FLOWER OF LOVE

ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ ΕΡΩΣ

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
   was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
   yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
   struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
   with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the
   kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
   that verdant and enamelled mead.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
   the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
   as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned
   me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
   on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the
   oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
   lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
   the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
   clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush
   the burnished bosom of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
   have read the story of our love.

Would have read the legend of my passion,
   known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
   we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
   the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
   petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what
   else had I a boy to do,—
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
   silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
   when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
   the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for
   the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of
   Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God’s
   own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheræan rising like an
   argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems,
   and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better
   than the poet’s crown of bays.

UNCOLLECTED POEMS

FROM SPRING DAYS TO WINTER

(FOR MUSIC)

In the glad springtime when leaves were green,
   O merrily the throstle sings!
I sought, amid the tangled sheen,
Love whom mine eyes had never seen,
   O the glad dove has golden wings!

Between the blossoms red and white,
   O merrily the throstle sings!
My love first came into my sight,
O perfect vision of delight,
   O the glad dove has golden wings!

The yellow apples glowed like fire,
   O merrily the throstle sings!
O Love too great for lip or lyre,
Blown rose of love and of desire,
   O the glad dove has golden wings!

But now with snow the tree is grey,
   Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!
My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,
See at her silent feet I lay
   A dove with broken wings!
   Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain—
Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!

TRISTITÆ

Αἴλινον, αἴλινον εἰπέ, τὸ δ’ εὖ νικάτω

O well for him who lives at ease
   With garnered gold in wide domain,
   Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,
The crashing down of forest trees.

O well for him who ne’er hath known
   The travail of the hungry years,
   A father grey with grief and tears,
A mother weeping all alone.

But well for him whose foot hath trod
   The weary road of toil and strife,
   Yet from the sorrows of his life.
Builds ladders to be nearer God.

THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE

. . . ἀναyκαίως δ’ ἔχει
Βίον θερίζειν ὥστε κάρπιμον στάχυν,
καὶ τὸν yὲν εἶναι τὸν δὲ yή.

Thou knowest all; I seek in vain
   What lands to till or sow with seed—
   The land is black with briar and weed,
Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

Thou knowest all; I sit and wait
   With blinded eyes and hands that fail,
   Till the last lifting of the veil
And the first opening of the gate.

Thou knowest all; I cannot see.
   I trust I shall not live in vain,
   I know that we shall meet again
In some divine eternity.

IMPRESSIONS

I
LE JARDIN

The lily’s withered chalice falls
   Around its rod of dusty gold,
   And from the beech-trees on the wold
The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

The gaudy leonine sunflower
   Hangs black and barren on its stalk,
   And down the windy garden walk
The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.

Pale privet-petals white as milk
   Are blown into a snowy mass:
   The roses lie upon the grass
Like little shreds of crimson silk.