Part 7

I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end; Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend. Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the seasons that laugh or that weep; For these give joy and sorrow; but thou, Proserpina, sleep. Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the feet of the dove; But a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the grapes or love. Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold, A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold? I am sick of singing: the bays burn deep and chafe: I am fain To rest a little from praise and grievous pleasure and pain. For the Gods we know not of, who give us our daily breath, We know they are cruel as love or life, and lovely as death. O Gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth, wiped out in a day! From your wrath is the world released, redeemed from your chains, men say. New Gods are crowned in the city; their flowers have broken your rods; They are merciful, clothed with pity, the young compassionate Gods. But for me their new device is barren, the days are bare; Things long past over suffice, and men forgotten that were. Time and the Gods are at strife; ye dwell in the midst thereof, Draining a little life from the barren breasts of love. I say to you, cease, take rest; yea, I say to you all, be at peace, Till the bitter milk of her breast and the barren bosom shall cease. Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean? but these thou shalt not take, The laurel, the palms and the paean, the breasts of the nymphs in the brake; Breasts more soft than a dove's, that tremble with tenderer breath; And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy before death; All the feet of the hours that sound as a single lyre, Dropped and deep in the flowers, with strings that flicker like fire. More than these wilt thou give, things fairer than all these things? Nay, for a little we live, and life hath mutable wings. A little while and we die; shall life not thrive as it may? For no man under the sky lives twice, outliving his day. And grief is a grievous thing, and a man hath enough of his tears: Why should he labour, and bring fresh grief to blacken his years? Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath; We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death. Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet for a day; But love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not May. Sleep, shall we sleep after all? for the world is not sweet in the end; For the old faiths loosen and fall, the new years ruin and rend. Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a rock that abides; But her ears are vexed with the roar and her face with the foam of the tides. O lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings of racks and rods! O ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods! Though all men abase them before you in spirit, and all knees bend, I kneel not neither adore you, but standing, look to the end. All delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and sorrows are cast Far out with the foam of the present that sweeps to the surf of the past: Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and between the remote sea-gates, Waste water washes, and tall ships founder, and deep death waits: Where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about with the seas as with wings, And impelled of invisible tides, and fulfilled of unspeakable things, White-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark-toothed and serpentine-curled, Rolls, under the whitening wind of the future, the wave of the world. The depths stand naked in sunder behind it, the storms flee away; In the hollow before it the thunder is taken and snared as a prey; In its sides is the north-wind bound; and its salt is of all men's tears; With light of ruin, and sound of changes, and pulse of years: With travail of day after day, and with trouble of hour upon hour; And bitter as blood is the spray; and the crests are as fangs that devour: And its vapour and storm of its steam as the sighing of spirits to be; And its noise as the noise in a dream; and its depth as the roots of the sea: And the height of its heads as the height of the utmost stars of the air: And the ends of the earth at the might thereof tremble, and time is made bare. Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye chasten the high sea with rods? Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who is older than all ye Gods? All ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye pass and be past; Ye are Gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the waves be upon you at last. In the darkness of time, in the deeps of the years, in the changes of things, Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the world shall forget you for kings. Though the feet of thine high priests tread where thy lords and our forefathers trod, Though these that were Gods are dead, and thou being dead art a God, Though before thee the throned Cytherean be fallen, and hidden her head, Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy dead shall go down to thee dead. Of the maiden thy mother men sing as a goddess with grace clad around; Thou art throned where another was king; where another was queen she is crowned. Yea, once we had sight of another: but now she is queen, say these. Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, a blossom of flowering seas, Clothed round with the world's desire as with raiment, and fair as the foam, And fleeter than kindled fire, and a goddess, and mother of Rome. For thine came pale and a maiden, and sister to sorrow; but ours, Her deep hair heavily laden with odour and colour of flowers, White rose of the rose-white water, a silver splendour, a flame, Bent down unto us that besought her, and earth grew sweet with her name. For thine came weeping, a slave among slaves, and rejected; but she Came flushed from the full-flushed wave, and imperial, her foot on the sea. And the wonderful waters knew her, the winds and the viewless ways, And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the sea-blue stream of the bays. Ye are fallen, our lords, by what token? we wist that ye should not fall. Ye were all so fair that are broken; and one more fair than ye all. But I turn to her still, having seen she shall surely abide in the end; Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend. O daughter of earth, of my mother, her crown and blossom of birth, I am also, I also, thy brother; I go as I came unto earth. In the night where thine eyes are as moons are in heaven, the night where thou art, Where the silence is more than all tunes, where sleep overflows from the heart, Where the poppies are sweet as the rose in our world, and the red rose is white, And the wind falls faint as it blows with the fume of the flowers of the night, And the murmur of spirits that sleep in the shadow of Gods from afar Grows dim in thine ears and deep as the deep dim soul of a star, In the sweet low light of thy face, under heavens untrod by the sun, Let my soul with their souls find place, and forget what is done and undone. Thou art more than the Gods who number the days of our temporal breath: For these give labour and slumber; but thou, Proserpina, death. Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a season in silence. I know I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep as they sleep; even so. For the glass of the years is brittle wherein we gaze for a span; A little soul for a little bears up this corpse which is man.[2] So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep. For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep.

[2] [Greek: psycharion ei bastazon nekron]. EPICTETUS.

ILICET

There is an end of joy and sorrow; Peace all day long, all night, all morrow, But never a time to laugh or weep. The end is come of pleasant places, The end of tender words and faces, The end of all, the poppied sleep.

No place for sound within their hearing, No room to hope, no time for fearing, No lips to laugh, no lids for tears. The old years have run out all their measure; No chance of pain, no chance of pleasure, No fragment of the broken years.

Outside of all the worlds and ages, There where the fool is as the sage is, There where the slayer is clean of blood, No end, no passage, no beginning, There where the sinner leaves off sinning, There where the good man is not good.

There is not one thing with another, But Evil saith to Good: My brother, My brother, I am one with thee: They shall not strive nor cry for ever: No man shall choose between them: never Shall this thing end and that thing be.

Wind wherein seas and stars are shaken Shall shake them, and they shall not waken; None that has lain down shall arise; The stones are sealed across their places; One shadow is shed on all their faces, One blindness cast on all their eyes.

Sleep, is it sleep perchance that covers Each face, as each face were his lover's? Farewell; as men that sleep fare well. The grave's mouth laughs unto derision Desire and dread and dream and vision, Delight of heaven and sorrow of hell.

No soul shall tell nor lip shall number The names and tribes of you that slumber; No memory, no memorial. "Thou knowest"--who shall say thou knowest? There is none highest and none lowest: An end, an end, an end of all.

Good night, good sleep, good rest from sorrow To these that shall not have good morrow; The gods be gentle to all these. Nay, if death be not, how shall they be? Nay, is there help in heaven? it may be All things and lords of things shall cease.

The stooped urn, filling, dips and flashes; The bronzed brims are deep in ashes; The pale old lips of death are fed. Shall this dust gather flesh hereafter? Shall one shed tears or fall to laughter, At sight of all these poor old dead?

Nay, as thou wilt; these know not of it; Thine eyes' strong weeping shall not profit, Thy laughter shall not give thee ease; Cry aloud, spare not, cease not crying, Sigh, till thou cleave thy sides with sighing, Thou shalt not raise up one of these.

Burnt spices flash, and burnt wine hisses, The breathing flame's mouth curls and kisses The small dried rows of frankincense; All round the sad red blossoms smoulder, Flowers coloured like the fire, but colder, In sign of sweet things taken hence;

Yea, for their sake and in death's favour Things of sweet shape and of sweet savour We yield them, spice and flower and wine; Yea, costlier things than wine or spices, Whereof none knoweth how great the price is, And fruit that comes not of the vine.

From boy's pierced throat and girl's pierced bosom Drips, reddening round the blood-red blossom, The slow delicious bright soft blood, Bathing the spices and the pyre, Bathing the flowers and fallen fire, Bathing the blossom by the bud.

Roses whose lips the flame has deadened Drink till the lapping leaves are reddened And warm wet inner petals weep; The flower whereof sick sleep gets leisure, Barren of balm and purple pleasure, Fumes with no native steam of sleep.

Why will ye weep? what do ye weeping? For waking folk and people sleeping, And sands that fill and sands that fall, The days rose-red, the poppied hours, Blood, wine, and spice and fire and flowers, There is one end of one and all.

Shall such an one lend love or borrow? Shall these be sorry for thy sorrow? Shall these give thanks for words or breath? Their hate is as their loving-kindness; The frontlet of their brows is blindness, The armlet of their arms is death.

Lo, for no noise or light of thunder Shall these grave-clothes be rent in sunder; He that hath taken, shall he give? He hath rent them: shall he bind together? He hath bound them: shall he break the tether? He hath slain them: shall he bid them live?

A little sorrow, a little pleasure, Fate metes us from the dusty measure That holds the date of all of us; We are born with travail and strong crying, And from the birth-day to the dying The likeness of our life is thus.

One girds himself to serve another, Whose father was the dust, whose mother The little dead red worm therein; They find no fruit of things they cherish; The goodness of a man shall perish, It shall be one thing with his sin.

In deep wet ways by grey old gardens Fed with sharp spring the sweet fruit hardens; They know not what fruits wane or grow; Red summer burns to the utmost ember; They know not, neither can remember, The old years and flowers they used to know.

Ah, for their sakes, so trapped and taken, For theirs, forgotten and forsaken, Watch, sleep not, gird thyself with prayer. Nay, where the heart of wrath is broken, Where long love ends as a thing spoken, How shall thy crying enter there?

Though the iron sides of the old world falter, The likeness of them shall not alter For all the rumour of periods, The stars and seasons that come after, The tears of latter men, the laughter Of the old unalterable gods.

Far up above the years and nations, The high gods, clothed and crowned with patience, Endure through days of deathlike date; They bear the witness of things hidden; Before their eyes all life stands chidden, As they before the eyes of Fate.

Not for their love shall Fate retire, Nor they relent for our desire, Nor the graves open for their call. The end is more than joy and anguish, Than lives that laugh and lives that languish, The poppied sleep, the end of all.

HERMAPHRODITUS

I

Lift up thy lips, turn round, look back for love, Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest; Of all things tired thy lips look weariest, Save the long smile that they are wearied of. Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough, Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best; Two loves at either blossom of thy breast Strive until one be under and one above. Their breath is fire upon the amorous air, Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire: And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair, Two things turn all his life and blood to fire; A strong desire begot on great despair, A great despair cast out by strong desire.

II

Where between sleep and life some brief space is, With love like gold bound round about the head, Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed, Turning the fruitful feud of hers and his To the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss; Yet from them something like as fire is shed That shall not be assuaged till death be dead, Though neither life nor sleep can find out this. Love made himself of flesh that perisheth A pleasure-house for all the loves his kin; But on the one side sat a man like death, And on the other a woman sat like sin. So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breath Love turned himself and would not enter in.

III

Love, is it love or sleep or shadow or light That lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes? Like a flower laid upon a flower it lies, Or like the night's dew laid upon the night. Love stands upon thy left hand and thy right, Yet by no sunset and by no moonrise Shall make thee man and ease a woman's sighs, Or make thee woman for a man's delight. To what strange end hath some strange god made fair The double blossom of two fruitless flowers? Hid love in all the folds of all thy hair, Fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers, Given all the gold that all the seasons wear To thee that art a thing of barren hours?

IV

Yea, love, I see; it is not love but fear. Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know; Or wherefore should thy body's blossom blow So sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear Thy gracious eyes that never made a tear-- Though for their love our tears like blood should flow, Though love and life and death should come and go, So dreadful, so desirable, so dear? Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wise Beneath the woman's and the water's kiss Thy moist limbs melted into Salmacis, And the large light turned tender in thine eyes, And all thy boy's breath softened into sighs; But Love being blind, how should he know of this?

_Au Musee du Louvre, Mars 1863._

FRAGOLETTA

O Love! what shall be said of thee? The son of grief begot by joy? Being sightless, wilt thou see? Being sexless, wilt thou be Maiden or boy?

I dreamed of strange lips yesterday And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood Was like a rose's--yea, A rose's when it lay Within the bud.

What fields have bred thee, or what groves Concealed thee, O mysterious flower, O double rose of Love's, With leaves that lure the doves From bud to bower?

I dare not kiss it, lest my lip Press harder than an indrawn breath, And all the sweet life slip Forth, and the sweet leaves drip, Bloodlike, in death.

O sole desire of my delight! O sole delight of my desire! Mine eyelids and eyesight Feed on thee day and night Like lips of fire.

Lean back thy throat of carven pearl, Let thy mouth murmur like the dove's; Say, Venus hath no girl, No front of female curl, Among her Loves.

Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair, Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet, Thy virginal strange air, Are these not over fair For Love to greet?

How should he greet thee? what new name, Fit to move all men's hearts, could move Thee, deaf to love or shame, Love's sister, by the same Mother as Love?

Ah sweet, the maiden's mouth is cold, Her breast-blossoms are simply red, Her hair mere brown or gold, Fold over simple fold Binding her head.

Thy mouth is made of fire and wine, Thy barren bosom takes my kiss And turns my soul to thine And turns thy lip to mine, And mine it is.

Thou hast a serpent in thine hair, In all the curls that close and cling; And ah, thy breast-flower! Ah love, thy mouth too fair To kiss and sting!

Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes, Satiate thy lips with loving me; Nay, for thou shalt not rise; Lie still as Love that dies For love of thee.

Mine arms are close about thine head, My lips are fervent on thy face, And where my kiss hath fed Thy flower-like blood leaps red To the kissed place.

O bitterness of things too sweet! O broken singing of the dove! Love's wings are over fleet, And like the panther's feet The feet of Love.

RONDEL

These many years since we began to be, What have the gods done with us? what with me, What with my love? they have shown me fates and fears, Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea, Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers, These many years.

With her, my love, with her have they done well? But who shall answer for her? who shall tell Sweet things or sad, such things as no man hears? May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell, From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheres These many years!

But if tears ever touched, for any grief, Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf, Deep double shells wherethrough the eye-flower peers, Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief, Brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tears These many years.

SATIA TE SANGUINE

If you loved me ever so little, I could bear the bonds that gall, I could dream the bonds were brittle; You do not love me at all.

O beautiful lips, O bosom More white than the moon's and warm, A sterile, a ruinous blossom Is blown your way in a storm.

As the lost white feverish limbs Of the Lesbian Sappho, adrift In foam where the sea-weed swims, Swam loose for the streams to lift,

My heart swims blind in a sea That stuns me; swims to and fro, And gathers to windward and lee Lamentation, and mourning, and woe.

A broken, an emptied boat, Sea saps it, winds blow apart, Sick and adrift and afloat, The barren waif of a heart.

Where, when the gods would be cruel, Do they go for a torture? where Plant thorns, set pain like a jewel? Ah, not in the flesh, not there!

The racks of earth and the rods Are weak as foam on the sands; In the heart is the prey for gods, Who crucify hearts, not hands.

Mere pangs corrode and consume, Dead when life dies in the brain; In the infinite spirit is room For the pulse of an infinite pain.

I wish you were dead, my dear; I would give you, had I to give Some death too bitter to fear; It is better to die than live.

I wish you were stricken of thunder And burnt with a bright flame through, Consumed and cloven in sunder, I dead at your feet like you.

If I could but know after all, I might cease to hunger and ache, Though your heart were ever so small, If it were not a stone or a snake.

You are crueller, you that we love, Than hatred, hunger, or death; You have eyes and breasts like a dove, And you kill men's hearts with a breath

As plague in a poisonous city Insults and exults on her dead, So you, when pallid for pity Comes love, and fawns to be fed.

As a tame beast writhes and wheedles, He fawns to be fed with wiles; You carve him a cross of needles, And whet them sharp as your smiles.

He is patient of thorn and whip, He is dumb under axe or dart; You suck with a sleepy red lip The wet red wounds in his heart.

You thrill as his pulses dwindle, You brighten and warm as he bleeds, With insatiable eyes that kindle And insatiable mouth that feeds.

Your hands nailed love to the tree, You stript him, scourged him with rods, And drowned him deep in the sea That hides the dead and their gods.