Poems & Ballads Volume I Part 5

Alas the long thwarts and the fervent oars, And blown hard sails that straightened the scant rope!

There were no strong pools in the hollow sea To drag at them and suck down side and beak, No wind to catch them in the teeth and hair, No shoal, no shallow among the roaring reefs, No gulf whereout the straining tides throw spars, No surf where white bones twist like whirled white fire.

But like to death he came with death, and sought And slew and spoiled and gat him that he would.

For death, for marriage, and for child-getting, I set my curse against him as a sword; Yea, and the severed half thereof I leave Pittheus, because he slew not (when that face Was tender, and the life still soft in it) The small swathed child, but bred him for my fate.

I would I had been the first that took her death Out from between wet hoofs and reddened teeth, Splashed horns, fierce fetlocks of the brother bull?

For now shall I take death a deadlier way, Gathering it up between the feet of love Or off the knees of murder reaching it.

[1] sch. Fr. Niobe:-- [Greek: monos then gar Thanatos ou drn era, k.t.l.]

THE TRIUMPH OF TIME

Before our lives divide for ever, While time is with us and hands are free, (Time, swift to fasten and swift to sever Hand from hand, as we stand by the sea) I will say no word that a man might say Whose whole life's love goes down in a day; For this could never have been; and never, Though the G.o.ds and the years relent, shall be.

Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour, To think of things that are well outworn?

Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower, The dream foregone and the deed forborne?

Though joy be done with and grief be vain, Time shall not sever us wholly in twain; Earth is not spoilt for a single shower; But the rain has ruined the ungrown corn.

It will grow not again, this fruit of my heart, Smitten with sunbeams, ruined with rain.

The singing seasons divide and depart, Winter and summer depart in twain.

It will grow not again, it is ruined at root, The bloodlike blossom, the dull red fruit; Though the heart yet sickens, the lips yet smart, With sullen savour of poisonous pain.

I have given no man of my fruit to eat; I trod the grapes, I have drunken the wine.

Had you eaten and drunken and found it sweet, This wild new growth of the corn and vine, This wine and bread without lees or leaven, We had grown as G.o.ds, as the G.o.ds in heaven, Souls fair to look upon, goodly to greet, One splendid spirit, your soul and mine.

In the change of years, in the coil of things, In the clamour and rumour of life to be, We, drinking love at the furthest springs, Covered with love as a covering tree, We had grown as G.o.ds, as the G.o.ds above, Filled from the heart to the lips with love, Held fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings, O love, my love, had you loved but me!

We had stood as the sure stars stand, and moved As the moon moves, loving the world; and seen Grief collapse as a thing disproved, Death consume as a thing unclean.

Twain halves of a perfect heart, made fast Soul to soul while the years fell past; Had you loved me once, as you have not loved; Had the chance been with us that has not been.

I have put my days and dreams out of mind, Days that are over, dreams that are done.

Though we seek life through, we shall surely find There is none of them clear to us now, not one.

But clear are these things; the gra.s.s and the sand, Where, sure as the eyes reach, ever at hand, With lips wide open and face burnt blind, The strong sea-daisies feast on the sun.

The low downs lean to the sea; the stream, One loose thin pulseless tremulous vein, Rapid and vivid and dumb as a dream, Works downward, sick of the sun and the rain; No wind is rough with the rank rare flowers; The sweet sea, mother of loves and hours, Shudders and shines as the grey winds gleam, Turning her smile to a fugitive pain.

Mother of loves that are swift to fade, Mother of mutable winds and hours.

A barren mother, a mother-maid, Cold and clean as her faint salt flowers.

I would we twain were even as she, Lost in the night and the light of the sea, Where faint sounds falter and wan beams wade, Break, and are broken, and shed into showers.

The loves and hours of the life of a man, They are swift and sad, being born of the sea.

Hours that rejoice and regret for a span, Born with a man's breath, mortal as he; Loves that are lost ere they come to birth, Weeds of the wave, without fruit upon earth.

I lose what I long for, save what I can, My love, my love, and no love for me!

It is not much that a man can save On the sands of life, in the straits of time, Who swims in sight of the great third wave That never a swimmer shall cross or climb.

Some waif washed up with the strays and spars That ebb-tide shows to the sh.o.r.e and the stars; Weed from the water, gra.s.s from a grave, A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.

There will no man do for your sake, I think, What I would have done for the least word said.

I had wrung life dry for your lips to drink, Broken it up for your daily bread: Body for body and blood for blood, As the flow of the full sea risen to flood That yearns and trembles before it sink, I had given, and lain down for you, glad and dead.

Yea, hope at highest and all her fruit, And time at fullest and all his dower, I had given you surely, and life to boot, Were we once made one for a single hour.

But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart, Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart; And deep in one is the bitter root, And sweet for one is the lifelong flower.

To have died if you cared I should die for you, clung To my life if you bade me, played my part As it pleased you--these were the thoughts that stung, The dreams that smote with a keener dart Than shafts of love or arrows of death; These were but as fire is, dust, or breath, Or poisonous foam on the tender tongue Of the little snakes that eat my heart.

I wish we were dead together to-day, Lost sight of, hidden away out of sight, Clasped and clothed in the cloven clay, Out of the world's way, out of the light, Out of the ages of worldly weather, Forgotten of all men altogether, As the world's first dead, taken wholly away, Made one with death, filled full of the night.

How we should slumber, how we should sleep, Far in the dark with the dreams and the dews!

And dreaming, grow to each other, and weep, Laugh low, live softly, murmur and muse; Yea, and it may be, struck through by the dream, Feel the dust quicken and quiver, and seem Alive as of old to the lips, and leap Spirit to spirit as lovers use.

Sick dreams and sad of a dull delight; For what shall it profit when men are dead To have dreamed, to have loved with the whole soul's might, To have looked for day when the day was fled?

Let come what will, there is one thing worth, To have had fair love in the life upon earth: To have held love safe till the day grew night, While skies had colour and lips were red.

Would I lose you now? would I take you then, If I lose you now that my heart has need?

And come what may after death to men, What thing worth this will the dead years breed?

Lose life, lose all; but at least I know, O sweet life's love, having loved you so, Had I reached you on earth, I should lose not again, In death nor life, nor in dream or deed.

Yea, I know this well: were you once sealed mine, Mine in the blood's beat, mine in the breath, Mixed into me as honey in wine, Not time, that sayeth and gainsayeth, Nor all strong things had severed us then; Not wrath of G.o.ds, nor wisdom of men, Nor all things earthly, nor all divine, Nor joy nor sorrow, nor life nor death.

I had grown pure as the dawn and the dew, You had grown strong as the sun or the sea.

But none shall triumph a whole life through: For death is one, and the fates are three.

At the door of life, by the gate of breath, There are worse things waiting for men than death; Death could not sever my soul and you, As these have severed your soul from me.

You have chosen and clung to the chance they sent you, Life sweet as perfume and pure as prayer.

But will it not one day in heaven repent you?

Will they solace you wholly, the days that were?

Will you lift up your eyes between sadness and bliss, Meet mine, and see where the great love is, And tremble and turn and be changed? Content you; The gate is strait; I shall not be there.

But you, had you chosen, had you stretched hand, Had you seen good such a thing were done, I too might have stood with the souls that stand In the sun's sight, clothed with the light of the sun; But who now on earth need care how I live?

Have the high G.o.ds anything left to give, Save dust and laurels and gold and sand?

Which gifts are goodly; but I will none.

O all fair lovers about the world, There is none of you, none, that shall comfort me.

My thoughts are as dead things, wrecked and whirled Round and round in a gulf of the sea; And still, through the sound and the straining stream, Through the coil and chafe, they gleam in a dream, The bright fine lips so cruelly curled, And strange swift eyes where the soul sits free.

Free, without pity, withheld from woe, Ignorant; fair as the eyes are fair.

Would I have you change now, change at a blow, Startled and stricken, awake and aware?

Yea, if I could, would I have you see My very love of you filling me, And know my soul to the quick, as I know The likeness and look of your throat and hair?

I shall not change you. Nay, though I might, Would I change my sweet one love with a word?

I had rather your hair should change in a night, Clear now as the plume of a black bright bird; Your face fail suddenly, cease, turn grey, Die as a leaf that dies in a day.

I will keep my soul in a place out of sight, Far off, where the pulse of it is not heard.

Far off it walks, in a bleak blown s.p.a.ce, Full of the sound of the sorrow of years.

I have woven a veil for the weeping face, Whose lips have drunken the wine of tears; I have found a way for the failing feet, A place for slumber and sorrow to meet; There is no rumour about the place, Nor light, nor any that sees or hears.

I have hidden my soul out of sight, and said "Let none take pity upon thee, none Comfort thy crying: for lo, thou art dead, Lie still now, safe out of sight of the sun.