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VII
O ivory thou, the golden scythe hath mown Night's stubble and my joy. Thou royal souled, Favour the quest! Lo, Truth and I have sought thee
OCTAVE
Fine songs, fair songs, these golden usuries A Her beauty earns as but just increment, And they do speak with a most ill intent Who say they give when they pay debtor's fees.
I call him bankrupt in the courts of song Who hath her gold to eye and pays her not, Defaulter do I call the knave who hath got Her silver in his heart, and doth her wrong.
SONNET
If on the tally-board of wasted days They daily write me for proud idleness, Let high h.e.l.l summons me, and I confess, No overt act the preferred charge allays.
To-day I thought--what boots it what I thought?
Poppies and gold! Why should I blurt it out?
Or hawk the magic of her name about Deaf doors and dungeons where no truth is bought?
Who calls me idle? I have thought of her.
Who calls me idle? By G.o.d's truth I've seen The arrowy sunlight in her golden snares.
Let him among you all stand summonser Who hath done better things! Let whoso hath been With worthier works concerned, display his wares!
BALLATETTA
The light became her grace and dwelt among Blind eyes and shadows that are formed as men Lo, how the light doth melt us into song:
The broken sunlight for a healm she beareth Who hath my heart in jurisdiction.
In wild-wood never fawn nor fallow fareth So silent light; no gossamer is spun So delicate as she is, when the sun Drives the clear emeralds from the bended gra.s.ses Lest they should parch too swiftly, where she pa.s.ses.
MADRIGALE
Clear is my love but shadowed By the spun gold above her, Ah, what a petal those bent sheaths discover!
_The olive wood hath hidden her completely._ _She was gowned that discreetly_ _The leaves and shadows concealed her completely._
Fair is my love but followed In all her goings surely By gracious thoughts, she goeth so demurely.
ERA MEA
Era mea In qua terra Dulce myrti floribus, Rosa amoris Via erroris Ad te coram Veniam?
ANGLICe REDDITA
Mistress mine, in what far land, Where the myrtle bloweth sweet Shall I weary with my way-fare, Win to thee that art as day fair, Lay my roses at thy feet?
THRENOS
No more for us the little sighing, No more the winds at twilight trouble us.
Lo the fair dead!
No more do I burn.
No more for us the fluttering of wings That whirred in the air above us.
Lo the fair dead!
No more desire flayeth me, No more for us the trembling At the meeting of hands.
Lo the fair dead!
No more for us the wine of the lips, No more for us the knowledge.
Lo the fair dead!
No more the torrent, No more for us the meeting-place (Lo the fair dead!) Tintagoel.
THE TREE
I stood still and was a tree amid the wood, Knowing the truth of things unseen before; Of Daphne and the laurel bow And that G.o.d-feasting couple old That grew elm-oak amid the wold.
'Twas not until the G.o.ds had been Kindly entreated, and been brought within Unto the hearth of their heart's home That they might do this wonder thing; Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood And many a new thing understood That was rank folly to my head before.
PARACELSUS IN EXCELSIS
