The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson, With a Memoir by Arthur Symons Part 5

Are we not better and at home In dreamful Autumn, we who deem No harvest joy is worth a dream?

A little while and night shall come, A little while, then, let us dream.

Beyond the pearled horizons lie Winter and night: awaiting these We garner this poor hour of ease, Until love turn from us and die Beneath the drear November trees.

IN TEMPORE SENECTUTIS

When I am old, And sadly steal apart, Into the dark and cold, Friend of my heart!

Remember, if you can, Not him who lingers, but that other man, Who loved and sang, and had a beating heart,-- When I am old!

When I am old, And all Love's ancient fire Be tremulous and cold: My soul's desire!

Remember, if you may, Nothing of you and me but yesterday, When heart on heart we bid the years conspire To make us old.

When I am old, And every star above Be pitiless and cold: My life's one love!

Forbid me not to go: Remember nought of us but long ago, And not at last, how love and pity strove When I grew old!

VILLANELLE OF HIS LADY'S TREASURES

I took her dainty eyes, as well As silken tendrils of her hair: And so I made a Villanelle!

I took her voice, a silver bell, As clear as song, as soft as prayer; I took her dainty eyes as well.

It may be, said I, who can tell, These things shall be my less despair?

And so I made a Villanelle!

I took her whiteness virginal And from her cheek two roses rare: I took her dainty eyes as well.

I said: "It may be possible Her image from my heart to tear!"

And so I made a Villanelle.

I stole her laugh, most musical: I wrought it in with artful care; I took her dainty eyes as well; And so I made a Villanelle.

GRAY NIGHTS

A while we wandered (thus it is I dream!) Through a long, sandy track of No Man's Land, Where only poppies grew among the sand, The which we, plucking, cast with scant esteem, And ever sadlier, into the sad stream, Which followed us, as we went, hand in hand, Under the estranged stars, a road unplanned, Seeing all things in the shadow of a dream.

And ever sadlier, as the stars expired, We found the poppies rarer, till thine eyes Grown all my light, to light me were too tired, And at their darkening, that no surmise Might haunt me of the lost days we desired, After them all I flung those memories!

VESPERAL

Strange grows the river on the sunless evenings!

The river comforts me, grown spectral, vague and dumb: Long was the day; at last the consoling shadows come: _Sufficient for the day are the day's evil things!_

Labour and longing and despair the long day brings; Patient till evening men watch the sun go west; Deferred, expected night at last brings sleep and rest: _Sufficient for the day are the day's evil things!_

At last the tranquil Angelus of evening rings Night's curtain down for comfort and oblivion Of all the vanities observed by the sun: _Sufficient for the day are the day's evil things!_

So, some time, when the last of all our evenings Crowneth memorially the last of all our days, Not loth to take his poppies man goes down and says, "Sufficient for the day were the day's evil things!"

THE GARDEN OF SHADOW

Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind Against the perfect flowers: thy garden's close Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find One strayed, last petal of one last year's rose.

O bright, bright hair! O mount like a ripe fruit!

Can famine be so nigh to harvesting?

Love, that was songful, with a broken lute In gra.s.s of graveyards goeth murmuring.

Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers, And all thy garden change and glow with spring: Love is grown blind with no more count of hours Nor part in seed-tune nor in harvesting.

SOLI CANTARE PERITI ARCADES

Oh, I would live in a dairy, And its Colin I would be, And many a rustic fairy Should churn the milk with me.

Or the fields should be my pleasure, And my flocks should follow me, Piping a frolic measure For Joan or Marjorie.

For the town is black and weary, And I hate the London street; But the country ways are cheery, And country lanes are sweet.

Good luck to you, Paris ladies!

Ye are over fine and nice I know where the country maid is, Who needs not asking twice.

Ye are brave in your silks and satins, As ye mince about the Town; But her feet go free in pattens, If she wear a russet gown.

If she be not queen nor G.o.ddess She shall milk my brown-eyed herds, And the b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath her bodice Are whiter than her curds.

So I will live in a dairy, And its Colin I will be, And its Joan that I will marry, Or, haply, Marjorie.

ON THE BIRTH OF A FRIEND'S CHILD

Mark the day white, on which the Fates have smiled: Eugenio and Egeria have a child.

On whom abundant grace kind Jove imparts If she but copy either parent's parts.

Then, Muses! long devoted to her race, Grant her Egeria's virtues and her face; Nor stop your bounty there, but add to it Eugenio's learning and Eugenio's wit.

EXTREME UNCTION

Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet, On all the pa.s.sages of sense, The atoning oil is spread with sweet Renewal of lost innocence.

The feet, that lately ran so fast To meet desire, are soothly sealed; The eyes, that were so often cast On vanity, are touched and healed.

From troublous sights and sounds set free; In such a twilight hour of breath, Shall one retrace his life, or see, Through shadows, the true face of death?

Vials of mercy! Sacring oils!