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THE NYMPH'S SONG TO HYLAS From "The Life and Death of Jason"
I know a little garden-close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.
And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to G.o.d, Her feet upon the green gra.s.s trod, And I beheld them as before!
There comes a murmur from the sh.o.r.e, And in the close two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee, Dark sh.o.r.e no s.h.i.+p has ever seen, Tormented by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry.
For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, Whereby I grow both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am, and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place; To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea.
William Morris [1834-1896]
NO AND YES
If I could choose my paradise, And please myself with choice of bliss, Then I would have your soft blue eyes And rosy little mouth to kiss!
Your lips, as smooth and tender, child, As rose-leaves in a coppice wild.
If fate bade choose some sweet unrest, To weave my troubled life a snare, Then I would say "her maiden breast And golden ripple of her hair"; And weep amid those tresses, child, Contented to be thus beguiled.
Thomas Ashe [1836-1889]
LOVE IN DREAMS
Love hath his poppy-wreath, Not Night alone.
I laid my head beneath Love's lilied throne: Then to my sleep he brought This anodyne-- The flower of many a thought And fancy fine: A form, a face, no more; Fairer than truth; A dream from death's pale sh.o.r.e; The soul of youth: A dream so dear, so deep, All dreams above, That still I pray to sleep-- Bring Love back, Love!
John Addington Symonds [1840-1893]
"A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD LINGER YET"
A little while (my life is almost set!) I fain would pause along the downward way, Musing an hour in this sad sunset-ray, While, Sweet! our eyes with tender tears are wet: A little hour I fain would linger yet.
A little while I fain would linger yet, All for love's sake, for love that cannot tire; Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's desire, And hope has faded to a vague regret, A little while I fain would linger yet.
A little while I fain would linger here: Behold! who knows what strange, mysterious bars 'Twixt souls that love may rise in other stars?
Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here.
A little while I yearn to hold thee fast, Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to heart; (O pitying Christ! those woeful words, "We part!") So, ere the darkness fall, the light be past, A little while I fain would hold thee fast.
A little while, when light and twilight meet,-- Behind, our broken years; before, the deep Weird wonder of the last unfathomed sleep,-- A little while I still would clasp thee, Sweet, A little while, when night and twilight meet.
A little while I fain would linger here; Behold! who knows what soul-dividing bars Earth's faithful loves may part in other stars?
Nor can love deem the face of death is fair: A little while I still would linger here.
Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886]
SONG
I made another garden, yea, For my new Love: I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above.
Why did my Summer not begin?
Why did my heart not haste?
My old Love came and walked therein, And laid the garden waste.
She entered with her weary smile, Just as of old; She looked around a little while And s.h.i.+vered with the cold: Her pa.s.sing touch was death to all, Her pa.s.sing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turned the red rose white.
Her pale robe clinging to the gra.s.s Seemed like a snake That bit the gra.s.s and ground, alas!
And a sad trail did make.
She went up slowly to the gate, And there, just as of yore, She turned back at the last to wait And say farewell once more.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]
SONG
Has summer come without the rose, Or left the bird behind?
Is the blue changed above thee, O world! or am I blind?
Will you change every flower that grows, Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee, Now says, I love thee not?
The skies seemed true above thee, The rose true on the tree; The bird seemed true the summer through, But all proved false to me.
World! is there one good thing in you, Life, love, or death--or what?
Since lips that sang, I love thee, Have said, I love thee not?
I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall Into one flower's gold cup; I think the bird will miss me, And give the summer up.
O sweet place! desolate in tall Wild gra.s.s, have you forgot How her lips loved to kiss me, Now that they kiss me not?
Be false or fair above me, Come back with any face, Summer!--do I care what you do?
You cannot change one place-- The gra.s.s, the leaves, the earth, the dew, The grave I make the spot-- Here, where she used to love me, Here, where she loves me not.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy [1844-1881]
