Part 5

Believe not, gentle maid, that all is won When first thou dost behold thy lover dear; Nor yet that all thy path lies fair and clear From love’s first charm until its work be done. A fickle child thou comest thereupon, Whom thou mayst learn in time to view with fear. Cupid, though young, may cast a shadow drear, Whose chilling gloom shall hide thee from the sun. A lovely valley may thy footsteps lure, All filled with flowers that for the fair are grown, Yet ’neath its depth lie pitfalls for the pure, And deep contagions that are oft unknown. Then happy art thou if thou holdst love sure, Thus to escape the menace of his frown.

XCIII

Love heeds not time, nor space, nor form, nor woe, The seasons, slain by Cupid’s arrows, fade Like misty spectres; and the night, remade, Gives place once more to day’s unceasing show. The past gave joy; the future pain must know. Reflection of itself makes love, ’tis said, Mirror the beauty of its thought, repaid A thousand times to lovers when they go. For which is most, experience or thought? Anticipation or sweet memory? The preparation for what love once brought; Or last, the dwelling on delight passed by? All these love still commands, through battles fought With passion, lust, desire, and life’s stern cry.

XCIV

Happy my heart, and happier far was I, When ignorant of love’s entanglement; When I knew not its art or blandishment, And fearless passed young Cupid lightly by. Oh, happy hour! How vainly do I try To now regain my freedom, and repent The days, the hours, the years that have been In giving birth to an unanswered cry! No. Not in the review of my life’s sin Have I found punishment, or court, or trial, Or sentence of mankind, or prison wherein I might drink drops of poison from a phial, Or retribution that could half begin To be so bitter as love’s cold denial.

XCV

Strive as I would to banish from my mind The witchery that thy fair presence giveth, I cannot kill the flower of love that liveth, By that same witchery, or leave behind The subtle fragrance that doth still remind My soul of one whose song forever singeth, Like some inhabitant of air that wingeth Above those treasures that on earth we find. For it is oft--as I indeed am now-- With those who trample love beneath the heart. The more they seek to kill, or lay it low, The more it liveth with new-fashioned art, That causeth it, unwelcomed, still to grow, And thus deny that from it they shall part.

XCVI

Since on thy form hath beauty laid its hand, And set its snare for thee and me likewise, Yet taught thee the Soul’s beauty to despise; And given thee no power to understand The reason or the influence that planned The depth of life, yet still to temporize; How is such wanton thought to harmonize With love’s fierce fire by my strong passion fanned? O! Waste not then thy beauty in its youth; But turn it to account, lest thine own end Shall find thee, left without an hair or tooth, All stripped of nature’s charm, which now may lend Its power, for thee to reproduce the truth Of that same beauty thou wouldst lightly spend.

XCVII

In those brief moments when thou wert my own, I drank a poison deadlier to my heart Than that which toucheth every vital part, And causeth man to tremble and to moan Until the seeds of death be fairly sown, And he in palsied attitude doth start To rise, before his spirit shall depart, And utter on this earth its final groan. That poison was love’s undisguised belief That I had found eternal happiness, True freedom from all ill, and true relief From weary waiting and from loneliness. Ah! Cruel fate! Thou gavest but new grief, When I believed that Heaven my life would bless!

XCVIII

Let not thy beauty serve thee in the guise Of some dark power, as it hath in the past. Make for thyself some beauty that may last, And for thy friends some gratitude likewise. Best that they should applaud thee to the skies, Than in old age thou shouldst aside be cast, And when thou diest be but death’s repast: Nought but cold clay (from which the soul should rise). Forget not that thy flesh must soon expire, And thy youth’s veil from off thy face be torn. Then must thou from deception soon retire, When outward beauty is by time outworn. Oh! I would see thy soul by love reborn: Thou for thyself; I for my heart’s desire.

XCIX

When I alone unto my chamber go, To fold the shroud of night about my heart, And mourn an empty day that doth depart; And with sad thought compose my spirit so; There cometh to me the dear form I know; And, conjured with imagination’s art, It bringeth thee, so living, that I start; And my glad tears upon thy bosom flow. But oh, for shame! That not thyself entire Be mine, as thou shouldst be, instead of this! On earth both flesh and spirit hold empire, Wherein is man the vassal of a kiss. Yet nature must I thank, as I retire, That though I hold thee not I know thy bliss.

C

When all the world would smile in summer time, And bear the train of nature’s equipage; And love appeareth, as an appanage, To make each lover’s atmosphere sublime; Then would I take this pen and form a rhyme, That singeth of my three years’ vassalage (Still held in love’s unwilling peonage), That doth my spirit and my heart begrime. For how could love exalt, which hath, for long, Reduced me to so destitute a state That through each winter I must nurse my wrong, Until each spring shall bring thee, all too late? And when the summer cometh, my sad song Is only to deplore that I must wait.

CI

A little flower in my garden groweth. “Love-in-a-mist” is given as its name. Another, of blood hue, beside the same, Doth droop and fall upon the wind that bloweth. This is the “bleeding heart.” Like mine, it knoweth The tragic reason for its early fame, By some sad chance, upon the earth it came; But soon, though full of bloom, asleep it goeth. Two emblems have I in these garden flowers. “Love-in-a-mist” thou must be still for me, Deep hidden in love’s own mysterious bowers, Where, all uncertain, I can scarcely see. Yet from my “bleeding heart” I gain new powers, Though trampled under foot and crushed by thee.

CII

My love makes of my life a sad display; All full of good desires within me born, Like youthful verdure in the early morn; Yet by its mischief ruining each day. No more have I the courage that shall say: “From such poor revenue let me be torn, Lest my life’s high estate be basely shorn, And I no longer have wherewith to pay.” No! still I hold to thy heart’s company, That would but seldom grant what I may use, Not knowing by what power thou holdest me; Yet giving all; that all must still refuse; Unless this line be writ upon the sky, And bring eternal life to this my muse.

CIII

If in thyself doth all my love reside; And thou, the storehouse of love’s revenue, Holdest my happiness in full review; In thy dear eyes lies pain for me beside. Upon my heart thou ruthlessly dost ride, Grown callous to entreaty made anew. Though without hope that kindness may ensue, Let my blood flow to satisfy thy pride. Strange cruelty, enforced by Nature’s child! Thou, friendly in thy feeling, but grown cold; I, burned with Cupid’s fire and beguiled; Thou fearful, I the more by thee made bold; Thou, longing to be free, untamed and wild; I, young with love, though by its pain grown old.

CIV

Though my true love should be my own undoing, In leading me where wisdom may disprove, Yet would I choose, in spite of all, to love, So I might have the triumph of thy wooing. Then might I feel that youth I were renewing; My heart’s sad livery for once remove; And I might ride through avenues above The common path that life hath been pursuing. For nought could equal love, my love, with thee; Nor could I ever tire of thy praise, If thou all that I wish wouldst be to me, And my soul unto Heaven wouldst upraise. Since in love’s season lovers all agree, Then give me back what I lose in thy gaze.

CV

Though thou shouldst not perceive how love in me Doth play such havoc with my interest, That I am, as with penury, distrest; All torn by tragic thought and agony; Though thou mayst think it be no harm to see Thy lover with love’s wound upon his breast, Think not that by denying him ’tis best To foster for thyself life’s harmony. For though thou mayst deceive thy heart and mine, Posterity, by me, thy soul laid bare, Shall read the truth within this written line, And judge if in thy love thou hast been fair. All is, eternal honor may be thine, So thou prove not my muse and my despair.

CVI

To thee all life is but a passing pleasure, No deeper than the thought within thy mind; And thy short love is of a lighter kind Than that which bringeth to my heart its measure. How wanton is thy waste of so great treasure! And oh, how little value dost thou find! How vacant is thy vision, and how blind! How empty is thy work, how vain thy leisure! Let all thy faults foregather on that day, When Love shall touch thee with his magic wand, And thou at last unto thyself shall say Thy breast is wounded, but thy heart is fond. Yet shall I love thy spirit, come what may, Though thou be old, and I be far beyond.

CVII

Not clothed in transient beauty nor pale health, Like the night-blooming flower, that displays Its fullest glory when the violet rays Of sunlight vanish, and, as if by stealth, The sable realm of night, the commonwealth Of all deceiving things, appears and stays, Till day doth swift disperse its tricks and plays: Not such art thou, endowed with nature’s wealth. But on thy cheek the peach-blush of the sun Blends with the russet touch of summer’s hand; And in thine eye, fresh youth, that fades not soon, Lives in perpetual triumph, that is won From country joys, waving their magic wand Beneath the sunlit skies or silvery moon.

CVIII

No mind have I to tell thee all thou art, Yet giving half, how can I keep the rest, Since, knowing all, I see both worst and best, And may not then in truth withhold a part? Thy worst is like love’s dagger to my heart; Like Satan, in angelic vestment drest, That bringeth pain disguised into my breast. Such is thy worst. Let me thy best impart. Thy best is all thyself, thy beauty’s charm, Thy glance, thy smile, thy youth’s fair consciousness, Thy power to endear, to twine thine arm With subtle grace about love’s deep distress. Still, be it worst or best, thou dost me harm, Though bringing pleasure with thy soft caress.

CIX

Oh, Love doth play such wanton tricks with men, That all their frailty is at once revealed, However much they wish it were concealed; For common wisdom lies beyond their ken. Like some slain victim toward a lion’s den, So are they led, when once to love they yield. The warrior tamed lays by his trusted shield; The youth, his youth; old age its reason then. In each condition is mankind disturbed, Played false, or in unguarded mood surprised, Made mad by overjoy, or else perturbed Through sudden fear that love must be disguised. By some such thought my love alone is curbed, The which, I trow, thou hast ere now surmised.

CX

Not all the years of my uncounted pain Could teach me wisdom to myself and thee; So I still love, and thou still holdest me; Nor all the torture of thy fair disdain Wring from thy lips confession, or attain The height of misery that love must be When, unexpressed, itself it may not free From silent thought, or find some speech again. Yet love, though long unkind, hath taught me this, That I may find expression on its page; Though not the record of its perfect bliss, Yet, something of its value to mine age, Mixèd with poison from the fatal kiss That love still bringeth in its equipage.

CXI

At least thou canst not say I have not loved, Make accusation fit time’s test of me. Bring all thy grievance to love’s court, and see How truly my devotion hath been proved, And what high motive hath my spirit moved. Bring all the powers to bear that lie in thee. At least thou canst not claim inconstancy As comrade to that love by thee disproved. For this sad company my soul hath still, That is alike companion to my thought, Precursor of my fate and fate’s dark will; My mendicant desire that thou be brought Into my life, my empty heart to fill, And there remain; my own and dearly sought.

CXII

Often do I in meditation dream That in my garden thou art, with my flowers: To watch with me the foxglove, as it towers High o’er the feathery fern above the stream. The waving corn-flower catcheth the sun’s gleam. The yellow poppies, born in summer hours, Now bloomed, shed all their seeds in tiny showers, And nature in a lovely mood would seem. So thou, in my imagination, art. And ’neath the azured canopy of heaven, We twain, like children, each do play a part; Now, by the sun, beneath love’s bower driven; Now, by some wingèd creature, caused to start And leave the goal for which we both have striven.

CXIII

If thou who readst this verse do find herein More tragedy than joyous thought exprest, Oh, marvel not, that grief should not be drest By me, in bright array, to cloak my sin. My sin is love, love which I may not win; And by this fact is my heart overprest With weight of sorrow, and my soul distrest, That I must end where others do begin. So, if thou seekest to find within this line Enjoyment of a jest, pray put it by. ’Tis simply for love’s elegy to twine A wreath of myrtle with a lover’s sigh. For if this verse were gay, ’twould not be mine, Since lacking of my true love’s love am I.

CXIV

Yet ne’ertheless would I make holiday; Exchange love’s martyrdom; be light of heart; Take note of others who enjoy love’s art; Make measurable sport of what I may; Seek men and women who are blithe and gay; Forget the past and love’s more cruel mart, Wherein doth sorrow play so large a part; And mirror life in a more mirthful way. Oh! that I might be now the youth I was, Before love’s mastery enslaved my soul: Free in my fancy, free from life’s stern laws, When love of life alone was my heart’s goal. Then hath it need of holiday, because For long it heareth nightly love’s dirge toll.

CXV

Oh! well have I examined my defect, And all my faults and follies, yet anew (Knowing, alas, too well, they be not few), And marshalled them, that I may thus detect, Which fault or folly love doth not protect, And which would separate my heart from you. From some like cause ’twould seem you must eschew This proffered courtship, and my love reject. Then tell me, dear, the which I do adjure Your honor and your honesty to name. For ’tis my right, while my love doth endure, To ask if fault or scandal shall proclaim Its untoward presence, and your thought allure. For lies should not kill love, nor hurt my fame.

CXVI

Oh! what a thought hath filled my brain this night, And burned my fevered brow, as I suspect That all these years, the love thou didst reject Was, through strange chance, belittled in thy sight By some foul slander or some worldly wight. Methinks some poisonous tongue doth intersect Both love and friendship, and its shade reflect Unseen upon me, like some evil sprite. What’s this, that with a start I do behold, As darkness cloaks me round in cold embrace? Some goblin, born of fear, by fear made bold? Some lie that lives, yet dares not show its face? Some tale that knows ’tis false as soon as told? Such company my love doth poorly grace.

CXVII

And with the morn, though sunrise shall disperse Those phantoms that dark hours oft have sought, The spectral visage of some midnight thought Doth still unite its poison to my verse. In truth, suspicion makes a cruel nurse, A poor companion, that the world hath brought To tend the soul when, ill and overwrought, It reaches by such means a stage still worse. Let not my life, then, kill this tree of love, Nor canker-worm destroy its fresh green leaf, Nor moth devour its foliage from above; So that its ruin shatter my belief In love’s ideal and Cupid’s vernal grove. For love that doth prove false must die of grief.

CXVIII

Not every prince, nor king, nor emperor liveth, After his years upon this earth pass by; Not every painter’s brush, nor poet’s sigh Bringeth to the world the passion that it giveth; Not every sculptor’s chiselled stone outliveth The fell destruction of time’s tenancy; Nor men thought great, nor man’s inconstancy, Commit the sins that life’s last court forgiveth, Not such as these form that immortal band, Whose names adorn the temples of past ages. Nay, those decreed by nature to withstand The deep emotions written o’er life’s pages. Their thoughts with all mankind go hand in hand, Their loves make one with genius and the sages.

CXIX

How shall I all thy virtues here recount, Dear one, within the limit of this line; Or round thy brow a wreath of roses twine, To mark the passage of the years we mount; Or how, in this short verse, describe the fount Of love, within my heart, that is all thine? Within thy soul’s retreat a light doth shine, That maketh my return of poor account. Then of my homage take what is thy due, That which is mine to give, and free the giving. For all I have is now derived from you, The best of all that maketh life worth living: A gift of nature, given unto few, Though, when received, a cause for their thanksgiving.

CXX

’Tis strange, how little doth the world perceive The interchange of thought ’twixt thee and me; And how far distant from the truth it be When, guessing of my love, it doth deceive Itself and others, and some tale conceive That hath no setting for my heart or thee. Then happy are we that it doth not see Beyond the false report it would receive. So thou, sweet one, unmarried to my love That all these years hath sought thee near at hand, And seen thee bud and flower, as I strove To wait till Cupid touch thee with his wand; So thou, upon some pedestal above, Locked in the secret of my heart shall stand.

CXXI

That which we have we value not to-day, Yet when ’tis gone its absence we deplore. If fortune flieth and be ours no more, Its trail of sorrow passeth on our way, If by infirmity we cease to play Those truant games that childhood doth adore, Then are we all anxiety therefore; Since many long for youth when they grow gray. So thou, who hast not felt love’s fiercest pain, And all unconscious cast my love aside, Mayst wake to knowledge, and would love regain When I no longer on this earth reside, Remembered by my love, that shall remain; But thou, for killing me with thy false pride.

CXXII

Oh, chide me not, if in this life I make Poor tillage of the soil that men do plough; And hold me not transgressor, if I now Of this world’s order would not so partake. Love’s harvester am I, my love at stake, And by lost love my thought, it seems, must grow. While others happy issue from it know, My soul may not produce till my heart break. Then plough, sad spirit, o’er the cheerless morrow, And though thy husbandry be but a line, Know that its fruit, born like a child of sorrow, May bear thy likeness, and be thy life’s sign In after years, so that the world shall borrow Some portion of the love that once was thine.

CXXIII

If thou wert chainèd by the bans of life, And wedded to another, as thy lord, I well might pierce this heart as with a sword, And leave to love the virtue of a wife. But since thou holdest, by love’s hand, a knife, Made sharp by wit, thy maidenhood’s reward; Thou mayst so wound me by one fickle word, That I am all at enmity and strife. Unwedded then, save to youth’s foolish pride, Thou art still free, and chaste as virgin snow, That, taken in captivity, doth fade, And melt to water, clear as for a bride. Then surely I through frosty drifts may plough, To capture, in love’s chase, th’ unwedded maid.

CXXIV

Thou art, in truth, my muse’s only guide, That fashions by this pen thine image here, Developèd, through loving, year by year: The picture of thy beauty and thy pride. For all my verse doth hold, thou dost decide, Since, writing, I the thought of thee hold dear, And must portray thy very joy and fear, This mirror and thyself stand side by side. Then, should thy true resemblance live herein (An only offspring of my love, for me), I treasure this thy likeness as my child; And think thereon, as I do think on thee. For thou art both my angel and my sin; Since ’twas my sin to be by thee beguiled.

CXXV

Back from the sculptured chantry of the past, The chiselled forms of memory appear, Like stately sentinels of night, yet dear And welcome, as they gather swift and fast; Fast on the heels of love, returned at last, And swift, as recollection draweth near. The songs of th’ exalted choir ring so clear, They echo thoughts that time hath long recast. Old chambers of the mind lie thus exposed, By some strange magic, moved with nature’s wand, And furnished by deft hands. Doors, once fast closed, Are opened to admit the wondrous band Of spiritual workmen, unopposed, Who build anew things fashioned by our hand.

CXXVI

If all the value of my love is this, That by its pain my verse may have some lasting, Oh, let it bear the fruit of my long fasting; Not in fulfilment of its end remiss, But yielding somewhat of that holy bliss Denied me, though on others its joy casting. No youthful heart, no hope let me be blasting; No maiden keep from her true lover’s kiss. Then end thy tale, sad heart that in me dieth, For want of sunshine from my love’s sweet smile. Give unto life the love that in thee lieth; Since what thou lovest only would defile. Gain for thyself the name of one who trieth Love’s truth to teach, though sorrowing the while.

CXXVII