The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson, With a Memoir by Arthur Symons Part 15

BRETON AFTERNOON

Here, where the breath of the scented-gorse floats through the sun-stained air, On a steep hill-side, on a gra.s.sy ledge, I have lain hours long and heard Only the faint breeze pa.s.s in a whisper like a prayer, And the river ripple by and the distant call of a bird.

On the lone hill-side, in the gold suns.h.i.+ne, I will hush me and repose, And the world fades into a dream and a spell is cast on me; _And what was all the strife about, for the myrtle or the rose, And why have I wept for a white girl's paleness pa.s.sing ivory!_

Out of the tumult of angry tongues, in a land alone, apart, In a perfumed dream-land set betwixt the bounds of life and death, Here will I lie while the clouds fly by and delve an hole where my heart May sleep deep down with the gorse above and red, red earth beneath.

Sleep and be quiet for an afternoon, till the rose-white angelus Softly steals my way from the village under the hill: _Mother of G.o.d, O Misericord, look down in pity on us, The weak and blind who stand in our light and wreak ourselves such ill_.

VENITE DESCENDAMUS

Let be at last; give over words and sighing, Vainly were all things said: Better at last to find a place for lying, Only dead.

Silence were best, with songs and sighing over; Now be the music mute; Now let the dead, red leaves of autumn cover A vain lute.

Silence is best: for ever and for ever, We will go down and sleep, Somewhere beyond her ken, where she need never Come to weep.

Let be at last: colder she grows and colder; Sleep and the night were best; Lying at last where we cannot behold her, We may rest.

TRANSITION

A little while to walk with thee, dear child; To lean on thee my weak and weary head; Then evening comes: the winter sky is wild, The leafless trees are black, the leaves long dead.

A little while to hold thee and to stand, By harvest-fields of bending golden corn; Then the predestined silence, and thine hand, Lost in the night, long and weary and forlorn.

A little while to love thee, scarcely time To love thee well enough; then time to part, To fare through wintry fields alone and climb The frozen hills, not knowing where thou art.

Short summer-time and then, my heart's desire, The winter and the darkness: one by one The roses fall, the pale roses expire Beneath the slow decadence of the sun.

EXCHANGES

All that I had I brought, Little enough I know; A poor rhyme roughly wrought, A rose to match thy snow: All that I had I brought.

Little enough I sought: But a word compa.s.sionate, A pa.s.sing glance, or thought, For me outside the gate: Little enough I sought.

Little enough I found: All that you had, perchance!

With the dead leaves on the ground, I dance the devil's dance.

All that you had I found.

TO A LADY ASKING FOOLISH QUESTIONS

Why am I sorry, Chloe? Because the moon is far: And who am I to be straitened in a little earthly star?

Because thy face is fair? And what if it had not been, The fairest face of all is the face I have not seen.

Because the land is cold, and however I scheme and plot, I cannot find a ferry to the land where I am not.

Because thy lips are red and thy b.r.e.a.s.t.s upbraid the snow?

(There is neither white nor red in the pleasance where I go.)

Because thy lips grow pale and thy b.r.e.a.s.t.s grow dun and fall?

I go where the wind blows, Chloe, and am not sorry at all.

RONDEAU

Ah, Manon, say, why is it we Are one and all so fain of thee?

Thy rich red beauty debonnaire In very truth is not more fair, Than the shy grace and purity That clothe the maiden maidenly; Her gray eyes s.h.i.+ne more tenderly And not less bright than thine her hair; Ah, Manon, say!

Expound, I pray, the mystery Why wine-stained lip and languid eye, And most unsaintly Maenad air, Should move us more than all the rare White roses of virginity?

Ah, Manon, say!

MORITURA

A song of the setting sun!

The sky in the west is red, And the day is all but done: While yonder up overhead, All too soon, There rises, so cold, the cynic moon.

A song of a winter day!

The wind of the north doth blow, From a sky that's chill and gray, On fields where no crops now grow, Fields long shorn Of bearded barley and golden corn.

A song of an old, old man!

His hairs are white and his gaze, Long bleared in his visage wan, With its weight of yesterdays, Joylessly He stands and mumbles and looks at me,

A song of a faded flower!

'Twas plucked in the tender bud, And fair and fresh for an hour, In a lady's hair it stood.

Now, ah, now, Faded it lies in the dust and low.

LIBERA ME

G.o.ddess the laughter-loving, Aphrodite, befriend!

Long have I served thine altars, serve me now at the end, Let me have peace of thee, truce of thee, golden one, send.

Heart of my heart have I offered thee, pain of my pain, Yielding my life for the love of thee into thy chain; Lady and G.o.ddess be merciful, loose me again.

All things I had that were fairest, my dearest and best, Fed the fierce flames on thine altar: ah, surely, my breast Shrined thee alone among G.o.ddesses, spurning the rest.

Blossom of youth thou hast plucked of me, flower of my days; Stinted I nought in thine honouring, walked in thy ways, Song of my soul pouring out to thee, all in thy praise.

Fierce was the flame while it lasted, and strong was thy wine, Meet for immortals that die not, for throats such as thine, Too fierce for bodies of mortals, too potent for mine.

Blossom and bloom hast thou taken, now render to me Ashes of life that remain to me, few though they be, Truce of the love of thee, Cyprian, let me go free.

G.o.ddess the laughter-loving, Aphrodite, restore Life to the limbs of me, liberty, hold me no more Having the first-fruits and flower of me, cast me the core.