Part 9

Life treads down love in flying, Time withers him at root; Bring all dead things and dying, Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, Where, crushed by three days' pressure, Our three days' love lies slain; And earlier leaf of pleasure, And latter flower of pain.

Breathe close upon the ashes, It may be flame will leap; Unclose the soft close lashes, Lift up the lids, and weep. Light love's extinguished ember, Let one tear leave it wet For one that you remember And ten that you forget.

STAGE LOVE

When the game began between them for a jest, He played king and she played queen to match the best; Laughter soft as tears, and tears that turned to laughter, These were things she sought for years and sorrowed after.

Pleasure with dry lips, and pain that walks by night; All the sting and all the stain of long delight; These were things she knew not of, that knew not of her, When she played at half a love with half a lover.

Time was chorus, gave them cues to laugh or cry; They would kill, befool, amuse him, let him die; Set him webs to weave to-day and break to-morrow, Till he died for good in play, and rose in sorrow.

What the years mean; how time dies and is not slain; How love grows and laughs and cries and wanes again; These were things she came to know, and take their measure, When the play was played out so for one man's pleasure.

THE LEPER

Nothing is better, I well think, Than love; the hidden well-water Is not so delicate to drink: This was well seen of me and her.

I served her in a royal house; I served her wine and curious meat. For will to kiss between her brows, I had no heart to sleep or eat.

Mere scorn God knows she had of me, A poor scribe, nowise great or fair, Who plucked his clerk's hood back to see Her curled-up lips and amorous hair.

I vex my head with thinking this. Yea, though God always hated me, And hates me now that I can kiss Her eyes, plait up her hair to see

How she then wore it on the brows, Yet am I glad to have her dead Here in this wretched wattled house Where I can kiss her eyes and head.

Nothing is better, I well know, Than love; no amber in cold sea Or gathered berries under snow: That is well seen of her and me.

Three thoughts I make my pleasure of: First I take heart and think of this: That knight's gold hair she chose to love, His mouth she had such will to kiss.

Then I remember that sundawn I brought him by a privy way Out at her lattice, and thereon What gracious words she found to say.

(Cold rushes for such little feet-- Both feet could lie into my hand. A marvel was it of my sweet Her upright body could so stand.)

"Sweet friend, God give you thank and grace; Now am I clean and whole of shame, Nor shall men burn me in the face For my sweet fault that scandals them."

I tell you over word by word. She, sitting edgewise on her bed, Holding her feet, said thus. The third, A sweeter thing than these, I said.

God, that makes time and ruins it And alters not, abiding God, Changed with disease her body sweet, The body of love wherein she abode.

Love is more sweet and comelier Than a dove's throat strained out to sing. All they spat out and cursed at her And cast her forth for a base thing.

They cursed her, seeing how God had wrought This curse to plague her, a curse of his. Fools were they surely, seeing not How sweeter than all sweet she is.

He that had held her by the hair, With kissing lips blinding her eyes, Felt her bright bosom, strained and bare, Sigh under him, with short mad cries

Out of her throat and sobbing mouth And body broken up with love, With sweet hot tears his lips were loth Her own should taste the savour of,

Yea, he inside whose grasp all night Her fervent body leapt or lay, Stained with sharp kisses red and white, Found her a plague to spurn away.

I hid her in this wattled house, I served her water and poor bread. For joy to kiss between her brows Time upon time I was nigh dead.

Bread failed; we got but well-water And gathered grass with dropping seed. I had such joy of kissing her, I had small care to sleep or feed.

Sometimes when service made me glad The sharp tears leapt between my lids, Falling on her, such joy I had To do the service God forbids.

"I pray you let me be at peace, Get hence, make room for me to die." She said that: her poor lip would cease, Put up to mine, and turn to cry.

I said, "Bethink yourself how love Fared in us twain, what either did; Shall I unclothe my soul thereof? That I should do this, God forbid."

Yea, though God hateth us, he knows That hardly in a little thing Love faileth of the work it does Till it grow ripe for gathering.

Six months, and now my sweet is dead A trouble takes me; I know not If all were done well, all well said, No word or tender deed forgot.

Too sweet, for the least part in her, To have shed life out by fragments; yet, Could the close mouth catch breath and stir, I might see something I forget.

Six months, and I sit still and hold In two cold palms her cold two feet. Her hair, half grey half ruined gold, Thrills me and burns me in kissing it.

Love bites and stings me through, to see Her keen face made of sunken bones. Her worn-off eyelids madden me, That were shot through with purple once.

She said, "Be good with me; I grow So tired for shame's sake, I shall die If you say nothing:" even so. And she is dead now, and shame put by.

Yea, and the scorn she had of me In the old time, doubtless vexed her then. I never should have kissed her. See What fools God's anger makes of men!

She might have loved me a little too, Had I been humbler for her sake. But that new shame could make love new She saw not--yet her shame did make.

I took too much upon my love, Having for such mean service done Her beauty and all the ways thereof, Her face and all the sweet thereon.

Yea, all this while I tended her, I know the old love held fast his part: I know the old scorn waxed heavier, Mixed with sad wonder, in her heart.

It may be all my love went wrong-- A scribe's work writ awry and blurred, Scrawled after the blind evensong-- Spoilt music with no perfect word.

But surely I would fain have done All things the best I could. Perchance Because I failed, came short of one, She kept at heart that other man's.

I am grown blind with all these things: It may be now she hath in sight Some better knowledge; still there clings The old question. Will not God do right?[3]

[3] En ce temps-la estoyt dans ce pays grand nombre de ladres et de meseaulx, ce dont le roy eut grand desplaisir, veu que Dieu dust en estre moult griefvement courrouce. Ores il advint qu'une noble damoyselle appelee Yolande de Sallieres estant atteincte et touste guastee de ce vilain mal, tous ses amys et ses parens ayant devant leurs yeux la paour de Dieu la firent issir fors de leurs maisons et oncques ne voulurent recepvoir ni reconforter chose mauldicte de Dieu et a tous les hommes puante et abhominable. Ceste dame avoyt este moult belle et gracieuse de formes, et de son corps elle estoyt large et de vie lascive. Pourtant nul des amans qui l'avoyent souventesfois accollee et baisee moult tendrement ne voulust plus heberger si laide femme et si detestable pescheresse. Ung seul clerc qui feut premierement son lacquays et son entremetteur en matiere d'amour la recut chez luy et la recela dans une petite cabane. La mourut la meschinette de grande misere et de male mort: et apres elle deceda ledist clerc qui pour grand amour l'avoyt six mois durant soignee, lavee, habillee et deshabillee tous les jours de ses mains propres. Mesme dist-on que ce meschant homme et mauldict clerc se rememourant de la grande beaute passee et guastee de ceste femme se delectoyt maintesfois a la baiser sur sa bouche orde et lepreuse et l'accoller doulcement de ses mains amoureuses. Aussy est-il mort de ceste mesme maladie abhominable. Cecy advint pres Fontainebellant en Gastinois. Et quand ouyt le roy Philippe ceste adventure moult en estoyt esmerveille.

_Grandes Chroniques de France, 1505._

A BALLAD OF BURDENS

The burden of fair women. Vain delight, And love self-slain in some sweet shameful way, And sorrowful old age that comes by night As a thief comes that has no heart by day, And change that finds fair cheeks and leaves them grey, And weariness that keeps awake for hire, And grief that says what pleasure used to say; This is the end of every man's desire.

The burden of bought kisses. This is sore, A burden without fruit in childbearing; Between the nightfall and the dawn threescore, Threescore between the dawn and evening. The shuddering in thy lips, the shuddering In thy sad eyelids tremulous like fire, Makes love seem shameful and a wretched thing, This is the end of every man's desire.

The burden of sweet speeches. Nay, kneel down, Cover thy head, and weep; for verily These market-men that buy thy white and brown In the last days shall take no thought for thee. In the last days like earth thy face shall be, Yea, like sea-marsh made thick with brine and mire, Sad with sick leavings of the sterile sea. This is the end of every man's desire.

The burden of long living. Thou shalt fear Waking, and sleeping mourn upon thy bed; And say at night "Would God the day were here," And say at dawn "Would God the day were dead." With weary days thou shalt be clothed and fed, And wear remorse of heart for thine attire, Pain for thy girdle and sorrow upon thine head; This is the end of every man's desire.

The burden of bright colours. Thou shalt see Gold tarnished, and the grey above the green; And as the thing thou seest thy face shall be, And no more as the thing beforetime seen. And thou shalt say of mercy "It hath been," And living, watch the old lips and loves expire, And talking, tears shall take thy breath between; This is the end of every man's desire.

The burden of sad sayings. In that day Thou shalt tell all thy days and hours, and tell Thy times and ways and words of love, and say How one was dear and one desirable, And sweet was life to hear and sweet to smell, But now with lights reverse the old hours retire And the last hour is shod with fire from hell; This is the end of every man's desire.

The burden of four seasons. Rain in spring, White rain and wind among the tender trees; A summer of green sorrows gathering, Rank autumn in a mist of miseries, With sad face set towards the year, that sees The charred ash drop out of the dropping pyre, And winter wan with many maladies; This is the end of every man's desire.

The burden of dead faces. Out of sight And out of love, beyond the reach of hands, Changed in the changing of the dark and light, They walk and weep about the barren lands Where no seed is nor any garner stands, Where in short breaths the doubtful days respire, And time's turned glass lets through the sighing sands; This is the end of every man's desire.

The burden of much gladness. Life and lust Forsake thee, and the face of thy delight; And underfoot the heavy hour strews dust, And overhead strange weathers burn and bite; And where the red was, lo the bloodless white, And where truth was, the likeness of a liar, And where day was, the likeness of the night; This is the end of every man's desire.

L'ENVOY

Princes, and ye whom pleasure quickeneth, Heed well this rhyme before your pleasure tire; For life is sweet, but after life is death. This is the end of every man's desire.

RONDEL

Kissing her hair I sat against her feet, Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; With her own tresses bound and found her fair, Kissing her hair.

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; What pain could get between my face and hers? What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, Kissing her hair?

BEFORE THE MIRROR

(VERSES WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE)

INSCRIBED TO J. A. WHISTLER

I

White rose in red rose-garden Is not so white; Snowdrops that plead for pardon And pine for fright Because the hard East blows Over their maiden rows Grow not as this face grows from pale to bright.

Behind the veil, forbidden, Shut up from sight, Love, is there sorrow hidden, Is there delight? Is joy thy dower or grief, White rose of weary leaf, Late rose whose life is brief, whose loves are light?

Soft snows that hard winds harden Till each flake bite Fill all the flowerless garden Whose flowers took flight Long since when summer ceased, And men rose up from feast, And warm west wind grew east, and warm day night.

II

"Come snow, come wind or thunder High up in air, I watch my face, and wonder At my bright hair; Nought else exalts or grieves The rose at heart, that heaves With love of her own leaves and lips that pair.

"She knows not loves that kissed her She knows not where. Art thou the ghost, my sister, White sister there, Am I the ghost, who knows? My hand, a fallen rose, Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.

"I cannot see what pleasures Or what pains were; What pale new loves and treasures New years will bear; What beam will fall, what shower, What grief or joy for dower; But one thing-knows the flower; the flower is fair."

III

Glad, but not flushed with gladness, Since joys go by; Sad, but not bent with sadness, Since sorrows die; Deep in the gleaming glass She sees all past things pass, And all sweet life that was lie down and lie.

There glowing ghosts of flowers Draw down, draw nigh; And wings of swift spent hours Take flight and fly; She sees by formless gleams, She hears across cold streams, Dead mouths of many dreams that sing and sigh.

Face fallen and white throat lifted, With sleepless eye She sees old loves that drifted, She knew not why, Old loves and faded fears Float down a stream that hears The flowing of all men's tears beneath the sky.

EROTION

Sweet for a little even to fear, and sweet, O love, to lay down fear at love's fair feet; Shall not some fiery memory of his breath Lie sweet on lips that touch the lips of death? Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; Love me no more, but love my love of thee. Love where thou wilt, and live thy life; and I, One thing I can, and one love cannot--die. Pass from me; yet thine arms, thine eyes, thine hair, Feed my desire and deaden my despair. Yet once more ere time change us, ere my cheek Whiten, ere hope be dumb or sorrow speak, Yet once more ere thou hate me, one full kiss; Keep other hours for others, save me this. Yea, and I will not (if it please thee) weep, Lest thou be sad; I will but sigh, and sleep. Sweet, does death hurt? thou canst not do me wrong: I shall not lack thee, as I loved thee, long. Hast thou not given me above all that live Joy, and a little sorrow shalt not give? What even though fairer fingers of strange girls Pass nestling through thy beautiful boy's curls As mine did, or those curled lithe lips of thine Meet theirs as these, all theirs come after mine; And though I were not, though I be not, best, I have loved and love thee more than all the rest. O love, O lover, loose or hold me fast, I had thee first, whoever have thee last; Fairer or not, what need I know, what care? To thy fair bud my blossom once seemed fair. Why am I fair at all before thee, why At all desired? seeing thou art fair, not I. I shall be glad of thee, O fairest head, Alive, alone, without thee, with thee, dead; I shall remember while the light lives yet, And in the night-time I shall not forget. Though (as thou wilt) thou leave me ere life leave, I will not, for thy love I will not, grieve; Not as they use who love not more than I, Who love not as I love thee though I die; And though thy lips, once mine, be oftener prest To many another brow and balmier breast, And sweeter arms, or sweeter to thy mind, Lull thee or lure, more fond thou wilt not find.

IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Back to the flower-town, side by side, The bright months bring, New-born, the bridegroom and the bride, Freedom and spring.

The sweet land laughs from sea to sea, Filled full of sun; All things come back to her, being free; All things but one.

In many a tender wheaten plot Flowers that were dead Live, and old suns revive; but not That holier head.

By this white wandering waste of sea, Far north, I hear One face shall never turn to me As once this year:

Shall never smile and turn and rest On mine as there, Nor one most sacred hand be prest Upon my hair.

I came as one whose thoughts half linger, Half run before; The youngest to the oldest singer That England bore.

I found him whom I shall not find Till all grief end, In holiest age our mightiest mind, Father and friend.

But thou, if anything endure, If hope there be, O spirit that man's life left pure, Man's death set free,

Not with disdain of days that were Look earthward now; Let dreams revive the reverend hair, The imperial brow;

Come back in sleep, for in the life Where thou art not We find none like thee. Time and strife And the world's lot

Move thee no more; but love at least And reverent heart May move thee, royal and released, Soul, as thou art.

And thou, his Florence, to thy trust Receive and keep, Keep safe his dedicated dust, His sacred sleep.

So shall thy lovers, come from far, Mix with thy name As morning-star with evening-star His faultless fame

A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER. 1852

Push hard across the sand, For the salt wind gathers breath; Shoulder and wrist and hand, Push hard as the push of death.

The wind is as iron that rings, The foam-heads loosen and flee; It swells and welters and swings, The pulse of the tide of the sea.

And up on the yellow cliff The long corn flickers and shakes; Push, for the wind holds stiff, And the gunwale dips and rakes.

Good hap to the fresh fierce weather, The quiver and beat of the sea! While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

Out to the sea with her there, Out with her over the sand; Let the kings keep the earth for their share! We have done with the sharers of land.

They have tied the world in a tether, They have bought over God with a fee; While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

We have done with the kisses that sting, The thief's mouth red from the feast, The blood on the hands of the king And the lie at the lips of the priest.

Will they tie the winds in a tether, Put a bit in the jaws of the sea? While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

Let our flag run out straight in the wind! The old red shall be floated again When the ranks that are thin shall be thinned, When the names that were twenty are ten;

When the devil's riddle is mastered And the galley-bench creaks with a Pope, We shall see Buonaparte the bastard Kick heels with his throat in a rope.

While the shepherd sets wolves on his sheep And the emperor halters his kine, While Shame is a watchman asleep And Faith is a keeper of swine,

Let the wind shake our flag like a feather, Like the plumes of the foam of the sea! While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

All the world has its burdens to bear, From Cayenne to the Austrian whips; Forth, with the rain in our hair And the salt sweet foam in our lips;

In the teeth of the hard glad weather, In the blown wet face of the sea; While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

A SONG IN TIME OF REVOLUTION. 1860

The heart of the rulers is sick, and the high-priest covers his head: For this is the song of the quick that is heard in the ears of the dead.

The poor and the halt and the blind are keen and mighty and fleet: Like the noise of the blowing of wind is the sound of the noise of their feet.

The wind has the sound of a laugh in the clamour of days and of deeds: The priests are scattered like chaff, and the rulers broken like reeds.

The high-priest sick from qualms, with his raiment bloodily dashed; The thief with branded palms, and the liar with cheeks abashed.

They are smitten, they tremble greatly, they are pained for their pleasant things: For the house of the priests made stately, and the might in the mouth of the kings.

They are grieved and greatly afraid; they are taken, they shall not flee: For the heart of the nations is made as the strength of the springs of the sea.

They were fair in the grace of gold, they walked with delicate feet: They were clothed with the cunning of old, and the smell of their garments was sweet.

For the breaking of gold in their hair they halt as a man made lame: They are utterly naked and bare; their mouths are bitter with shame.

Wilt thou judge thy people now, O king that wast found most wise? Wilt thou lie any more, O thou whose mouth is emptied of lies?

Shall God make a pact with thee, till his hook be found in thy sides? Wilt thou put back the time of the sea, or the place of the season of tides?

Set a word in thy lips, to stand before God with a word in thy mouth: That "the rain shall return in the land, and the tender dew after drouth."