Ardours and Endurances Part 16

1915.

BLACK SONG

I.--AT BRAYDON

Day wanes slowly; On the hill no sound Save the wind uttering Chords low ... few ... profound.

How the west smokes and quivers!

It sears, it blinds my sight; I am burned out wholly, Hide me from the light.

Within dear arms yoke me, Gather me. I am sped Into your little bosom Press, hide my childish head.

How long I have struggled I know not; but the past Seems twice livelong, Beaten at the last!

My soul leaps and shudders In pain none understands; With your clear voice calm it, Soothe it with your hands.

I can say only --So lost am I, so distressed-- "I love you: I am tired."

You must guess the rest.

I love you: I am tired.

I give you my soul, It hurts me. Hate has lamed it.

Take it; make it whole.

_Late Summer_, 1916.

II.--MIDDAY ON THE EDGE OF THE DOWNS

Stillness falls and a glare.

The woods in darkness lie.

The fields are stretched and stare Under the empty sky.

Vacant the ways of the air, Along which no birds fly.

Only the high sun's flare Spills on the empty sky.

I lift my aching eyes From the dry wilderness: Across me a peewit flies With gestures meaningless....

Mine are his piping cries At this world's emptiness!

1913.

III.--IN DORSETs.h.i.+RE

Cold and bare the sunlight Drifted across the hill, Round which the sea wind's current Unfathomable and chill, From dawn to silver sunset Poured now faint, now shrill.

"How to comfort you, Share any part?

Even to understand you Too deep an art!

Yet I'd comfort you, Tear out my heart."

"Do not look on me, Dry eyes for my sake; Do not smooth my forehead Your hands make me ache; O, and turn away your kisses Or heart must break."

Cold and bare the sunlight Drifted across the hill, Only the sea-wind's current, Unfathomable and chill, Heard such speech gather, Bewail itself ... fall still.

Toward the hill then zigzagged One wind-harried plover-- Rocked for a moment....

Cried to love and lover The top of loneliness Ere he heeled over.

MAN'S ANACREONTIC AND OTHER POEMS

MAN'S ANACREONTIC

Kiss! Kiss me and kiss again, Make kissing almost pain; Close your fingers close on mine, And our grappling looks entwine; Kiss again, and when that's done Blind me with each facing sun Of your clear and golden eyes, Till my spirit in me dies, And endures a long eclipse Till rekindled at your lips.

From this minute I pursue The intense Idea that's you-- Your you's Being. I would draw You from Obscurity's dusk maw Into my hands--whate'er you are, Moth or spirit, gnome or star.

Yet I would not filch a part, Misty soul or flaming heart, Which left but, as doth the snake, A pale tissue. I will take And shut all your sweetness up In the gold walls of a cup, Sandalled feet to sweeping hair, Soul, brain, body, all you are-- Curled as a mermaid coiled in brine, Now drunk one gush of giddy wine!

Nay, as a strange lump of snow In my two hands you shall go, And I'll bare my browny breast, Press you there, where now you rest!

Ay, and bless the frozen smart As you melt into my heart!

Come, I'll twine you round my brows: A defiant diadem, Poets of your light shall sing.

Satraps by you swear stout vows Eyeing my twice-marvellous gem-- You: the emerald in my ring.

Thus I'll keep you night and day, Since no stone can run away-- And might dare a pleasure splendid: Toss my ring into the air, Watch it spinning, heart suspended, Lest it slip me unaware, Fall clean through my finger bars, Shatter in ten thousand stars!

Yet you shall not be my ring; You shall not be any thing, Crown or stone set cunningly, Time can separate from me.

No! I'll find an alchemist, With a beard of cobwebs grey And fired eyes like moonstones kissed By the last gold beam of day, And older and gentler than a fish, And wiser than an elephant; And when I've told him what we wish, Bribe or force him work our want.

We two shall opposed stand, Each touch other's finger-tip; At a slow pa.s.s of his hand And a soft word from his lip, We will incline smilingly, And as drops together run, Shaking off the he and she, Close and be forever one.

GRAYSHOTT, _Summer_, 1914.

THE BLACKBIRD

I stand in a sunny garden; A blackbird sings overhead: "I'm alive ... I've a love ... the sun's s.h.i.+ning And where's the man would be dead?"

"Blackbird, make an ending of fluting That song down your orange beak: I'm alive ... I've a love ... the sun's s.h.i.+ning, And--I am the man you seek."