Part 6

We shall be Contented and healed of the passing smart; And yet if you had not tired of me, Life while life lasted were yours, sweetheart. X ARMATA “_Ainsi le bon temps regretons_” 73 LIGHT COINAGE --“MERCURIENS”: PAUL VERVILLE. XX “_C’est une comédie, qui termine aujourd’huy_” That comedy we end, content to please Its players merely, was a comedy Wherein Love had no part. It may not be Enrolled among Love’s mighty memories, And men unborn will read of Héloïse, And Ruth, and Rosamond, and Semelê, When none remembers your name’s melody Or rhymes your name enregistered with these. And will my name wake moods as amorous As that of Abélard or Lancelot Arouses? be recalled when Pyramus And Tristram are unrhymed of and forgot?-- Time’s laughter answers, who accords to us More gracious fields, wherein we harvest--what? XXIII “_Voicy! un autre chante!--Il n’est pas interdit_” _A singer, eh?... Well, well! but when he sings Take jealous heed lest idiosyncrasies Entinge and taint too deep his melodies; See that his lute has no discordant strings To harrow us; and let his vaporings Be all of virtue and its victories, And of man’s best and noblest qualities, And scenery, and flowers, and similar things._ Thus bid our paymasters, whose mutterings Some few deride, and blithely link their rhymes At random; and, as ever, on frail wings Of wine-stained paper scribbled with such rhymes Men mount to heaven, and loud laughter springs From hell’s midpit, whose fuel is such rhymes. 74 GRAVE GALLANTRY --After CHARLES GARNIER. I My rival Death is fashioned amorously;-- No caliph boasts more comely wives than he, For whom crowned Cleopatra reft the snare Of careful-eyed Octavius, and--less fair Than she, but lovely still--Leucothoë, And Atalanta, and Antigonê, Loosed virgin zones....

What need hadst thou to be Desirous then of this girl’s lips and hair, My rival Death? What need hadst thou likewise of Dorothy! What need of that which was all life to me! What need, lascivious Death, that she forswear Fond oaths to me--fond oaths made otherwhere-- In thy lank arms, and leave me friends with thee, My rival, Death! II Had she divined how many virelais Have feebly parodied some piercing phase Of love for her whom love lacked might to claim-- How many rhymes have marshalled frail and lame, Yet fervent-hearted, to avouch her praise,-- Such pity had been mine as well repays Drear years of waiting. Ey, in kindlier days Compassion might have worn some kinglier name Had she divined. Now that may never be; divergent ways Allured; and all is ended; and naught betrays Dead cheeks to kindle, now, with livelier flame For aught I utter.... Yet it were no shame To dream a little on her softening gaze Had she divined.

III That she is dead breeds no uncouth despair, However,--as death bred when men would bear A glove upon their helms, and slay or sing In honor of its giver, hazarding Life and life’s aims because a girl was fair ... Grotesque their liege-lord seems when we compare That Cupidling who spurs me to declare Sedate regret, in rhythmic sorrowing That she is dead. Nay, he is much the punier of the pair,-- My little lord, who dreads lest critics stare Too pointedly,--a flimsy fainéant king;-- Yet hearts may crack without crude posturing. This girl is dead; and I confess I care That she is dead. 75 BY-WORDS --After ALPHONSE MOREAU. Not even now in all things may there be An end of folly; nor, as mutineers Against love’s lunacy, that now appears Of no more weight or worth or urgency Than last night’s dreams,--not wholly yet may we Become in all things like all our compeers, That are armored by interminable years And keep no vestige of insanity. _What yet remains, now we drift far apart, With seas between, and each of us forgets The happenings of all our happy days?_-- Your by-words, heard on other lips, to raise Love’s pitiable phantom in my heart, And waken mirthful memories and regrets. 76 ANOTHER LABORER WEIGHS HIS HIRE “_Amors, tant vos ai servit_” --RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS. Lord, I have worshipped thee ever,-- Through all these years I have served thee, forsaking never Light Love that veers As a child between laughter and tears. Hast thou no more to afford,-- Naught save laughter and tears,-- Love, my lord? I have borne thy heaviest burden, Nor served thee amiss: When thou hast given a guerdon, Lo, it was this-- A sigh, a shudder, a kiss.

Hast thou no more to accord? I would have more than this, Love, my lord. I am wearied of love that is pastime And gifts that it brings; I entreat of thee, lord, at this last time Ineffable things. Nay, have proud long-dead kings Stricken no subtler chord, Whereof the memory clings, Love, my lord? But for a little we live; Show me thine innermost hoard! Hast thou no more to give, Love, my lord? 77 RETRACTIONS --After THÉODORE PASSERAT. YOU ASK A SONNET?--WELL, IT IS YOUR RIGHT. I GRANT IT, LAUGH, SHRUG, SET ABOUT THE TASK, AND MAKE A SEQUENCE, SINCE IT IS MY RIGHT NO MORE TO GIVE YOU ONLY WHAT YOU ASK.

I Although as yet my cure be incomplete, Yet love of you, time-lulled and vigorless, Engenders now no more unhappiness, Not even discontent. And now we meet Unmoved--half-waggish,--and my pulses beat Quite calmly as I wonder now, _Is he As proud as I was? and--as once to me-- To him is her love lovely and very sweet?_ Nor do I grudge him any joy of his Who follows on a road that I have trod, And sues for love where I was wont to sue; I am contented by remembrances, And know that neither fate nor time, nor God, Robs me of that first mastery of you. II I am contented by remembrances,-- Dreams of dead passions, wraiths of vanished times, Fragments of vows, and by-ends of old rhymes,-- Flotsam and jetsam tumbling in the seas Whereon, long since, put forth our argosies Which, launched for traffic in the Isles of Love, Lie foundered somewhere in some firth thereof, Encradled by eternal silences. Thus, having come to naked bankruptcy, Let us part friends, as thrifty tradesmen do When common ventures fail; for it may be These battered oaths and rhymes may yet ring true To some fair woman’s hearing, so that she Will listen and think of love, and I of you. III You have chosen the love “that lives sans murmurings, Sans passion,” and incuriously endures The gradual lapse of time. You have chosen as yours A level life of little happenings; And through the long autumnal evenings Lord Love, no doubt, is of the company, And hugs your ingleside contentedly, Smiles at old griefs, and rustles needless wings. And yet I think that sometimes memories Of divers trysts, of blood that urged like wine On moonlit nights, and of that first long kiss Whereby your lips were first made one with mine, Awake and trouble you, and loving is Once more important and perhaps divine. IV You have chosen; and I cry content thereto, And cry your pardon also, and am reproved In that I took you for a woman I loved Odd centuries ago, and would undo That curious error.

Nay, your eyes are blue, Your speech is gracious, but you are not she; And I am older,--and changed how utterly!-- I am no longer I, you are not you. Time, destined as we thought but to befriend And guerdon love like ours, finds you beset With joys and griefs I neither share nor mend Who am a stranger; and we two are met Nor wholly glad nor sorry, and the end Of too much laughter is a faint regret. V It is in many ways made plain to us That love must grow like any common thing, Root, bud, and leaf, ere ripe for garnering The mellow fruitage front us; even thus Must Helena encounter Thesëus Ere Paris come, and every century Spawn divers queens who die with Antony But live a great while first with Julius. Thus I have spoken the prologue of a play Wherein I have no part, and laugh, and sit Contented in the wings, whilst you portray An amorous maid with gestures that befit This lovely rôle,--as who knows better, pray. Than I that helped you in rehearsing it? VI With Love I garnered mirth, and dreams, and shame; And half his playmate, half his worshipper, I flouted him, and yet might not demur To do his bidding, or in aught defame Love’s tutorage,--not even when you came, And at the portal of Love’s golden house We hazarded stray kisses, sighs and vows, And lightly staked them in a hackneyed game. And now the game is ended, dear; and we May not re-enter that august domain Which we, encoasting, lost eternally; And now, although beloved by many men, You may love no man as you have loved me, Who have loved you as I may not love again. VII Unto how many futures I was heir In those old talks, which fixed what must be done When we at last should rule (in Babylon Perhaps, or in Caer-Is, or Kennaquhair), And must do this or that, and bravely share Fantastic fates, whose frolic freakishness Seems how less quaint than this is,--to confess That I have lost you, and do not greatly care!

Well! had we never cared, in all that fleet Sweet time which passed so swiftly and is gone-- And gone eternally!--yet it was sweet To play at loving, for all that every groan, And gainless grieving, was in counterfeit And parody of love, ungained, unknown. VIII And so we played at loving. So we played With love as venturous children in the sea Wade ankle-deep, and laugh, and wistfully Peer at the world’s far rim, being half-afraid. Half-wistful. So we laughed, and we obeyed That changeless law which sways the cosmic plan, And ever draws the maid unto the man, And ever draws the man unto the maid. The sea hides deep our fragile argosy, And idle doubts quest fruitlessly above Those shattered hulks, too frail to brave the sea, Too frail to brave the wrath and mirth thereof: I had not heart to love you heartily, You were too shrewd to be befooled by love. IX Time was I coveted the woes they rued Whose love commemorates them--I that meant To get like grace of love then!--and intent To win, as they had done, love’s plenitude, Rapture and havoc, vauntingly I sued That love like theirs might make a toy of me, At will caressed, at will (if publicly) Demolished, as Love found or found not good. To-day I am no longer overbrave.

I have a fever--I that always knew This hour was certain!--and am too weak to rave, Too tired to seek (as later I must do) Tried remedies--time, manhood and the grave,-- To drug, abate and banish love of you. X Time was I loved you.... And indeed I came To love you so time hardly washes out The scars of an old moment which, as flame Leaps toward chaff, bereft me even of doubt: And then indeed I knew you had deceived me-- You, even you!--and counterfeiting truth So cunningly that you and I believed me, I cried, _I will forget!_ ... This was in youth. Now, being older and less over-nice, I estimate these follies, breed of them My little books,--shift, polish and re-price The jewels of a battered diadem,-- And cry, _What hope of heaven for those who sell What I am vending? and what need of hell?_ XI We are as time moulds us, lacking wherewithal To shape out nobler fortunes or contend Against all-patient Fates, who may not mend The allotted pattern of things temporal, Or alter it a thread’s-width, or let fall A single stitch thereof, until at last The web and its drear weavers be overcast, And predetermined darkness swallow all. They have ordained for us a time to sing, A time to love, a time wherein to tire Of all spent songs and kisses; carolling Such elegies as buried dreams require, Love now departs, and leaves us shivering Beside the embers of a burned-out fire. XII Cry _Kismet!_ and take heart. Erôs is gone, Nor may we follow to that loftier air Olympians breathe.

Take heart, and enter where A lighter love-lord takes a heatless sun, Oblivious of tangled webs ill-spun By ancient wearied weavers, for it may be His guidance leads to lovers of such as we And hearts so credulous as to be won. Cry _Kismet!_ Put away vain memories Of all old sorrows and of all old joys, And learn that life is never quite amiss So long as unreflective girls and boys Remember that young lips were meant to kiss, And hold that laughter is a seemly noise. XIII So, let us laugh.... How quaint that even I Was once a fool such as each fool bemocks, Burlesques and shames! how droll a paradox It is that we meet calmly! nor deny That I in an old time dared to be I, And you in that same season dared be you, When commonly we wooed (as others do, And we do not, now) dreams which do not die,-- But take new life, with new idolaters. Among our juniors; and in naught are kin To our time-tempered blood which, drowsing, stirs A little, recollecting with what din And ardor we assailed stark barriers Proved obdurate ere we were locked therein. XIV So, let us laugh,--lest vain rememberings Breed, as of old, some rude bucolic cry Of awkward anguishes, of dreams that die Without decorum, of Love lacking wings Yet striving you-ward in his flounderings Eternally,--as now, even when I lie As I lie now, who know that you and I Exist and heed not lesser happenings. I was. I am.

I will be. Eh, no doubt For some sufficient cause, I drift, defer, Equivocate, dream, hazard, grow more stout, Age, am no longer Love’s idolater,-- And yet I could and would not live without Your faith that heartens and your doubts which spur. XV Nightly I mark and praise, or great or small. Such stars as proudly struggle one by one To heaven’s highest place, as Procyon, Antares, Naös, Tejat and Nibal Attain supremacy, and proudly fall, Still glorious, and glitter, and are gone So very soon;--whilst steadfast and alone Polaris gleams, and is not changed at all. Daily I find some gallant dream that ranges The heights of heaven; and as others do, I serve my dream until my dream estranges Its errant bondage, and I note anew That nothing dims, nor shakes, nor mars, nor changes. Fond faith in you and in my love of you. AND THEREFORE PRAISE I EVEN THE MOST HIGH LORD CHANCE,--THAT, BEING OF KIN WITH SETEBOS, IN ORDERING LIFE’S LABOR, STRIFE AND LOSS, ORDAINED THAT YOU BE YOU, AND I BE I. 78 GARDEN-SONG “_Adieu, nous n’irons plus aux champs_” --CHARLES GARNIER. Farewell to Fields and Butterflies And levities of Yester-year!

For we espy, and hold more dear, The Wicket of our Destinies. Whereby we enter, once for all, A Garden which such Fruit doth yield As, tasted once, no more Afield We fare where Youth holds carnival. Farewell, fair Fields, none found amiss When laughter was a frequent noise And golden-hearted girls and boys Appraised the mouth they meant to kiss. Farewell, farewell! but for a space We, being young, Afield might stray, That in our Garden nod and say, _Afield is no unpleasant place_. 79 THE CAVERN OF PHIGALIA (_Adytum of Demeter Melænis_) I enter, Proud and erect: I take my fill of delight Imperiously, irrationally. And none punishes. --Not yet. But in three months And in three months And in three more months, The avenger comes forth And mocks me By being as I am, Visibly, And by being foredoomed To do as I have done, Inevitably. 80 AT PARTING _Thus then I end my calendar Of ancient loves more light than air;-- And now Lad’s Love, that led afar In April fields that were so fair, Is fled, and I no longer share Sedate unutterable days With Heart’s Desire, nor ever praise Félise, or mirror forth the lures Of Stella’s eyes nor Sylvia’s, Yet love for each loved lass endures._ _Chloris is wedded, and Ettarre Forgets; Yolande loves otherwhere, And worms long since made bold to mar The lips of Dorothy and fare Mid Florimel’s bright ruined hair; And time obscures that roseate haze Which glorified hushed woodland ways When Phyllis came, as time obscures That faith which once was Phyllida’s,-- Yet love for each loved lass endures._ _That boy is dead as Schariar, Tiglath-pileser, or Clotaire, Who once of love got many a scar. And his loved lasses past compare?-- None is alive now anywhere. Each is transmuted nowadays Into a stranger, and displays No whit of love’s investitures.

I let these women go their ways, Yet love for each loved lass endures._ _Heart o’ My Heart, thine be the praise If aught of good in me betrays Thy tutelage--whose love matures Unmarred in these more wistful days,-- Yet love for each loved lass endures._ EXPLICIT Transcriber’s note: Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but minor inconsistencies and archaic forms have been retained as printed.