Collected Poems Volume II Part 14

The soft wings pa.s.s that we used to chase, Dreams that I dreamed had left not a trace, The same, the same, with the bars of crimson The green-veined white, with its floating grace,

The same to the least bright fleck on their wings!

And I close my eyes, and a lost bird sings, And a far sea sighs, and the old sweet fragrance Wraps me round with the dear dead springs,

Wraps me round with the springs to be When lovers that think not of you or me Laugh, but our eyes will be closed in darkness, Closed to the sky and the gorse and the sea,

And the same great glory of ragged gold Once more, once more, as a tale re-told Shall whisper their hearts with the same sweet fragrance And their warm hands cling, as of old, as of old.

Dead and un-born, the same blue skies Cover us! Love, as I read your eyes, Do I not know whose love enfolds us, As we fold the past in our memories,

Past, present, future, the old and the new?

From the depths of the grave a cry breaks through And trembles, a sky-lark blind in the azure, The depths of the all-enfolding blue.

O, resurrection of folded years Deep in our hearts, with your smiles and tears, Dead and un-born shall not He remember Who folds our cry in His heart, and hears.

FOR THE EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY OF GEORGE MEREDITH

A health, a ringing health, unto the king Of all our hearts to-day! But what proud song Should follow on the thought, nor do him wrong?

Except the sea were harp, each mirthful string The lovely lightning of the nights of Spring, And Dawn the lonely listener, glad and grave With colours of the sea-sh.e.l.l and the wave In brightening eye and cheek, there is none to sing!

Drink to him, as men upon an Alpine peak Brim one immortal cup of crimson wine, And into it drop one pure cold crust of snow, Then hold it up, too rapturously to speak And drink--to the mountains, line on glittering line, Surging away into the sunset-glow.

IN MEMORY OF SWINBURNE

I

April from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, from sea to sea, April in heaven and on the springing spray Buoyant with birds that sing to welcome May And April in those eyes that mourn for thee: "This is my singing month; my hawthorn tree Burgeons once more," we seemed to hear thee say, "This is my singing month: my fingers stray Over the lute. What shall the music be?"

And April answered with too great a song For mortal lips to sing or hearts to hear, Heard only of that high invisible throng For whom thy song makes April all the year!

"My singing month, what bringest thou?" Her breath Swooned with all music, and she answered--"Death."

II

Ah, but on earth,--"can'st thou, too, die,"

Low she whispers, "lover of mine?"

April, queen over earth and sky Whispers, her trembling lashes s.h.i.+ne: "Wings of the sea, good-bye, good-bye, Down to the dim sea-line."

Home to the heart of thine old-world lover, Home to thy "fair green-girdled" sea!

There shall thy soul with the sea-birds hover, Free of the deep as their wings are free; Free, for the grave-flowers only cover This, the dark cage of thee.

Thee, the storm-bird, nightingale-souled, Brother of Sappho, the seas reclaim!

Age upon age have the great waves rolled Mad with her music, exultant, aflame; Thee, thee too, shall their glory enfold, Lit with thy snow-winged fame.

Back, thro' the years, fleets the sea-bird's wing: _Sappho, of old time, once_,--ah, hark!

So did he love her of old and sing!

Listen, he flies to her, back thro' the dark!

_Sappho, of old time, once_.... Yea, Spring Calls him home to her, hark!

_Sappho, long since, in the years far sped, Sappho, I loved thee!_ Did I not seem Fosterling only of earth? I have fled, Fled to thee, sister. Time is a dream!

Sh.e.l.ley is here with us! Death lies dead!

Ah, how the bright waves gleam.

Wide was the cage-door, idly swinging; April touched me and whispered "Come."

Out and away to the great deep winging, Sister, I flashed to thee over the foam, Out to the sea of Eternity, singing "Mother, thy child comes home."

Ah, but how shall we welcome May Here where the wing of song droops low, Here by the last green swinging spray Brushed by the sea-bird's wings of snow, We that gazed on his glorious way Out where the great winds blow?

_Here upon earth--"can'st thou, too, die, Lover of life and lover of mine?"

April, conquering earth and sky Whispers, her trembling lashes s.h.i.+ne: "Wings of the sea, good-bye, good-bye, Down to the dim sea-line."_

ON THE DEATH OF FRANCIS THOMPSON

I

How grandly glow the bays Purpureally enwound With those rich thorns, the brows How infinitely crowned That now thro' Death's dark house Have pa.s.sed with royal gaze: Purpureally enwound How grandly glow the bays.

II

Sweet, sweet and three-fold sweet, Pulsing with three-fold pain, Where the lark fails of flight Soared the celestial strain; Beyond the sapphire height Flew the gold-winged feet, Beautiful, pierced with pain, Sweet, sweet and three-fold sweet;

III

And where _Is not_ and _Is_ Are wed in one sweet Name, And the world's rootless vine With dew of stars a-flame Laughs, from those deep divine Impossibilities, Our reason all to shame-- _This cannot be, but is;_

IV

Into the Vast, the Deep Beyond all mortal sight, The Nothingness that conceived The worlds of day and night, The Nothingness that heaved Pure sides in virgin sleep, Brought out of Darkness, light; And man from out the Deep.

V