Poems & Ballads Volume II Part 6

Wilt thou not be as now about my bed There underground as here before the sun?

Shall not thy vision vex me alive and dead, Thy moving vision without form or breath?

I read long since the bitter tale of her Who read the tale of Launcelot on a day, And died, and had no quiet after death, But was moved ever along a weary way, Lost with her love in the underworld; ah me, O my king, O my lordly sunflower, Would G.o.d to me too such a thing were done!

But if such sweet and bitter things be done, Then, flying from life, I shall not fly from thee.

For in that living world without a sun Thy vision will lay hold upon me dead, And meet and mock me, and mar my peace in death.

Yet if being wroth G.o.d had such pity on her, Who was a sinner and foolish in her day, That even in h.e.l.l they twain should breathe one breath, Why should he not in some wise pity me?

So if I sleep not in my soft strait bed I may look up and see my sunflower As he the sun, in some divine strange way.

O poor my heart, well knowest thou in what way This sore sweet evil unto us was done.

For on a holy and a heavy day I was arisen out of my still small bed To see the knights tilt, and one said to me "The king," and seeing him, somewhat stopped my breath, And if the girl spake more, I heard not her, For only I saw what I shall see when dead, A kingly flower of knights, a sunflower, That shone against the sunlight like the sun, And like a fire, O heart, consuming thee, The fire of love that lights the pyre of death.

Howbeit I shall not die an evil death Who have loved in such a sad and sinless way, That this my love, lord, was no shame to thee.

So when mine eyes are shut against the sun, O my soul's sun, O the world's sunflower, Thou nor no man will quite despise me dead.

And dying I pray with all my low last breath That thy whole life may be as was that day, That feast-day that made trothplight death and me, Giving the world light of thy great deeds done; And that fair face brightening thy bridal bed, That G.o.d be good as G.o.d hath been to her.

That all things goodly and glad remain with her, All things that make glad life and goodly death; That as a bee sucks from a sunflower Honey, when summer draws delighted breath, Her soul may drink of thy soul in like way, And love make life a fruitful marriage-bed Where day may bring forth fruits of joy to day And night to night till days and nights be dead.

And as she gives light of her love to thee, Give thou to her the old glory of days long done; And either give some heat of light to me, To warm me where I sleep without the sun.

O sunflower made drunken with the sun, O knight whose lady's heart draws thine to her, Great king, glad lover, I have a word to thee.

There is a weed lives out of the sun's way, Hid from the heat deep in the meadow's bed, That swoons and whitens at the wind's least breath, A flower star-shaped, that all a summer day Will gaze her soul out on the sunflower For very love till twilight finds her dead.

But the great sunflower heeds not her poor death, Knows not when all her loving life is done; And so much knows my lord the king of me.

Aye, all day long he has no eye for me; With golden eye following the golden sun From rose-coloured to purple-pillowed bed, From birthplace to the flame-lit place of death, From eastern end to western of his way.

So mine eye follows thee, my sunflower, So the white star-flower turns and yearns to thee, The sick weak weed, not well alive or dead, Trod underfoot if any pa.s.s by her, Pale, without colour of summer or summer breath In the shrunk shuddering petals, that have done No work but love, and die before the day.

But thou, to-day, to-morrow, and every day, Be glad and great, O love whose love slays me.

Thy fervent flower made fruitful from the sun Shall drop its golden seed in the world's way, That all men thereof nourished shall praise thee For grain and flower and fruit of works well done; Till thy shed seed, O s.h.i.+ning sunflower, Bring forth such growth of the world's garden-bed As like the sun shall outlive age and death.

And yet I would thine heart had heed of her Who loves thee alive; but not till she be dead.

Come, Love, then, quickly, and take her utmost breath.

Song, speak for me who am dumb as are the dead; From my sad bed of tears I send forth thee, To fly all day from sun's birth to sun's death Down the sun's way after the flying sun, For love of her that gave thee wings and breath, Ere day be done, to seek the sunflower.

FOR THE FEAST OF GIORDANO BRUNO,

PHILOSOPHER AND MARTYR

I

Son of the lightning and the light that glows Beyond the lightning's or the morning's light, Soul splendid with all-righteous love of right, In whose keen fire all hopes and fears and woes Were clean consumed, and from their ashes rose Transfigured, and intolerable to sight Save of purged eyes whose lids had cast off night, In love's and wisdom's likeness when they close, Embracing, and between them truth stands fast, Embraced of either; thou whose feet were set On English earth while this was England yet, Our friend that art, our Sidney's friend that wast, Heart hardier found and higher than all men's past, Shall we not praise thee though thine own forget?

II

Lift up thy light on us and on thine own, O soul whose spirit on earth was as a rod To scourge off priests, a sword to pierce their G.o.d, A staff for man's free thought to walk alone, A lamp to lead him far from shrine and throne On ways untrodden where his fathers trod Ere earth's heart withered at a high priest's nod And all men's mouths that made not prayer made moan.

From bonds and torments and the ravening flame Surely thy spirit of sense rose up to greet Lucretius, where such only spirits meet, And walk with him apart till Sh.e.l.ley came To make the heaven of heavens more heavenly sweet And mix with yours a third incorporate name.

AVE ATQUE VALE

IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

Nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques fleurs; Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs, Et quand Octobre souffle, mondeur des vieux arbres, Son vent mlancolique l'entour de leurs marbres, Certe, ils doivent trouver les vivants bien ingrats.

_Les Fleurs du Mal._

I

Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, Brother, on this that was the veil of thee?

Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve?

Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat And full of bitter summer, but more sweet To thee than gleanings of a northern sh.o.r.e Trod by no tropic feet?

II

For always thee the fervid languid glories Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave That knows not where is that Leucadian grave Which hides too deep the supreme head of song.

Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, Blind G.o.ds that cannot spare.

III

Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; The hidden harvest of luxurious time, Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, Seeing as men sow men reap.

IV

O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, That were athirst for sleep and no more life And no more love, for peace and no more strife!

Now the dim G.o.ds of death have in their keeping Spirit and body and all the springs of song, Is it well now where love can do no wrong, Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang Behind the unopening closure of her lips?

Is it not well where soul from body slips And flesh from bone divides without a pang As dew from flower-bell drips?

V

It is enough; the end and the beginning Are one thing to thee, who art past the end.

O hand unclasped of unbeholden friend, For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, No triumph and no labour and no l.u.s.t, Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust.

O quiet eyes wherein the light saith nought, Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night With obscure finger silences your sight, Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, Sleep, and have sleep for light.

VI

Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet Of some pale t.i.tan-woman like a lover, Such as thy vision here solicited, Under the shadow of her fair vast head, The deep division of prodigious b.r.e.a.s.t.s, The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, The weight of awful tresses that still keep The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests Where the wet hill-winds weep?

VII