Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 141

756. The Thought

INTO the skies, one summer's day, I sent a little Thought away; Up to where, in the blue round, The sun sat s.h.i.+ning without sound.

Then my Thought came back to me.-- Little Thought, what did you see In the regions whence you come?

And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb.

But she breathed of what was there, In the pure bright upper air; And, because my Thought so shone, I knew she had been shone upon.

Next, by night a Thought I sent Up into the firmament; When the eager stars were out, And the still moon shone about.

And my Thought went past the moon In between the stars, but soon Held her breath and durst not stir, For the fear that covered her; Then she thought, in this demur:

'Dare I look beneath the shade, Into where the worlds are made; Where the suns and stars are wrought?

Shall I meet another Thought?

'Will that other Thought have wings?

Shall I meet strange, heavenly things?

Thought of Thoughts, and Light of Lights, Breath of Breaths, and Night of Nights?'

Then my Thought began to hark In the illuminated dark, Till the silence, over, under, Made her heart beat more than thunder.

And my Thought, came trembling back, But with something on her track, And with something at her side; Nor till she has lived and died, Lived and died, and lived again, Will that awful thing seem plain.

William Philpot. 1823-1889

757. Maritae Suae

I

OF all the flowers rising now, Thou only saw'st the head Of that unopen'd drop of snow I placed beside thy bed.

In all the blooms that blow so fast, Thou hast no further part, Save those the hour I saw thee last, I laid above thy heart.

Two snowdrops for our boy and girl, A primrose blown for me, Wreathed with one often-play'd-with curl From each bright head for thee.

And so I graced thee for thy grave, And made these tokens fast With that old silver heart I gave, My first gift--and my last.

II

I dream'd, her babe upon her breast, Here she might lie and calmly rest Her happy eyes on that far hill That backs the landscape fresh and still.

I hoped her thoughts would thrid the boughs Where careless birds on love carouse, And gaze those apple-blossoms through To revel in the boundless blue.

But now her faculty of sight Is elder sister to the light, And travels free and unconfined Through dense and rare, through form and mind.

Or else her life to be complete Hath found new channels full and meet-- Then, O, what eyes are leaning o'er, If fairer than they were before!

William (Johnson) Cory. 1823-1892

758. Mimnermus in Church

YOU promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth, and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still; Your chilly stars I can forgo, This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here, One great reality above: Back from that void I shrink in fear, And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels feel. Till then I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You bid me lift my mean desires From faltering lips and fitful veins To s.e.xless souls, ideal quires, Unwearied voices, wordless strains: My mind with fonder welcome owns One dear dead friend's remember'd tones.

Forsooth the present we must give To that which cannot pa.s.s away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and s.p.a.ce decay.

But O, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.

William (Johnson) Cory. 1823-1892

759. Herac.l.i.tus

THEY told me, Herac.l.i.tus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.

I wept as I remember'd how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

760. The Married Lover

WHY, having won her, do I woo?

Because her spirit's vestal grace Provokes me always to pursue, But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; Because her womanhood is such That, as on court-days subjects kiss The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch Affirms no mean familiarness; Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglect To dread, as lower ladies might, That grace could meet with disrespect; Thus she with happy favour feeds Allegiance from a love so high That thence no false conceit proceeds Of difference bridged, or state put by; Because although in act and word As lowly as a wife can be, Her manners, when they call me lord, Remind me 'tis by courtesy; Not with her least consent of will, Which would my proud affection hurt, But by the n.o.ble style that still Imputes an unattain'd desert; Because her gay and lofty brows, When all is won which hope can ask, Reflect a light of hopeless snows That bright in virgin ether bask; Because, though free of the outer court I am, this Temple keeps its shrine Sacred to Heaven; because, in short, She 's not and never can be mine.

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

761. 'If I were dead'

'IF I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!'

The dear lips quiver'd as they spake, And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled.

Poor Child, poor Child!

I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song.

It is not true that Love will do no wrong.

Poor Child!

And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make?

Poor Child, poor Child!

And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O G.o.d, have Thou no mercy upon me!

Poor Child!

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896