Part 8
And for all this, die will he not; There is no man sees him but I; You came and went and forgot; I hope he will some day die.
A LITANY
[Greek: en ourano phaennas krypso par' hymin augas, mias pro nyktos hepta nyktas hexete, k.t.l.] _Anth. Sac._
FIRST ANTIPHONE
All the bright lights of heaven I will make dark over thee; One night shall be as seven That its skirts may cover thee; I will send on thy strong men a sword, On thy remnant a rod; Ye shall know that I am the Lord, Saith the Lord God.
SECOND ANTIPHONE
All the bright lights of heaven Thou hast made dark over us; One night has been as seven That its skirt might cover us; Thou hast sent on our strong men a sword, On our remnant a rod; We know that thou art the Lord, O Lord our God.
THIRD ANTIPHONE
As the tresses and wings of the wind Are scattered and shaken, I will scatter all them that have sinned, There shall none be taken; As a sower that scattereth seed, So will I scatter them; As one breaketh and shattereth a reed, I will break and shatter them.
FOURTH ANTIPHONE
As the wings and the locks of the wind Are scattered and shaken, Thou hast scattered all them that have sinned, There was no man taken; As a sower that scattereth seed, So hast thou scattered us; As one breaketh and shattereth a reed, Thou hast broken and shattered us.
FIFTH ANTIPHONE
From all thy lovers that love thee I God will sunder thee; I will make darkness above thee, And thick darkness under thee; Before me goeth a light, Behind me a sword; Shall a remnant find grace in my sight? I am the Lord.
SIXTH ANTIPHONE
From all our lovers that love us Thou God didst sunder us; Thou madest darkness above us, And thick darkness under us; Thou hast kindled thy wrath for a light, And made ready thy sword; Let a remnant find grace in thy sight, We beseech thee, O Lord.
SEVENTH ANTIPHONE
Wilt thou bring fine gold for a payment For sins on this wise? For the glittering of raiment And the shining of eyes, For the painting of faces And the sundering of trust, For the sins of thine high places And delight of thy lust?
For your high things ye shall have lowly, Lamentation for song; For, behold, I God am holy, I the Lord am strong; Ye shall seek me and shall not reach me Till the wine-press be trod; In that hour ye shall turn and beseech me, Saith the Lord God.
EIGHTH ANTIPHONE
Not with fine gold for a payment, But with coin of sighs, But with rending of raiment And with weeping of eyes, But with shame of stricken faces And with strewing of dust, For the sin of stately places And lordship of lust;
With voices of men made lowly, Made empty of song, O Lord God most holy, O God most strong, We reach out hands to reach thee Ere the wine-press be trod; We beseech thee, O Lord, we beseech thee, O Lord our God.
NINTH ANTIPHONE
In that hour thou shalt say to the night, Come down and cover us; To the cloud on thy left and thy right, Be thou spread over us; A snare shall be as thy mother, And a curse thy bride; Thou shalt put her away, and another Shall lie by thy side.
Thou shalt neither rise up by day Nor lie down by night; Would God it were dark! thou shalt say; Would God it were light! And the sight of thine eyes shall be made As the burning of fire; And thy soul shall be sorely afraid For thy soul's desire.
Ye whom your lords loved well, Putting silver and gold on you, The inevitable hell Shall surely take hold on you; Your gold shall be for a token, Your staff for a rod; With the breaking of bands ye are broken, Saith the Lord God.
TENTH ANTIPHONE
In our sorrow we said to the night, Fall down and cover us; To the darkness at left and at right, Be thou shed over us; We had breaking of spirit to mother And cursing to bride; And one was slain, and another Stood up at our side.
We could not arise by day, Nor lie down by night; Thy sword was sharp in our way, Thy word in our sight; The delight of our eyelids was made As the burning of fire; And our souls became sorely afraid For our soul's desire.
We whom the world loved well, Laying silver and gold on us, The kingdom of death and of hell Riseth up to take hold on us; Our gold is turned to a token, Our staff to a rod; Yet shalt thou bind them up that were broken, O Lord our God.
A LAMENTATION
I
Who hath known the ways of time Or trodden behind his feet? There is no such man among men. For chance overcomes him, or crime Changes; for all things sweet In time wax bitter again. Who shall give sorrow enough, Or who the abundance of tears? Mine eyes are heavy with love And a sword gone thorough mine ears, A sound like a sword and fire, For pity, for great desire; Who shall ensure me thereof, Lest I die, being full of my fears?
Who hath known the ways and the wrath, The sleepless spirit, the root And blossom of evil will, The divine device of a god? Who shall behold it or hath? The twice-tongued prophets are mute, The many speakers are still; No foot has travelled or trod, No hand has meted, his path. Man's fate is a blood-red fruit, And the mighty gods have their fill And relax not the rein, or the rod.
Ye were mighty in heart from of old, Ye slew with the spear, and are slain. Keen after heat is the cold, Sore after summer is rain, And melteth man to the bone. As water he weareth away, As a flower, as an hour in a day, Fallen from laughter to moan. But my spirit is shaken with fear Lest an evil thing begin, New-born, a spear for a spear, And one for another sin. Or ever our tears began, It was known from of old and said; One law for a living man, And another law for the dead. For these are fearful and sad, Vain, and things without breath; While he lives let a man be glad, For none hath joy of his death.
II
Who hath known the pain, the old pain of earth, Or all the travail of the sea, The many ways and waves, the birth Fruitless, the labour nothing worth? Who hath known, who knoweth, O gods? not we. There is none shall say he hath seen, There is none he hath known. Though he saith, Lo, a lord have I been, I have reaped and sown; I have seen the desire of mine eyes, The beginning of love, The season of kisses and sighs And the end thereof. I have known the ways of the sea, All the perilous ways, Strange winds have spoken with me, And the tongues of strange days. I have hewn the pine for ships; Where steeds run arow, I have seen from their bridled lips Foam blown as the snow. With snapping of chariot-poles And with straining of oars I have grazed in the race the goals, In the storm the shores; As a greave is cleft with an arrow At the joint of the knee, I have cleft through the sea-straits narrow To the heart of the sea. When air was smitten in sunder I have watched on high The ways of the stars and the thunder In the night of the sky; Where the dark brings forth light as a flower, As from lips that dissever; One abideth the space of an hour, One endureth for ever. Lo, what hath he seen or known, Of the way and the wave Unbeholden, unsailed on, unsown, From the breast to the grave?
Or ever the stars were made, or skies, Grief was born, and the kinless night, Mother of gods without form or name. And light is born out of heaven and dies, And one day knows not another's light, But night is one, and her shape the same.
But dumb the goddesses underground Wait, and we hear not on earth if their feet Rise, and the night wax loud with their wings; Dumb, without word or shadow of sound; And sift in scales and winnow as wheat Men's souls, and sorrow of manifold things.
III
Nor less of grief than ours The gods wrought long ago To bruise men one by one; But with the incessant hours Fresh grief and greener woe Spring, as the sudden sun Year after year makes flowers; And these die down and grow, And the next year lacks none.
As these men sleep, have slept The old heroes in time fled, No dream-divided sleep; And holier eyes have wept Than ours, when on her dead Gods have seen Thetis weep, With heavenly hair far-swept Back, heavenly hands outspread Round what she could not keep,
Could not one day withhold, One night; and like as these White ashes of no weight, Held not his urn the cold Ashes of Heracles? For all things born one gate Opens, no gate of gold; Opens; and no man sees Beyond the gods and fate.
ANIMA ANCEPS
Till death have broken Sweet life's love-token, Till all be spoken That shall be said, What dost thou praying, O soul, and playing With song and saying, Things flown and fled? For this we know not-- That fresh springs flow not And fresh griefs grow not When men are dead; When strange years cover Lover and lover, And joys are over And tears are shed.
If one day's sorrow Mar the day's morrow-- If man's life borrow And man's death pay-- If souls once taken, If lives once shaken, Arise, awaken, By night, by day-- Why with strong crying And years of sighing, Living and dying, Fast ye and pray? For all your weeping, Waking and sleeping, Death comes to reaping And takes away.
Though time rend after Roof-tree from rafter, A little laughter Is much more worth Than thus to measure The hour, the treasure, The pain, the pleasure, The death, the birth; Grief, when days alter, Like joy shall falter; Song-book and psalter, Mourning and mirth. Live like the swallow; Seek not to follow Where earth is hollow Under the earth.
IN THE ORCHARD
(PROVENCAL BURDEN)
Leave go my hands, let me catch breath and see; Let the dew-fall drench either side of me; Clear apple-leaves are soft upon that moon Seen sidelong like a blossom in the tree; Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
The grass is thick and cool, it lets us lie. Kissed upon either cheek and either eye, I turn to thee as some green afternoon Turns toward sunset, and is loth to die; Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Lie closer, lean your face upon my side, Feel where the dew fell that has hardly dried, Hear how the blood beats that went nigh to swoon; The pleasure lives there when the sense has died; Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
O my fair lord, I charge you leave me this: Is it not sweeter than a foolish kiss? Nay take it then, my flower, my first in June, My rose, so like a tender mouth it is: Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire, Dividing my delight and my desire, The crescent life and love the plenilune, Love me though dusk begin and dark retire; Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Ah, my heart fails, my blood draws back; I know, When life runs over, life is near to go; And with the slain of love love's ways are strewn, And with their blood, if love will have it so; Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Ah, do thy will now; slay me if thou wilt; There is no building now the walls are built, No quarrying now the corner-stone is hewn, No drinking now the vine's whole blood is spilt; Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Nay, slay me now; nay, for I will be slain; Pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain, Break down thy vine ere yet grape-gatherers prune, Slay me ere day can slay desire again; Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Yea, with thy sweet lips, with thy sweet sword; yea, Take life and all, for I will die, I say; Love, I gave love, is life a better boon? For sweet night's sake I will not live till day; Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
Nay, I will sleep then only; nay, but go. Ah sweet, too sweet to me, my sweet, I know Love, sleep, and death go to the sweet same tune; Hold my hair fast, and kiss me through it so. Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.
A MATCH
If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath; If you were life, my darling, And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy, We'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy.
If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain.
FAUSTINE
_Ave Faustina Imperatrix, morituri te salutant._
Lean back, and get some minutes' peace; Let your head lean Back to the shoulder with its fleece Of locks, Faustine.
The shapely silver shoulder stoops, Weighed over clean With state of splendid hair that droops Each side, Faustine.
Let me go over your good gifts That crown you queen; A queen whose kingdom ebbs and shifts Each week, Faustine.
Bright heavy brows well gathered up: White gloss and sheen; Carved lips that make my lips a cup To drink, Faustine,
Wine and rank poison, milk and blood, Being mixed therein Since first the devil threw dice with God For you, Faustine.
Your naked new-born soul, their stake, Stood blind between; God said "let him that wins her take And keep Faustine."
But this time Satan throve, no doubt; Long since, I ween, God's part in you was battered out; Long since, Faustine.
The die rang sideways as it fell, Rang cracked and thin, Like a man's laughter heard in hell Far down, Faustine,
A shadow of laughter like a sigh, Dead sorrow's kin; So rang, thrown down, the devil's die That won Faustine.
A suckling of his breed you were, One hard to wean; But God, who lost you, left you fair, We see, Faustine.
You have the face that suits a woman For her soul's screen-- The sort of beauty that's called human In hell, Faustine.
You could do all things but be good Or chaste of mien; And that you would not if you could, We know, Faustine.
Even he who cast seven devils out Of Magdalene Could hardly do as much, I doubt, For you, Faustine.
Did Satan make you to spite God? Or did God mean To scourge with scorpions for a rod Our sins, Faustine?
I know what queen at first you were, As though I had seen Red gold and black imperious hair Twice crown Faustine.
As if your fed sarcophagus Spared flesh and skin, You come back face to face with us, The same Faustine.
She loved the games men played with death, Where death must win; As though the slain man's blood and breath Revived Faustine.
Nets caught the pike, pikes tore the net; Lithe limbs and lean From drained-out pores dripped thick red sweat To soothe Faustine.
She drank the steaming drift and dust Blown off the scene; Blood could not ease the bitter lust That galled Faustine.
All round the foul fat furrows reeked, Where blood sank in; The circus splashed and seethed and shrieked All round Faustine.
But these are gone now: years entomb The dust and din; Yea, even the bath's fierce reek and fume That slew Faustine.
Was life worth living then? and now Is life worth sin? Where are the imperial years? and how Are you Faustine?
Your soul forgot her joys, forgot Her times of teen; Yea, this life likewise will you not Forget, Faustine?
For in the time we know not of Did fate begin Weaving the web of days that wove Your doom, Faustine.
The threads were wet with wine, and all Were smooth to spin; They wove you like a Bacchanal, The first Faustine.
And Bacchus cast your mates and you Wild grapes to glean; Your flower-like lips were dashed with dew From his, Faustine.
Your drenched loose hands were stretched to hold The vine's wet green, Long ere they coined in Roman gold Your face, Faustine.
Then after change of soaring feather And winnowing fin, You woke in weeks of feverish weather, A new Faustine.
A star upon your birthday burned, Whose fierce serene Red pulseless planet never yearned In heaven, Faustine.
Stray breaths of Sapphic song that blew Through Mitylene Shook the fierce quivering blood in you By night, Faustine.
The shameless nameless love that makes Hell's iron gin Shut on you like a trap that breaks The soul, Faustine.
And when your veins were void and dead, What ghosts unclean Swarmed round the straitened barren bed That hid Faustine?
What sterile growths of sexless root Or epicene? What flower of kisses without fruit Of love, Faustine?
What adders came to shed their coats? What coiled obscene Small serpents with soft stretching throats Caressed Faustine?
But the time came of famished hours, Maimed loves and mean, This ghastly thin-faced time of ours, To spoil Faustine.
You seem a thing that hinges hold, A love-machine With clockwork joints of supple gold-- No more, Faustine.
Not godless, for you serve one God, The Lampsacene, Who metes the gardens with his rod; Your lord, Faustine.
If one should love you with real love (Such things have been, Things your fair face knows nothing of, It seems, Faustine);
That clear hair heavily bound back, The lights wherein Shift from dead blue to burnt-up black; Your throat, Faustine,
Strong, heavy, throwing out the face And hard bright chin And shameful scornful lips that grace Their shame, Faustine,
Curled lips, long-since half kissed away, Still sweet and keen; You'd give him--poison shall we say? Or what, Faustine?
A CAMEO
There was a graven image of Desire Painted with red blood on a ground of gold Passing between the young men and the old, And by him Pain, whose body shone like fire, And Pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire. Of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold, The insatiable Satiety kept hold, Walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire. The senses and the sorrows and the sins, And the strange loves that suck the breasts of Hate Till lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture, Followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins. Death stood aloof behind a gaping grate, Upon whose lock was written _Peradventure_.
SONG BEFORE DEATH
(FROM THE FRENCH)
1795
Sweet mother, in a minute's span Death parts thee and my love of thee; Sweet love, that yet art living man, Come back, true love, to comfort me. Back, ah, come back! ah wellaway! But my love comes not any day.
As roses, when the warm West blows, Break to full flower and sweeten spring, My soul would break to a glorious rose In such wise at his whispering. In vain I listen; wellaway! My love says nothing any day.
You that will weep for pity of love On the low place where I am lain, I pray you, having wept enough, Tell him for whom I bore such pain That he was yet, ah! wellaway! My true love to my dying day.
ROCOCO
Take hands and part with laughter; Touch lips and part with tears; Once more and no more after, Whatever comes with years. We twain shall not remeasure The ways that left us twain; Nor crush the lees of pleasure From sanguine grapes of pain.
We twain once well in sunder, What will the mad gods do For hate with me, I wonder, Or what for love with you? Forget them till November, And dream there's April yet; Forget that I remember, And dream that I forget.
Time found our tired love sleeping, And kissed away his breath; But what should we do weeping, Though light love sleep to death? We have drained his lips at leisure, Till there's not left to drain A single sob of pleasure, A single pulse of pain.
Dream that the lips once breathless Might quicken if they would; Say that the soul is deathless; Dream that the gods are good; Say March may wed September, And time divorce regret; But not that you remember, And not that I forget.
We have heard from hidden places What love scarce lives and hears: We have seen on fervent faces The pallor of strange tears: We have trod the wine-vat's treasure, Whence, ripe to steam and stain, Foams round the feet of pleasure The blood-red must of pain.
Remembrance may recover And time bring back to time The name of your first lover, The ring of my first rhyme; But rose-leaves of December The frosts of June shall fret, The day that you remember, The day that I forget.
The snake that hides and hisses In heaven we twain have known; The grief of cruel kisses, The joy whose mouth makes moan; The pulse's pause and measure, Where in one furtive vein Throbs through the heart of pleasure The purpler blood of pain.
We have done with tears and treasons And love for treason's sake; Room for the swift new seasons, The years that burn and break, Dismantle and dismember Men's days and dreams, Juliette; For love may not remember, But time will not forget.