale from the past we draw nigh thee, And satiate with comfortless hours; And we know thee, how all men belie thee, And we gather the fruit of thy flowers; The passion that slays and recovers, The pangs and the kisses that rain On the lips and the limbs of thy lovers, Our Lady of Pain.

The desire of thy furious embraces Is more than the wisdom of years, On the blossom though blood lie in traces, Though the foliage be sodden with tears. For the lords in whose keeping the door is That opens on all who draw breath Gave the cypress to love, my Dolores, The myrtle to death.

And they laughed, changing hands in the measure, And they mixed and made peace after strife; Pain melted in tears, and was pleasure; Death tingled with blood, and was life. Like lovers they melted and tingled, In the dusk of thine innermost fane; In the darkness they murmured and mingled, Our Lady of Pain.

In a twilight where virtues are vices, In thy chapels, unknown of the sun, To a tune that enthralls and entices, They were wed, and the twain were as one. For the tune from thine altar hath sounded Since God bade the world's work begin, And the fume of thine incense abounded, To sweeten the sin.

Love listens, and paler than ashes, Through his curls as the crown on them slips, Lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes, And laughs with insatiable lips. Thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses, With music that scares the profane; Thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses, Our Lady of Pain.

Thou shalt blind his bright eyes though he wrestle, Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive; In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle, In his hands all thy cruelties thrive. In the daytime thy voice shall go through him, In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache; Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him Asleep and awake.

Thou shalt touch and make redder his roses With juice not of fruit nor of bud; When the sense in the spirit reposes, Thou shalt quicken the soul through the blood. Thine, thine the one grace we implore is, Who would live and not languish or feign, O sleepless and deadly Dolores, Our Lady of Pain.

Dost thou dream, in a respite of slumber, In a lull of the fires of thy life, Of the days without name, without number, When thy will stung the world into strife; When, a goddess, the pulse of thy passion Smote kings as they revelled in Rome; And they hailed thee re-risen, O Thalassian, Foam-white, from the foam?

When thy lips had such lovers to flatter; When the city lay red from thy rods, And thine hands were as arrows to scatter The children of change and their gods; When the blood of thy foemen made fervent A sand never moist from the main, As one smote them, their lord and thy servant, Our Lady of Pain.

On sands by the storm never shaken, Nor wet from the washing of tides; Nor by foam of the waves overtaken, Nor winds that the thunder bestrides; But red from the print of thy paces, Made smooth for the world and its lords, Ringed round with a flame of fair faces, And splendid with swords.

There the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure, Drew bitter and perilous breath; There torments laid hold on the treasure Of limbs too delicious for death; When thy gardens were lit with live torches; When the world was a steed for thy rein; When the nations lay prone in thy porches, Our Lady of Pain.

When, with flame all around him aspirant, Stood flushed, as a harp-player stands, The implacable beautiful tyrant, Rose-crowned, having death in his hands; And a sound as the sound of loud water Smote far through the flight of the fires, And mixed with the lightning of slaughter A thunder of lyres.

Dost thou dream of what was and no more is, The old kingdoms of earth and the kings? Dost thou hunger for these things, Dolores, For these, in a world of new things? But thy bosom no fasts could emaciate, No hunger compel to complain Those lips that no bloodshed could satiate, Our Lady of Pain.

As of old when the world's heart was lighter, Through thy garments the grace of thee glows, The white wealth of thy body made whiter By the blushes of amorous blows, And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers, And branded by kisses that bruise; When all shall be gone that now lingers, Ah, what shall we lose?