The Poems of Sidney Lanier Part 8

Where amiabler winds the whistle heed, To sail with Sh.e.l.ley o'er a bluer sea, And mark Prometheus, from his fetters freed, Pa.s.s with Deucalion over Italy, While bursts the flame from out his eager reed Wild-stretching towards the West of destiny;

Or, p.r.o.ne with Plato, Shakespeare and a throng Of bards beneath some plane-tree's cool eclipse To gaze on glowing meads where, lingering long, Psyche's large b.u.t.terfly her honey sips; Or, mingling free in choirs of German song, To learn of Goethe's life from Goethe's lips;

These, these are thine, and we, who still are dead, Do yearn -- nay, not to kill thee back again Into this charnel life, this lowlihead, Not to the dark of sense, the blinking brain, The hugged delusion drear, the hunger fed On husks of guess, the monarchy of pain,

The cross of love, the wrench of faith, the shame Of science that cannot prove proof is, the twist Of blame for praise and bitter praise for blame, The silly stake and tether round the wrist By fas.h.i.+on fixed, the virtue that doth claim The gains of vice, the lofty mark that's missed

By all the mortal s.p.a.ce 'twixt heaven and h.e.l.l, The soul's sad growth o'er stationary friends Who hear us from our height not well, not well, The slant of accident, the sudden bends Of purpose tempered strong, the gambler's spell, The son's disgrace, the plan that e'er depends

On others' plots, the tricks that pa.s.sion plays (I loving you, you him, he none at all), The artist's pain -- to walk his blood-stained ways, A special soul, yet judged as general -- The endless grief of art, the sneer that slays, The war, the wound, the groan, the funeral pall --

Not into these, bright spirit, do we yearn To bring thee back, but oh, to be, to be Unbound of all these gyves, to stretch, to spurn The dark from off our dolorous lids, to see Our spark, Conjecture, blaze and sunwise burn, And suddenly to stand again by thee!

Ah, not for us, not yet, by thee to stand: For us, the fret, the dark, the thorn, the chill; For us, to call across unto thy Land, "Friend, get thee to the minstrels' holy hill, And kiss those brethren for us, mouth and hand, And make our duty to our master Will."

____ Baltimore, 1879.

A Dedication. To Charlotte Cushman.

As Love will carve dear names upon a tree, Symbol of gravure on his heart to be,

So thought I thine with loving text to set In the growth and substance of my canzonet;

But, writing it, my tears begin to fall -- This wild-rose stem for thy large name's too small!

Nay, still my trembling hands are fain, are fain Cut the good letters though they lap again;

Perchance such folk as mark the blur and stain Will say, 'It was the beating of the rain;'

Or, haply these o'er-woundings of the stem May loose some little balm, to plead for them.

____ 1876.

To Charlotte Cushman.

Look where a three-point star shall weave his beam Into the slumb'rous tissue of some stream, Till his bright self o'er his bright copy seem Fulfillment dropping on a come-true dream; So in this night of art thy soul doth show Her excellent double in the steadfast flow Of wis.h.i.+ng love that through men's hearts doth go: At once thou s.h.i.+n'st above and s.h.i.+n'st below.

E'en when thou strivest there within Art's sky (Each star must o'er a strenuous...o...b..t fly), Full calm thine image in our love doth lie, A Motion gla.s.sed in a Tranquillity.

So triple-rayed, thou mov'st, yet stay'st, serene -- Art's artist, Love's dear woman, Fame's good queen!

____ Baltimore, 1875.

The Stirrup-Cup.

Death, thou'rt a cordial old and rare: Look how compounded, with what care!

Time got his wrinkles reaping thee Sweet herbs from all antiquity.

David to thy distillage went, Keats, and Gotama excellent, Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright, And Shakespeare for a king-delight.

Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt: Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt; 'Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me; I'll drink it down right smilingly.

____ Tampa, Florida, 1877.

A Song of Eternity in Time.

Once, at night, in the manor wood My Love and I long silent stood, Amazed that any heavens could Decree to part us, bitterly repining.

My Love, in aimless love and grief, Reached forth and drew aside a leaf That just above us played the thief And stole our starlight that for us was s.h.i.+ning.

A star that had remarked her pain Shone straightway down that leafy lane, And wrought his image, mirror-plain, Within a tear that on her lash hung gleaming.

"Thus Time," I cried, "is but a tear Some one hath wept 'twixt hope and fear, Yet in his little lucent sphere Our star of stars, Eternity, is beaming."

____ Macon, Georgia, 1867. Revised in 1879.

Owl against Robin.

Frowning, the owl in the oak complained him Sore, that the song of the robin restrained him Wrongly of slumber, rudely of rest.

"From the north, from the east, from the south and the west, Woodland, wheat-field, corn-field, clover, Over and over and over and over, Five o'clock, ten o'clock, twelve, or seven, Nothing but robin-songs heard under heaven: How can we sleep?

'Peep!' you whistle, and 'cheep! cheep! cheep!'

Oh, peep, if you will, and buy, if 'tis cheap, And have done; for an owl must sleep.

Are ye singing for fame, and who shall be first?

Each day's the same, yet the last is worst, And the summer is cursed with the silly outburst Of idiot red-b.r.e.a.s.t.s peeping and cheeping By day, when all honest birds ought to be sleeping.

Lord, what a din! And so out of all reason.

Have ye not heard that each thing hath its season?

Night is to work in, night is for play-time; Good heavens, not day-time!