Complete Poetical Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Page 7
And then she’d have me fix him on the wall
Fronting her little bed; and then again
She needs must fix him there herself, because
I gave him to her and she loved him so,
And he should make her love me better yet, 160
If women loved the more, the more they grew.
But the fit place upon the wall was high
For her, and so I held her in my arms:
And each time that the heavy pruning-hook
I gave her for a hammer slipped away 165
As it would often, still she laughed and laughed
And kissed and kissed me. But amid her mirth,
Just as she hung the image on the nail,
It slipped and all its fragments strewed the ground:
And as it fell she screamed, for in her hand 170
The dart had entered deeply and drawn blood.
And so her laughter turned to tears: and Oh!’
I said, the while I bandaged the small hand, -
‘That I should be the first to make you bleed,
Who love and love and love you!’ - kissing still 175
The fingers till I got her safe to bed.
And still she sobbed, - ‘not for the pain at all,’
She said, ‘but for the Love, the poor good Love
You gave me.’ So she cried herself to sleep.
Another later thing comes back to me. 180
’Twas in those hardest foulest days of all,
When still from his shut palace, sitting clean
Above the splash of blood, old Metternich
(May his soul die, and never-dying worms
Feast on its pain for ever!) used to thin 185
His year’s doomed hundreds daintily, each month
Thirties and fifties. This time, as I think,
Was when his thrift forbad the poor to take
That evil brackish salt which the dry rocks
Keep all through winter when the sea draws in. 190
The first I heard of it was a chance shot
In the street here and there, and on the stones
A stumbling clatter as of horse hemmed round.
Then, when she saw me hurry out of doors,
My gun slung at my shoulder and my knife 195
Stuck in my girdle, she smoothed down my hair
And laughed to see me look so brave, and leaped
Up to my neck and kissed me. She was still
A child; and yet that kiss was on my lips
So hot all day where the smoke shut us in. 200
For now, being always with her, the first love
I had - the father’s, brother’s love - was changed,
I think, in somewise; like a holy thought
Which is a prayer before one knows of it.
The first time I perceived this, I remember, 205
Was once when after hunting I came home
Weary, and she brought food and fruit for me,
And sat down at my feet upon the floor
Leaning against my side. But when I felt
Her sweet head reach from that low seat of hers 210
So high as to be laid upon my heart,
I turned and looked upon my darling there
And marked for the first time how tall she was;
And my heart beat with so much violence
Under her cheek, I thought she could not choose 215
But wonder at it soon and ask me why;
And so I bade her rise and eat with me.
And when, remembering all and counting back
The time, I made out fourteen years for her
And told her so, she gazed at me with eyes 220
As of the sky and sea on a grey day,
And drew her long hands through her hair, and asked me
If she was not a woman; and then laughed:
And as she stooped in laughing, I could see
Beneath the growing throat the breasts half globed 225
Like folded lilies deepset in the stream.
Yes, let me think of her as then; for so
Her image, Father, is not like the sights
Which come when you are gone. She had a mouth
Made to bring death to life, - the underlip 230
Sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself.
Her face was ever pale, as when one stoops
Over wan water; and the dark crisped hair
And the hair’s shadow made it paler still: -
Deep-serried locks, the darkness of the cloud 235
Where the moon’s gaze is set in eddying gloom.
Her body bore her neck as the tree’s stem
Bears the top branch; and as the branch sustains
The flower of the year’s pride, her high neck bore
That face made wonderful with night and day. 240
Her voice was swift, yet ever the last words
Fell lingeringly; and rounded finger-tips
She had, that clung a little where they touched
And then were gone o’ the instant. Her great eyes,
That sometimes turned half dizzily beneath 245
The passionate lids, as faint, when she would speak,
Had also in them hidden springs of mirth,
Which under the dark lashes evermore
Shook to her laugh, as when a bird flies low
Between the water and the willow-leaves, 250
And the shade quivers till he wins the light.
I was a moody comrade to her then,
For all the love I bore her. Italy,
The weeping desolate mother, long has claimed
Her son’s strong arms to lean on, and their hands 255
To lop the poisonous thicket from her path,
Cleaving her way to light. And from her need
Had grown the fashion of my whole poor life
Which I was proud to yield her, as my father
Had yielded his. And this had come to be 260
A game to play, a love to clasp, a hate
To wreak, all things together that a man
Needs for his blood to ripen: till at times
All else seemed shadows, and I wondered still
To see such life pass muster and be deemed 265
Time’s bodily substance. In those hours, no doubt,
To the young girl my eyes were like my soul, -
Dark wells of death-in-life that yearned for day.
And though she ruled me always, I remember
That once when I was thus and she still kept 270
Leaping about the place and laughing, I
Did almost chide her; whereupon she knelt
And putting her two hands into my breast
Sang me a song. Are these tears in my eyes?
’Tis long since I have wept for anything. 275
I thought that song forgotten out of mind,
And now, just as I spoke of it, it came
All back. It is but a rude thing, ill rhymed,
Such as a blind man chaunts and his dog hears
Holding the platter, when the children run 280
To merrier sport and leave him. Thus it goes: -
La bella donna
Piangendo disse:
‘Come son fisse
Le stelle in cielo!
Quel fiato anelo
Dello stanco sole,
Quanto m’assonna!
E la luna, macchiata
Come uno specchio
Logoro e vecchio, -
(She wept, sweet lady,
And said in weeping:
‘What spell is keeping
The stars so steady?
Why does the power
Of the sun’s noon-hour
To sleep so move me?
And the moon in heaven,
Stained where she passes
As a worn-out glass is,-)
Faccia affannata,
Che cosa vuole?
‘Chè stelle, luna, e sole,
Ciascun m’annoja 295
E m’annojano insieme;
Non me ne preme
Nè ci prendo gioja.
E veramente,
Che le spalle sien franche 300
E le braccia bianche
E il seno caldo e tondo,
Non mi fa niente.
Chè cosa al mondo
Posso più far di questi 305
Se non piacciono a te, corne dicesti?’
La donna rise
E riprese ridendo: -
‘Questa mano che prendo
E dunque mia? 310
Tu m’ami dunque?
Dimmelo ancora,
Non in modo qualunque,
Ma le parole
Belle e precise 315
Che dicesti pria.
‘Siccome suole
La state talora
(Dicesti) un qtialche istante
Tornare innanzi inverno, 320
Cost tu fai ch’ io scerno
Le foglie tutte quante,
Ben ch’ io certo tenessi
Per passato I’autunno.
‘Eccolo il mio alunno! 325
Io debbo insegnargli
Quei cari detti istessi
Ch’ ei mi disse una volta!
Oimè! Che cosa, dargli,’
(Ma ridea piano piano 330
Dei baci in sulla mano,)
‘Ch’ ei non m’ abbia da lungo tempo tolta?’
(Comes back a little
Ere frosts benumb her, -
So bring’st thou to me
All leaves and flowers,
Though autumn’s gloomy
To-day in the bowers.”
Oh! does he love me,
When my voice teaches
The very speeches
He then spoke of me?
Alas! what flavour
Still with me lingers?’
(But she laughed as my kisses
Glowed in her fingers
With love’s old blisses.)
Oh! what one favour
Remains to woo him,
Whose whole poor savour
Belongs not to him?’)
That I should sing upon this bed! - with you
To listen, and such words still left to say!
Yet was it I that sang? The voice seemed hers, 335
As on the very day she sang to me;
When, having done, she took out of my hand
Something that I had played with all the while
And laid it down beyond my reach; and so
Turning my face round till it fronted hers,- 340
‘Weeping or laughing, which was best?’ she said.
But these are foolish tales. How should I show
The heart that glowed then with love’s heat, each day
More and more brightly? - when for long years now
The very flame that flew about the heart, 345
And gave it fiery wings, has come to be
The lapping blaze of hell’s environment
Whose tongues all bid the molten heart despair.
Yet one more thing comes back on me to-night
Which I may tell you: for it bore my soul 350
Dread firstlings of the brood that rend it now.
It chanced that in our last year’s wanderings
We dwelt at Monza, far away from home,
If home we had: and in the Duomo there
I sometimes entered with her when she prayed. 355
An image of Our Lady stands there, wrought
In marble by some great Italian hand
In the great days when she and Italy
Sat on one throne together: and to her
And to none else my loved one told her heart. 360
She was a woman then; and as she knelt, -
Her sweet brow in the sweet brow’s shadow there, -
They seemed two kindred forms whereby our land
(Whose work still serves the world for miracle)
Made manifest herself in womanhood. 365
Father, the day I speak of was the first
For weeks that I had borne her company
Into the Duomo; and those weeks had been
Much troubled, for then first the glimpses came
Of some impenetrable restlessness 370
Growing in her to make her changed and cold.
And as we entered there that day, I bent
My eyes on the fair Image, and I said
Within my heart, Oh turn her heart to me!’
And so I left her to her prayers, and went 375
To gaze upon the pride of Monza’s shrine,
Where in the sacristy the light still falls
Upon the Iron Crown of Italy,
On whose crowned heads the day has closed, nor yet
The daybreak gilds another head to crown. 380
But coming back, I wondered when I saw
That the sweet Lady of her prayers now stood
Alone without her; until further off,
Before some new Madonna gaily decked,
Tinselled and gewgawed, a slight German toy, 385
I saw her kneel, still praying. At my step
She rose, and side by side we left the church.
I was much moved, and sharply questioned her
Of her transferred devotion; but she seemed
Stubborn and heedless; till she lightly laughed 390
And said: ‘The old Madonna? Aye indeed,
She had my old thoughts, - this one has my new.’
Then silent to the soul I held my way:
And from the fountains of the public place
Unto the pigeon-haunted pinnacles, 395
Bright wings and water winnowed the bright air;
And stately with her laugh’s subsiding smile
She went, with clear-swayed waist and towering neck
And hands held light before her; and the face
Which long had made a day in my life’s night 400
Was night in day to me; as all men’s eyes
Turned on her beauty, and she seemed to tread
Beyond my heart to the world made for her.
Ah there! my wounds will snatch my sense again:
The pain comes billowing on like a full cloud 405
Of thunder, and the flash that breaks from it
Leaves my brain burning. That’s the wound he gave,
The Austrian whose white coat I still made match
With his white face, only the two were red
As suits his trade. The devil makes them wear 410
White for a livery, that the blood may show
Braver that brings them to him. So he looks
Sheer o’er the field and knows his own at once.
Give me a draught of water in that cup;
My voice feels thick; perhaps you do not hear; 415
But you must hear. If you mistake my words
And so absolve me, I am sure the blessing
Will burn my soul. If you mistake my words
And so absolve me, Father, the great sin
Is yours, not mine: mark this: your soul shall burn 420
With mine for it. I have seen pictures where
Souls burned with Latin shriekings in their mouths:
Shall my end be as theirs? Nay, but I know
’Tis you shall shriek in Latin. Some bell rings,
Rings through my brain: it strikes the hour in hell. 425
You see I cannot, Father; I have tried,
But cannot, as you see. These twenty times
Beginning, I have come to the same point
And stopped. Beyond, there are but broken words
Which will not let you understand my tale. 430
It is that when we have her with us here,
As when she wrung her hair out in my dream
To-night, till all the darkness reeked of it.
Her hair is always wet, for she has kept
Its tresses wrapped about her side for year
s; 435
And when she wrung them round over the floor,
I heard the blood between her fingers hiss;
So that I sat up in my bed and screamed
Once and again; and once to once, she laughed.
Look that you turn not now, - she’s at your back: 440
Gather your robe up, Father, and keep close,
Or she’ll sit down on it and send you mad.
At Iglio in the first thin shade o’ the hills
The sand is black and red. The black was black
When what was spilt that day sank into it, 445
And the red scarcely darkened. There I stood
This night with her, and saw the sand the same.
* * * *
What would you have me tell you? Father, father,
How shall I make you know? You have not known
The dreadful soul of woman, who one day 450
Forgets the old and takes the new to heart,
Forgets what man remembers, and therewith
Forgets the man. Nor can I clearly tell
How the change happened between her and me.
Her eyes looked on me from an emptied heart 455
When most my heart was full of her; and still
In every corner of myself I sought
To find what service failed her; and no less
Than in the good time past, there all was hers.
What do you love? Your Heaven? Conceive it spread 460
For one first year of all eternity
All round you with all joys and gifts of God;
And then when most your soul is blent with it
And all yields song together, - then it stands
O’ the sudden like a pool that once gave back 465
Your image, but now drowns it and is clear
Again, - or like a sun bewitched, that burns
Your shadow from you, and still shines in sight.
How could you bear it? Would you not cry out,
Among those eyes grown blind to you, those ears 470
That hear no more your voice you hear the same, -
‘God! what is left but hell for company,
But hell, hell, hell?’ - until the name so breathed
Whirled with hot wind and sucked you down in fire?
Even so I stood the day her empty heart 475
Left her place empty in our home, while yet
I knew not why she went nor where she went
Nor how to reach her: so I stood the day
When to my prayers at last one sight of her
Was granted, and I looked on heaven made pale 480
With scorn, and heard heaven mock me in that laugh.
O sweet, long sweet! Was that some ghost of you
Even as your ghost that haunts me now, - twin shapes
Of fear and hatred? May I find you yet
Mine when death wakes? Ah! be it even in flame, 485
We may have sweetness yet, if you but say
As once in childish sorrow: ‘Not my pain,
My pain was nothing: oh your poor poor love,