Part 3

If love too oft repeats itself herein, These verses testify to my dear cause; To eagerly acclaim, but never pause, In this belated quest, if I would win. Let it not then be counted as a sin, Should this one word occur in every clause, That doth my heart describe with truth, because No other dwells so fittingly therein. For if not thus, how else may lovers speak, Save in that self-same language, recognized By all who have experienced the fire Of love’s sweet passion, which, though strong or weak, Gives that with which all men have sympathized, And still on earth doth every soul inspire?

XXIII

How true it is that every joy we feel Carries its own full price of equal pain, And brings to us some sorrow in its train. I thought me safe from love, yet now I kneel Before thy lovely being, and conceal But little of that joy which I obtain. Still what I have seems mixed with thy disdain. How can I then unto thy soul appeal? If it is but the force of my disease That makes me over-sensitive with thee, And causes me to suffer at thy frown, Or long thy fleeting anger to appease, ’Tis difficult for my blind love to see How best with jewels thy fair head to crown!

XXIV

Yet why repine? ’Tis he who laughs that wins. The careless, gay, unfeeling company Of men who think not of emotion, see Th’ accomplishment of their unholy sins Bring from the many an applause that dins The voice of one poor soul, who lives to be Truer to nature’s homily than he Who cares not how love’s happiness begins. Then let me sing with gayety and smile; Though hard it be to mask my agony Of loneliness, when thou art otherwise Engaged. Assist me, Eros, to beguile This heart, that cares more for the company Of those who would be neither great nor wise!

XXV

Oh, for the longed-for moment that might bring Thy soul in closer touch or tune with mine, And, in the fulness of its love, entwine Our hearts in one eternal praise; to sing Love’s pæan unto God! An angel’s wing Were better suited to thy form, to shine In Heaven’s brilliancy, and make divine That which thy soul upon this earth would fling. Whatever change of heart may come to thee, Thou fairest of earth’s flowers, my beloved, Think not to find me absent from thy side, In that blest hour, which I have prayed to see; Nor shrink, from fear that I may be removed From thy dear shrine, whatever may betide.

XXVI

Oh heart, hast thou no liberty, to gain That which thou seekest so persistently? ’Tis now full many a year, insistently, That thou dost search for love’s maturer fane. Art thou thine own to be refused again By nature’s rude requital now to thee: This poor return for love’s best gift? Ah me! Why should she turn thy pleasure unto pain? ’Tis only then by loving me that thou, Dear one, canst save me from eternal fire: Unending grief from which I may not rise, Save by the glad acceptance of a vow From thee; to turn Hell’s flame to Heav’n’s desire, That those who love shall win Love’s sacred prize.

XXVII

Dearest of dearer things, that are to me More dear each hour that my spirit grows In its intensity of love, and flows With warm desire; thy true love I would see, Crowning that which I oft have wished to be Th’ attainment of my life. He little knows, Who hears of me from enemies and foes, How true is my own soul’s sincerity. For I had rather brave the fires of hell, Than know that thou shouldst never come to me, With love’s embraces in thy fair blue eyes, And that on earth I ne’er should hear thee tell My grateful spirit, how thou mightest be That which alone hath power to quench my sighs.

XXVIII

For there is that in man which doth desire Some time, in every heart, the play of love: The emulation of his life above, Before he came to earth, here to aspire To something unattained, and feel the fire Of untaught passion, his new being move To sorrow, that it doth so ill behoove The sense of love to suddenly inspire. For who so harsh, that he denies th’ embrace Of beauty’s arms about his melting form; Or doth refuse the loved one’s proffered kiss, When, half reclining, she would seem to chase All care from off this earth, in one fair storm Of loveliness, whose presence is true bliss?

XXIX

Sweeter than are the flowers of spring, that bloom In all their fragrance underneath the skies; Fairer than all those glories that arise From earth, to give a delicate perfume Unto the airs, that by their birth assume New life and joyousness; I would surmise To be thy charms, which frequently surprise My soul with smiles that banish every gloom. I would that I, one half as easily, Might pluck thee from thy temporary bed Of earthly pleasure, and possess the flower Of thy young life, to keep it worthily Within the garden of my heart, and wed Thy true love to my own far greater power!

XXX

Consign me not, while honoring thy love, To the sad realm of lovers who have lost The prize, that oft to them their life hath cost; Nor send me from th’ Olympian height above This poor, imperfect life wherein we move, Deep down into the nether world. At most, Have pity on a lover that thou dost Not have the heart to readily reprove. My own, my loved one, oh, receive from Heaven That which I pray for nightly, ere I lay My suffering soul to rest! I would that I Had power to give what Nature hath not given To thy dear self, and that this looked-for day Might yet be borne upon thee, by and by!

XXXI

Was it with joy or with time’s false relief, That I perceived the presence of thy being, Clothed all in charm, once more alone, and seeing, Beheld in thee both happiness and grief? For surely, Cupid, thou art but a thief, To steal from man his heart, and, with it fleeing, Reduce him to love’s penury, agreeing The while to soon replace his lost belief. Loved one, thou bringest with thee pleasant hours, That, dying all too soon, leave me in pain For many a day and weary week betimes; Refusing strangely love’s perpetual flowers; Without the which my love for thee seems vain, Save for th’ alleviation of my rhymes.

XXXII

Dost thou not feel some longing in thy breast For an affection that on earth must play The part of Heaven’s imitation, yea, The power on which true love must surely rest? How willingly would I thy spirit wrest From its cold prison house, and wake to-day Some sentiment in thee, that should not say My love was but a visionary quest! What power can make thee understand, that I Do feel for thee all Heaven and Hell combined In one magnificent emotion here, And that thou mightest profit well thereby, Couldst thou but recognize the love confined Within thy heart, and cause it to appear?

XXXIII

Even could to-day have brought thee unto me But for one fleeting hour, I might rest In the enchantment of thy bliss, and best Enjoy this marking of the years that see A quest of love, that from my birth must be The strongest passion stirred within my breast. Still, though my soul this prayer to thee addrest; Thou wouldst not to so slight a gift agree. And yet, how little honor, fame, compare, In satisfaction to this longing heart, With one delicious moment in thine arms! Tormenting vision of the holy air Of heaven, from which on earth we soon do part; While nothing the uneasy spirit calms!

XXXIV

Dear heart! why dost thou shun my own desire To be with thee each hour of every day, Each day in every year, and with thee play The game of love thy beauty would inspire? I cannot now extinguish the sweet fire That burns within my soul. To thee I say, I am in an imperishable way Thy faithful friend, whose love shall never tire. Dost thou then fear committal to be mine, Even for a space, lest scandal touch thy name? No thought is further from my wish towards thee. To make our sweet companionship, in time, Ripen to all that life may bring to fame, Is my intention for thyself and me.

XXXV

What fault within me dost thou cultivate? What still reject, though I assure my heart That I am all thine own, and not in part The man thou dost possess and captivate? Still, while I thank the gods, I would berate The irony of nature that doth start In me the wound that Cupid’s fiery dart Hath caused to flow, and mourn it, now too late. Why must the mistress of emotion give To one a portion of divine desire, And to another an unending flow Of love’s untempered thought, that cannot live, Save in some reservoir, that must inspire The whole of thy fair being love to know?

XXXVI

Loved one, though thou shouldst spurn me as a thing Unworthy of affection or regard, Think not alone that vanity may guard Thy spirit from the friend that thou wouldst fling So heedlessly aside. For life may bring Its own swift sorrow, sad, or cold, or hard; Then mayst thou think, perchance, of that young bard, Who came to thee, his song of love to sing! And when thy heart repine thee, if it doth, Take from my own the sorrow thou hast given, Like to a travesty of happiness, Devoured in its fulness by a moth, That eats the leaf from off the tree of Heaven, And leaves the soul of man in loneliness!

XXXVII

Didst have, for me, one fleeting hour of love? Then conjure to thyself that thought again; Nor from its own sweet constancy refrain, Till earth and air, and everything above This hemisphere of human hearts, doth have No longer any substance in its train. Toward this ideal I willingly would strain Each nerve, my soul from endless grief to save. Sweet, honeyed flower, whose breath, to me divine, Makes earth at once seem Heaven, that Heaven thyself; Bring me the fragrance of thy scented being, More full of fair sensation than sweet wine, That doth entice new torments to myself; And give to me what I, half blind, am seeing.

XXXVIII

Ah me! Sad fate doth overcome my soul, As the old year now passeth from my sight, And many a hope lies dying with its flight, To hear the death-knell of the hours toll. Even as the sounds upon the night airs roll, Death giveth place to birth, and Love’s delight Is born, in some young heart, that soon may plight Its simple troth, and reach the promised goal. I would that, with this old year, there might die In me all sorrow, or desire to have That which I may not soon possess as mine, Or that this hour new-born might still defy My own well-founded fear, that thy true love Should never once through life upon me shine!

XXXIX

And now what hope have I to touch thine heart, As the new year brings joy to every land? What chance is there that thou shouldst understand That which defies my power to impart To thy dear self its meaning, though I start To win anew with love thy treasured hand? Like some uncertain pebble on the sand, I find me now, tossed by the waves that part. Oh! canst thou not, sweet pearl upon the ocean Of love’s resistless power to possess All men in its divine and fair embrace, Perceive my unmistakable devotion To thy sweet self, and give but one caress That might so easily thy presence grace?

XL

How often have I asked, through this past year, If all that I have suffered did repay My fleeting joy of Heaven for a day; That made thy soul at once to me more dear Than all else in the whole wide world. I fear That, in my heart, I may not truly say It brought Love’s recompense within its way, Or caused the lowering of Love’s sky to clear. And yet, although thou wouldst misuse my love, Without apparently one real regret, How shall I, loving as I do, despair That thou mayst still, some happy day, disprove The charge that stains thy name: soon to forget That which thou wert the first one to declare?

XLI

Methinks the saddest of all pains to bear Are those which break in twain the lover’s heart, Which cling to life when love from life doth part, And cause it to take sorrow for its share. In vain do men go forth, in dim despair, Seeking to extricate Love’s poisoned dart From some dark spot whence it would not depart, And still return to find it fastened there. O god of Love! Some mercy to thy swains Show in the hours of agony they feel! Couldst thou but suffer half they do endure, Or feel in part the measure of their pains; With something, thou wouldst try their wounds to heal, Or else endeavor thy disease to cure!

XLII

As the wild waves roll o’er some rock-bound coast, And break in futile effort to possess Something beyond their reach, I must confess Am I in my fierce passion, that can boast No more of thee than surging seas at most Do find as they rebound in their distress, Half-clothed in weeds and winter’s sombre dress; So often have I thought thy love was lost! Yet, at one little word or smile from thee, These winter storms do change to summer seas, And I am softened in a moment’s time. So would the magic of thyself give me A sweeter sentiment, that still doth please More than the summits of desire to climb.

XLIII

While sad at heart, that thou wilt not give me Thy treasured self, more often than the time Of every year doth change; thy lover’s crime I still may countervail, while I do see Thy lovely form once more, enclosing thee Reclining in my arms, and leave sad rhyme For power to rejoice, that love sublime Hath still returned again to solace me. If not thyself, let that remembrance come: The holiest hour that I have known in life, When all I felt were God and Heaven and thee, To still remain, when thou dost leave my home, That without thee is only a sad strife ’Twixt my desire and that which cannot be.

XLIV

When clouds disperse, and sunshine fills the sky, Then doth my heart think fittingly of thee; And I imagine that thou think’st of me, As one who loveth for eternity. Fair one, could this but be a certainty, No longer would I crave in vain to see The face of Heaven after death, but be Forever on this earth while thou wert by. Ah! but such dreams of happiness disperse, Like visionary clouds upon the air That warms with sunlight o’er some summer’s day, And chills again, as doth my passing verse, Whenever thou refusest Love’s sweet lair, To which thou know’st so well the only way!

XLV

Should I return, and find once more that thou Wert willing to become but half my bride, With what swift pace would I, in gladness, ride O’er the salt seas or coursing streams, that plough Their way ’twixt rocky chasms, and endow Their passage with those dangers that betide Love’s course, as we pursue it side by side. Sweetheart! What would I give to see thee now! And yet how sad, this knowledge that I hold, From past experience, within my heart: That even should I be within thy reach, Thou wouldst not make one effort to enfold Mine arms in thine, cold maiden that thou art! How then, at last, love to thee shall I teach?

XLVI

What God hath made thee half of graven stone, Half godlike, His own image to portray That thou shouldst so continually stray From every love-shaft that my verse hath thrown For these long years toward thee, and still disown The very sentiment that thou dost say Moves thee to love, though in some other way Than I to thee in my full heart have shown? Loved angel, of some sphere so far beyond The sordid realm of this poor fleeting life, That thou art some fair spirit clothed with form, Tell me, in truth, why thou dost still seem fond Of me, yet ’neath my heart dost plunge the knife Of love’s sad torture, and my spirit storm?

XLVII

Canst thou not feel the tragedy of love, That followeth the train of thy delay To give what thou hast owed, full many a day, Unto my patient soul; that surely strove Last year thy loving sentiment to move Toward something higher than mere passion’s sway? How canst thou then, in truth, to thine heart say Thou hast fulfilled the duty of true love? I fear me that, like many, thou dost find A cruel joy in breaking this poor heart, Whose only crime is that it loves too well. Dost feel no obligation to be kind To those who honor thee, nor to depart From evils that no mortal can foretell?

XLVIII

To-morrow I must journey for a space. A year it seemeth, though a month it be; For in it thou remainest far from me; Nor shall I once behold thy lovely face, Whose coming doth so well my chamber grace; But feel the hope, oft vain, that I may see Some passing vision, or something of thee, Which each new day I live doth grow apace. Ah! Thou didst come with others to my shrine, Even as the sun did set this afternoon, And give to me one of those rare delights, That move my soul to lose itself in thine; Like some fleet harbinger of Love, that soon Departs from me for many days and nights!

XLIX

For what strange purpose hath God sent this longing Unto my soul, for thy most precious love, To raise it suddenly to realms above, And then deliver it to one belonging More to the realm of Satan’s world, destroying The fair ideal that all my life I strove To realize? Oh, cause me to remove This spell that is no happiness employing! Yet who that falleth in love’s meshes knoweth Why he hath fallen, or from whence he fell, Or who in truth can understand love’s reason, Save that some joy and pain it often soweth; The most of which we cannot always tell, When they at first appear in love’s sweet season.

L

How little comfort is there in the thought, Kind friends so often give love’s bleeding heart: That love’s sharp pain grows less whene’er we part, And leave behind the prize so dearly bought! Yet who doth learn this lesson he hath taught, So that when love shall send its subtle dart Within his soul, he may the same impart Unto himself, and leave what he hath sought? I know but few, among them not myself, Who practise this sad cure for love’s disease, That do not bear some wound, in after years, More painful than love’s wounding pain itself; Or that do find elsewhere, what doth appease The hunger in their souls, or dry their tears.

LI

For each long league that bears me far from thee Doth seem to take life’s blood from out my veins, As every yearning hour that passeth drains The spring of my affection, that might be O’erflowing with love’s precious remedy. Ah me! This is a grievous fate that stains Love’s half-possessed ambition, and remains To overshadow all that rests of me! Loved one, I find not, as the world I roam, A spirit half so comforting as thine, Ev’n in thy moments of most wilful charm, None that would half so fittingly my home Grace with its presence, or from whose eyes shine A sweeter light, while giving love’s alarm.

LII

When last I saw thee, thou wert uppermost In every thought that stirred my inner being, In every act thy presence I was seeing. And now thou comest to me like a ghost, While I receive thee as some phantom host; For every time I touch thee thou art fleeing Far from the tempest of my heart; agreeing With some sad fate that happiness hath lost. Now, though I strive to sever from my heart Those elements divine that make thy love For me the object of my life’s desire, There cometh that, which doth from Heaven depart, To lift me once again to Heaven above, And thus forbid that I should quench love’s fire.

LIII

O mighty Prophet, who dost signify To little man the vanity of life, The folly of its temporary strife, Give to the only one who doth deny My love some passing sense, to gratify The constant longing that is ever rife Within my soul, and sever with a knife This fatal cord, my love is fettered by. With some such prayer to thee would I appeal, In impotence, to strike ’gainst nature’s law, That causeth love unhonored still to live. Before thy throne now humbly do I kneel, As at the feet of her whom I adore, And pray that love to me thou still mayst give.

LIV

If thou hadst felt toward me as I to thee, Since the first hour that love knocked at my heart, And I, unwilling, opened it in part, Then would all Heaven’s warmth have been to me As noon-day sun upon some tranquil sea; And every hour its blessing would impart To both our souls, that never could depart Till we had cast it from us willingly. Then why, Sweet Love, should this not still be so? A great ideal perchance we both conceive, And striving, each in some vain way, to find, Lose youth’s enduring treasure here below. Why mayst thou not, then, in thy heart perceive That thou art to thyself and me unkind?

LV

Like the soft air of summer is thy smile, That, lighting on my sadness, clears the air, To make this clouded life again seem fair, With all thy deft enchantments, that beguile The swains that follow thee for many a mile. But with thy sunshine I find lurking there, Something in thee that bringeth deep despair, Seeming to savor of young Cupid’s wile. Then hath he not, mayhap, enveigled thee Into the mischief of his lover’s net, And caused thee to torment thy swains anew, With tricks, of which thou mayst the author be? ’Twould seem as if some love-snare he had set, To wreck the lives of lovers not a few.

LVI

If every song I sing seems tinged with sadness; If every hour I think of thee I sigh; If I for love still grieve, ask me not why I do not sing to-day in joy and gladness; Nor tell me, if not so, that it is madness. For such strange action would my heart belie, And from my spirit ring a love-sick cry Against so fair a semblance of its badness. If reason thou wouldst have, ask thine own self Why thou dost keep me, in love’s penury, Upon the desert of my great desire, And, like some oasis, receive myself At distant spaces of its memory-- To burn my soul with an unquenchèd fire!

LVII