Half quivering with desire,
Thy movements full of grace divine
As the music of the lyre—
(Alas! for whoso looks on thee
Feels new and strange desire,
The serpent winds around his heart,
His soul is turned to fire,
As though within his veins there ran
A current of Hell fire.)
I know, I know that long ago
The moon with silver feet
Crept to thy bed, close to thine head,
And kissed thy forehead, sweet,
Giving thy lips strange wine to drink,
And alien flesh to eat,
And apples culled from the Dead Sea,
Which are the serpent's meat,
Fruit from the tree by the Dead Sea
Whose fruit is death to eat.
* Author's note: We have deemed it more judicious to represent the rest of this poem by * * * * * * *.
SOME strange and thrilling chord struck carelessly
Long lingering on lute or viol string,
Snatches from songs thy voice was wont to sing,
Stray strains of wild and wandering melody
Ring from the soul its utmost agony;
Such tear-laden remembrances they bring
Of thee whose foot-fall was as lute-playing,
Whose face was even as melody to me.
Though like leaves autumn-scattered from the trees
Thy life be shed, thy spirit did not die,
But liveth always in the sound of these;
That chord was as the glancing of thine eye!
And as I touched that tone I felt thy face
Looking on me with weary wistful gaze.
A SERPENT is bound about her head,
Her eyes are closed, but she is not dead;
She is not dead, and she doth not sleep,
Too weary to wake and too worn to weep
Although her agony is deep,
She hath not wherewithal to slake
The pressing pain of her eyes, that ache,
Her mouth is writhen with the pain
Of one that shall not smile again.
O thou, whose life is thy delight,
Whose eyes are brilliantly bright,
Who sleepest sweetly every night,
With the light of youth upon thee shed
As an aureole round thy glad head
With benedictions garlanded;
Whose feet flash flame and whose lips drop myrrh;
Wilt thou turn from thy way to pity her?
If thou shouldst touch her tired eyes
Perchance she would soften her stifled sighs,
And thine healing hand work a miracle,
And a torrent of tears from her worn eyes well,
And in the glad stream her sad soul should steep,
And the touch of thy lips should send her sleep.
‘Ich lieb′ dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt; Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch′ ich Gewalt.’
I WOULD seek thee in secret places
In the darkest hour of night,
Embrace thee with serpent embraces,
Delight thee with strange delight.
In a serpent's coils entwine
Thy supple and exquisite form,
And drink from thy veins like wine
Thy blood delicious and warm.
With slow soft sensual sips
Draw the life from the tender spray,
And brush from thy soft lithe lips
The bloom of thy boyhood away.
I would breathe with the breath of thy mouth
And pang thee with perfect pain;
And the vital flame of thy youth
Should live in my limbs again.
Till thy vital elastical form
Should gradually fade and fail,
And thy blood in my veins flow warm,
And glow in my face, that was pale.
OH the three singing sisters, they sat and span,
While the red thread through their faint fingers rightly ran.
Oh their faces were fearful, their forms were tall,
Their garments fell like a funeral pall,
And they sang a song as they span their thread,
And they that dwelt among the dead
Came and sat at the feet of those sisters three,
And heard their soul-thrilling threnody.
Some sat and listened, some stood aloof
Watching them weaving their weird woof.
And the three singing sisters sat and span,
And the red thread through their faint fingers rightly ran.
And this was the song that those sisters sung,
‘Go take thy lot the wide world among,
And on thy forehead I write my curse
From thy cradle unto thine hearse;
Be miserable among happiness,
Be filled with good things in thy distress
Visible for thine eyes shall be
Such shameful sights, as none may see;
Such sounds thine ears shall hear,
As shall cause thy soul to quake with fear;
My bitter draught thy tongue shall taste
And drain the dregs to the very last,
Thy soul shall seek and thine heart shall crave
Such things, as thou mayest not have;
If thou love any among men,
Then shall the living all be slain,
But the dead shall rise again,
Rise again with a purple stain
That all may know them to be such
As have felt the contagion of thy touch.’
And the three singing sisters sat and span,
And the red thread through their faint fingers rightly ran.
And then methought in that same place,
In the depths of the darkness, a fearfuller face
Laughed with a mad malignity,
And laughed and laughed eternally.
While the three singing sisters sat and span,
And the red thread through their faint fingers rightly ran.
’TIS even a delight, dear,
To gaze upon thy face,
To love the life within thee,
Fair fashioned, full of grace.
But in the ark of thy body
The soul hath no resting-place.
And so there is that about thee
Which left me not content,
As the sighing strings of the wind-harp,
Where the wind's weird wailings went,
Or the poor pressed petals that still keep
A thought of the rose's scent.
‘Le bercement vague d’une incantation magique entendue à demi dans un rêve.’
MINE head upon thy lap, love, let me lie,
I am wounded, and without thee I shall die,
Lull me and love me, love! till I am well,
Gabriel.
Turn on me sweetly till my soul have ease,
Thine evening eyes, that seem to breath forth peace,
Wherefrom the tender tears are quick to quell,
Gabriel.
Ah! for an everlasting afternoon—
Lift not thine eyes, lest sunset come too soon,
With the long tolling of the vesper bell,
Gabriel.
The sweet, slow, sleepy, solemn sounds that seem
Like incantations half heard in a dream,
Or sad-eyed Siren singing some strange sea spell,
Gabriel.
Sing me to sleep while the long shadows wane,
Sing to me the songs of childhood—come again
With thy sweet eyes, that all ill thoughts repel,
Gabriel.
In blessing lay thine hands upon my head,
Ah! would that with the sunset I were dead!
Having lived for one sweet hour, too sweet to tell,
Gabriel.
Living no longer than the lingering
light,
Seeing thy sweet eyes slowly sink from sight,
While the slant shadows sound my dying knell,
Gabriel.
‘IT is only the wind, Anastasia!
Only the wind and the rain,
And the blooming branch of the blackthorn
That for me shall not bloom again—
‘Sing me a song, my sister!
For I love not the wild wind's moan,
To the Viol d’Amor, Anastasia!
That is so sweet of tone,
Let me hear thee near, Anastasia!
I shall soon be quite alone.’
‘Nay, but close thine eyes, my brother!
Close thine eyes with thy lashes long,
May be thou wilt sleep, my darling,
If I sing thee an old world song,
Of the old times since forgotten,
Not worth remembering long.’
‘It is only the wind, Anastasia!
For now it has ceased to rain,
And a cold moon ray thro’ the blackthorn
Slides right through the window pane.
Her sad song slid on the moonbeam,
And the viol strings throbbed again.’
Rain pearls on the blooming blackthorn,
The pale moon with silver tips,
To the Viol d’Amor's sad cadence
The roof-shed rain-fall drips—
A shadow crept thro’ the doorway
And kissed the pale boy on the lips.
DARLING, would you be sorry
If you knew that I were dead?
Who loved you above all things,
Though never word I said.
Did you know dear, that I loved you?
One day your look was kind,
And one day—oh, so sad, love!
Were I dead, dear, would you mind?
Eyes! that I dared not look to,
Lips! that I dared not touch—
Would you pray for me a little,
Who prayed for you so much?
If passing to my grave, dear,
On some sad All Souls day—
Oh! where your tears had fallen,
Violets would bloom alway.
WHEN the nights are so cold—belovèd,
And thy grave not with my tears wet,
Then will I visit thee most—oh, my belovèd,
In the rapture of regret.
When the days are all haze and mist, belovèd—
In the lingering leaf-falling sunset,
I will twine flowers round thy tomb—oh my belovèd,
In the luxury of regret.
II
SWEET! how sweet it were to die
On this placid afternoon
Before the rising of the moon,
Love! together you and I.
It is not very much too soon—
Leaves fall—I and you
Must die too.
So as not to hear the rushing rain,
So as not to feel the falling snow,
And winter, wild and waste with woe,
At least we shall not see again.
Come, my belovèd, it is time to go—
Leaves fall—I and you
I SPRINKLED on my bed to-day,
Upon my bed of ceaseless pain,
Some of the perfume of red May—
—I shall not see the spring again.
It seemed, some halo of the moon,
Which lambent, carmine shadows threw;
The disc was wholly silver soon
Encircled with a ring of blue.
And in that silvern heart of space,
Slowly an image did arise,
Thy strange dark hair, thy strange pale face,
And thine unfathomable eyes.
But oh! thy face was very pale,
Thine eyes were wilder than of old—
Thou triedst to speak, but speech did fail,
And darling! how thy lips were cold.
It seemed there fell a red white snow
Upon my bed of ceaseless pain,
From where the far-off hawthorns grow,
I shall not see the spring again.
MUSIC and Sleep are one, and Love and Death
Are even as their brethren—let us die—
Or let me sleep where thou canst play to me,
Let thy violin-like voice flow over me,
Like oil poured forth upon the savage waves
That beat upon the prow of a dark ship
Which bears a load of shadows of despair.
TO travel is to die continually,
To see things at their saddest—passing away—
The horror of strange faces every day,
And the sad travail of still-born sympathy,
Oh, what is death but this same agony—
To look upon the sun-lit fields and say,
‘To-morrow shall not be as yesterday.’
Who knows to-morrow what mine eyes may see?
A few wild flowers strewn within the street,
Is it with tears or with the rain-fall wet?
The few familiar faces we used to greet,
Small things whereon so little store we set,
Are in this latter day grown strangely sweet
And sad with the association of regret.
‘O vos omnes, qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte si est dolor similis sicut dolor meus.’
ALL suffer, but thou shall suffer inordinately.
All weep, but thy tears shall be tears of blood.
I will destroy the blossom in the blood,
Nathless, I will not slay thee utterly—
Nay, thou shalt live—I will implant in thee
Strange lusts and dark desires, lest any should,
In passing, look on thee in piteous mood,
For from the first I have my mark on thee.
So shalt thou suffer without sympathy,
And should'st thou stand within the street and say:
‘Look on me, ye that wander by the way,
If there be any sorrow like to mine.’
They shall not bind thy wounds with oil and wine,
But with strange eyes downcast, shall turn from thee.
LET us go home—didst thou not hear a sound?
A long, low, lispèd laugh—didst thou not hear?
A wicked whisper echoing in mine ear,
And through the shuddering silence all around,
A growling as of wild beasts underground.
And so I know mine enemy is near,
Who dwelleth in the darkness, fraught with fear,
Tracking me ever as a silent hound.
Look down into the river, deep, deep, deep—
Betwixt our long, dark shadows hand in hand,
Cast upward from the water—not down from the land.
A shadow fainter than a shade—laugh not nor weep.
Was that the echo of a rock that fell?
But also a louder laugh, hardly hushed in Hell.
I walked among the olive trees and myrtles and tall strange poppies, and the night was clear, so clear, that I could see up and up, far up almost as far as God, and could discern the misty drapery of the angels along the nebulous empyrean—and the calm of the holy night-time shuddered with fitful ecstasy at the wailing passion of Sappho's lyre, and the strings her lute flashed ever and anon with flame at the touch of her slender magnetic fingers—and she lifted up her voice in song, a wild penetrating song of love and lust and bitter intense desire, and the sound thereof was as pure fire, having in it the bitterness of intense sweetness, like unto the sweet Lesbian wine a little salt to taste—and gradually with the sound of her passionate, star-tuned, heart-strung lute were mingled the far off tones of a sublime organ, causing to shiver and well-nigh shattering the cupola of heaven and the stable boundary of the horizon———and the tones of the organ grew stronger, and the sound of Sappho's lute strings waxed fainter, soothing themselves and lulling themselves to sleep as
they became amalgamated in the glory of that holy hymn———And I looked onward, and afar off it was as though a veil were rent in sunder and a wondrous vision was revealed unto me———through the cleft sky veil I beheld the three mystic watchers———on the face of the first was an exceeding weariness and utter exhaustion, he was so faint that he seemed to waver betwixt living and dying and had fallen asleep desiring never to wake again———the next unto him, on whose shoulder his head leaned, was exceedingly fair to look upon a deep eternal sleep was shed upon his eyelids, and the glory of past things shone as a halo around his head, as though his works followed him past the boundary line of life and death———the third seemed too soft for man, too warm for woman, and the liquid depths of his eyes shone with the calm radiance of an infinite love———yet his face was the saddest of all———and I marvelled to hear the voice of Sappho cry pleadingly and shrill through the night air heavy with the strains of sublime music
—WATCHER WHAT OF THE NIGHT—
———and a voice answered as if from an infinite distance———‘Alas the night is not yet past, we wait in vain, seeing that we know not if ever the day shall break or the shadows flee away!———see two of my brethren have already fallen on sleep, yet I watch on although the remnant of hope is molten in mine heart and has utterly passed from me’———and the voice ceased and a lightening flash lit up this vision again with wonderful distinctness, and the voice said again
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