Exultations Part 3

V

_Voices speaking to the sun_.

Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over The green sheaf of the world, And through the dim forest and under The shadowed arches and the aisles, We, who are older than thou art, Met and remembered when his eyes beheld her In the garden of the peach-trees, In the day of the blossoming.

VI

I stood on the hill of Yrma when the winds were a-hurrying, With the gra.s.ses a-bending I followed them, Through the brown gra.s.ses of Ahva unto the green of Asedon.

I have rested with the voices in the gardens of Ahthor, I have lain beneath the peach-trees in the hour of the purple:

Because I had awaited in the garden of the peach-trees, Because I had feared not in the forest of my mind, Mine eyes beheld the vision of the blossom There in the peach-gardens past Asedon.

O winds of Yrma, let her again come unto me, Whose hair ye held unbound in the gardens of Ahthor!

VII

Because of the beautiful white shoulders and the rounded b.r.e.a.s.t.s I can in no wise forget my beloved of the peach-trees, And the little winds that speak when the dawn is unfurled And the rose-colour in the grey oak-leaf's fold

When it first comes, and the glamour that rests On the little streams in the evening; all of these Call me to her, and all the loveliness in the world Binds me to my beloved with strong chains of gold.

VIII

If the rose-petals which have fallen upon my eyes And if the perfect faces which I see at times When my eyes are closed-- Faces fragile, pale, yet flushed a little, like petals of roses: If these things have confused my memories of her So that I could not draw her face Even if I had skill and the colours, Yet because her face is so like these things They but draw me nearer unto her in my thought And thoughts of her come upon my mind gently, As dew upon the petals of roses.

IX

_He speaks to the rain_.

O pearls that hang on your little silver chains, The innumerable voices that are whispering Among you as you are drawn aside by the wind, Have brought to my mind the soft and eager speech Of one who hath great loveliness,

Which is subtle as the beauty of the rains That hang low in the moons.h.i.+ne and bring The May softly among us, and unbind The streams and the crimson and white flowers and reach Deep down into the secret places.

X

The glamour of the soul hath come upon me, And as the twilight comes upon the roses, Walking silently among them, So have the thoughts of my heart Gone out slowly in the twilight Toward my beloved, Toward the crimson rose, the fairest.

Aux Belles de Londres

I am aweary with the utter and beautiful weariness And with the ultimate wisdom and with things terrene, I am aweary with your smiles and your laughter, And the sun and the winds again Reclaim their booty and the heart o' me.

Francesca

You came in out of the night And there were flowers in your hands, Now you will come out of a confusion of people, Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

I who have seen you amid the primal things Was angry when they spoke your name In ordinary places.

I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind, And that the world should dry as a dead leaf, Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away, So that I might find you again, Alone.

Greek Epigram

Day and night are never weary, Nor yet is G.o.d of creating For day and night their torch-bearers The aube and the crepuscule.

So, when I weary of praising the dawn and the sun-set, Let me be no more counted among the immortals; But number me amid the wearying ones, Let me be a man as the herd, And as the slave that is given in barter.

Christophori Columbi Tumulus

From the Latin of Hipolytus Capilupus, Early Cent XVI.

Genoan, glory of Italy, Columbus thou sure light, Alas the urn takes even thee so soon out-blown.

Its little s.p.a.ce

Doth hold thee, whom Ocea.n.u.s had not the might Within his folds to hold, altho' his broad embrace Doth hold all lands.

Bark-borne beyond his bound'ries unto Hind thou wast Where scarce Fame's volant self the way had cast.

Plotinus

As one that would draw through the node of things, Back sweeping to the vortex of the cone, Cloistered about with memories, alone In chaos, while the waiting silence sings:

Obliviate of cycles' wanderings I was an atom on creation's throne And knew all nothing my unconquered own.

G.o.d! Should I be the hand upon the strings?!

But I was lonely as a lonely child.

I cried amid the void and heard no cry, And then for utter loneliness, made I New thoughts as crescent images of _me_.

And with them was my essence reconciled While fear went forth from mine eternity.

On His Own Face in a Gla.s.s

O strange face there in the gla.s.s!

O ribald company, O saintly host, O sorrow-swept my fool, What answer? O ye myriad That strive and play and pa.s.s, Jest, challenge, counterlie?

I? I? I?

And ye?