Canzoni & Ripostes Part 12

My City, my beloved, Thou art a maid with no b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Thou art slender as a silver reed.

Listen to me, attend me!

And I will breathe into thee a soul, And thou shalt live for ever.

A GIRL

The tree has entered my hands, The sap has ascended my arms, The tree has grown in my breast-- Downward, The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are, Moss you are, You are violets with wind above them.

A child--_so_ high--you are, And all this is folly to the world.

"PHASELLUS ILLE"

This _papier-mache_, which you see, my friends, Saith 'twas the worthiest of editors.

Its mind was made up in "the seventies,"

Nor hath it ever since changed that concoction.

It works to represent that school of thought Which brought the hair-cloth chair to such perfection, Nor will the horrid threats of Bernard Shaw Shake up the stagnant pool of its convictions; Nay, should the deathless voice of all the world Speak once again for its sole stimulation, 'Twould not move it one jot from left to right.

Come Beauty barefoot from the Cyclades, She'd find a model for St Anthony In this thing's sure _decorum_ and behaviour.

AN OBJECT

This thing, that hath a code and not a core, Hath set acquaintance where might be affections, And nothing now Disturbeth his reflections.

QUIES

This is another of our ancient loves.

Pa.s.s and be silent, Rullus, for the day Hath lacked a something since this lady pa.s.sed; Hath lacked a something. 'Twas but marginal.

THE SEAFARER

(_From the early Anglo-Saxon text_)

May I for my own self song's truth reckon, Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days Hards.h.i.+p endured oft.

Bitter breast-cares have I abided, Known on my keel many a care's hold, And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent Narrow night.w.a.tch nigh the s.h.i.+p's head While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted, My feet were by frost benumbed.

Chill its chains are; chafing sighs Hew my heart round and hunger begot Mere-weary mood. Lest man know not That he on dry land loveliest liveth, List how I, care-wretched, on ice-cold sea, Weathered the winter, wretched outcast Deprived of my kinsmen; Hung with hard ice-flakes, where hail-scur flew, There I heard naught save the harsh sea And ice-cold wave, at whiles the swan cries, Did for my games the gannet's clamour, Sea-fowls' loudness was for me laughter, The mews' singing all my mead-drink.

Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten, fell on the stern In icy feathers; full oft the eagle screamed With spray on his pinion.

Not any protector May make merry man faring needy.

This he little believes, who aye in winsome life Abides 'mid burghers some heavy business, Wealthy and wine-flushed, how I weary oft Must bide above brine.

Neareth nightshade, snoweth from north, Frost froze the land, hail fell on earth then Corn of the coldest. Nathless there knocketh now The heart's thought that I on high streams The salt-wavy tumult traverse alone.

Moaneth alway my mind's l.u.s.t That I fare forth, that I afar hence Seek out a foreign fastness.

For this there's no mood-lofty man over earth's midst, Not though he be given his good, but will have in his youth greed; Nor his deed to the daring, nor his king to the faithful But shall have his sorrow for sea-fare Whatever his lord will.

He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world's delight Nor any whit else save the wave's slash, Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water.

Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries, Fields to fairness, land fares brisker, All this admonisheth man eager of mood, The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks On flood-ways to be far departing.

Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying, He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow, The bitter heart's blood. Burgher knows not-- He the prosperous man--what some perform Where wandering them widest draweth.

So that but now my heart burst from my breast-lock, My mood 'mid the mere-flood, Over the whale's acre, would wander wide.

On earth's shelter cometh oft to me, Eager and ready, the crying lone-flyer, Whets for the whale-path the heart irresistibly, O'er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow My lord deems to me this dead life On loan and on land, I believe not That any earth-weal eternal standeth Save there be somewhat calamitous That, ere a man's tide go, turn it to twain.

Disease or oldness or sword-hate Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body.

And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after-- Laud of the living, boasteth some last word, That he will work ere he pa.s.s onward, Frame on the fair earth 'gainst foes his malice, Daring ado,...

So that all men shall honour him after And his laud beyond them remain 'mid the English, Aye, for ever, a lasting life's-blast, Delight mid the doughty.

Days little durable, And all arrogance of earthen riches, There come now no kings nor Caesars Nor gold-giving lords like those gone.

Howe'er in mirth most magnified, Whoe'er lived in life most lordliest, Drear all this excellence, delights undurable!

Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth.

Tomb hideth trouble. The blade is layed low.

Earthly glory ageth and seareth.

No man at all going the earth's gait, But age fares against him, his face paleth, Grey-haired he groaneth, knows gone companions, Lordly men are to earth o'ergiven, Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life ceaseth, Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry, Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart, And though he strew the grave with gold, His born brothers, their buried bodies Be an unlikely treasure h.o.a.rd.

ECHOES

I

GUIDO ORLANDO, SINGING

Befits me praise thine empery, Lady of Valour, Past all disproving; Thou art the flower to me-- Nay, by Love's pallor-- Of all good loving.

Worthy to reap men's praises Is he who'd gaze upon Truth's mazes.

In like commend is he, Who, loving fixedly, Love so refineth,

Till thou alone art she In whom love's vested; As branch hath fairest flower Where fruit's suggested.

This great joy comes to me, To me observing How swiftly thou hast power To pay my serving.

II[1]

Thou keep'st thy rose-leaf Till the rose-time will be over, Think'st thou that Death will kiss thee?

Think'st thou that the Dark House Will find thee such a lover As I? Will the new roses miss thee?

Prefer my cloak unto the cloak of dust 'Neath which the last year lies, For thou shouldst more mistrust Time than my eyes.