The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson, With a Memoir by Arthur Symons Part 2

Just a little longer, I may love thee: we will part, Ere my love grow stronger.

Soon thou leavest fairy-land; Darker grow thy tresses: Soon no more of hand in hand; Soon no more caresses!

Little lady of my heart!

Just a little longer, Be a child: then, we will part, Ere this love grow stronger.

AMOR UMBRATILIS

A gift of Silence, sweet!

Who may not ever hear: To lay down at your un.o.bservant feet, Is all the gift I bear.

I have no songs to sing, That you should heed or know: I have no lilies, in full hands, to fling Across the path you go.

I cast my flowers away, Blossoms unmeet for you!

The garland I have gathered in my day: My rosemary and rue.

I watch you pa.s.s and pa.s.s, Serene and cold: I lay My lips upon your trodden, daisied gra.s.s, And turn my life away.

Yea, for I cast you, sweet!

This one gift, you shall take: Like ointment, on your un.o.bservant feet, My silence, for your sake.

AMOR PROFa.n.u.s

Beyond the pale of memory, In some mysterious dusky grove; A place of shadows utterly, Where never coos the turtle-dove, A world forgotten of the sun: I dreamed we met when day was done, And marvelled at our ancient love.

Met there by chance, long kept apart, We wandered through the darkling glades; And that old language of the heart We sought to speak: alas! poor shades!

Over our pallid lips had run The waters of oblivion, Which crown all loves of men or maids.

In vain we stammered: from afar Our old desire shone cold and dead: That time was distant as a star, When eyes were bright and lips were red.

And still we went with downcast eye And no delight in being nigh, Poor shadows most uncomforted.

Ah, Lalage! while life is ours, h.o.a.rd not thy beauty rose and white, But pluck the pretty, fleeting flowers That deck our little path of light: For all too soon we twain shall tread The bitter pastures of the dead: Estranged, sad spectres of the night.

VILLANELLE OF MARGUERITE'S

"A little, _pa.s.sionately, not at all?_"

She casts the snowy petals on the air: And what care we how many petals fall!

Nay, wherefore seek the seasons to forestall?

It is but playing, and she will not care, A little, pa.s.sionately, not at all!

She would not answer us if we should call Across the years: her visions are too fair; And what care we how many petals fall!

She knows us not, nor recks if she enthrall With voice and eyes and fashion of her hair, A little, pa.s.sionately, not at all!

Knee-deep she goes in meadow gra.s.ses tall, Kissed by the daisies that her fingers tear: And what care we how many petals fall!

We pa.s.s and go: but she shall not recall What men we were, nor all she made us bear: "_A little, pa.s.sionately, not at all!_"

And what care we how many petals fall!

YVONNE OF BRITTANY

In your mother's apple-orchard, Just a year ago, last spring: Do you remember, Yvonne!

The dear trees lavishing Rain of their starry blossoms To make you a coronet?

Do you ever remember, Yvonne?

As I remember yet.

In your mother's apple-orchard, When the world was left behind: You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!

But your eyes were calm and kind.

We spoke of the apple harvest, When the cider press is set, And such-like trifles, Yvonne!

That doubtless you forget.

In the still, soft Breton twilight, We were silent; words were few, Till your mother came out chiding, For the gra.s.s was bright with dew: But I know your heart was beating, Like a fluttered, frightened dove.

Do you ever remember, Yvonne?

That first faint flush of love?

In the fulness of midsummer, When the apple-bloom was shed, Oh, brave was your surrender, Though shy the words you said.

I was glad, so glad, Yvonne!

To have led you home at last; Do you ever remember, Yvonne!

How swiftly the days pa.s.sed?

YVONNE OF BRITTANY

In your mother's apple-orchard It is grown too dark to stray, There is none to chide you, Yvonne!

You are over far away.

There is dew on your grave gra.s.s, Yvonne!

But your feet it shall not wet: No, you never remember, Yvonne!

And I shall soon forget.

BENEDICTIO DOMINI

Without, the sullen noises of the street!

The voice of London, inarticulate, Hoa.r.s.e and blaspheming, surges in to meet The silent blessing of the Immaculate.

Dark is the church, and dim the worshippers, Hushed with bowed heads as though by some old spell.

While through the incense-laden air there stirs The admonition of a silver bell.

Dark is the church, save where the altar stands, Dressed like a bride, ill.u.s.trious with light, Where one old priest exalts with tremulous hands The one true solace of man's fallen plight.

Strange silence here: without, the sounding street Heralds the world's swift pa.s.sage to the fire: O Benediction, perfect and complete!

When shall men cease to suffer and desire?