Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  Shall these be sorry for thy sorrow?

  Shall these give thanks for words or breath?

  Their hate is as their loving-kindness;

  The frontlet of their brows is blindness,

  The armlet of their arms is death.

  Lo, for no noise or light of thunder

  Shall these grave-clothes be rent in sunder;

  He that hath taken, shall he give?

  He hath rent them: shall he bind together?

  He hath bound them: shall he break the tether?

  He hath slain them: shall he bid them live?

  A little sorrow, a little pleasure,

  Fate metes us from the dusty measure

  That holds the date of all of us;

  We are born with travail and strong crying,

  And from the birth-day to the dying

  The likeness of our life is thus.

  One girds himself to serve another,

  Whose father was the dust, whose mother

  The little dead red worm therein;

  They find no fruit of things they cherish;

  The goodness of a man shall perish,

  It shall be one thing with his sin.

  In deep wet ways by grey old gardens

  Fed with sharp spring the sweet fruit hardens;

  They know not what fruits wane or grow;

  Red summer burns to the utmost ember;

  They know not, neither can remember,

  The old years and flowers they used to know.

  Ah, for their sakes, so trapped and taken,

  For theirs, forgotten and forsaken,

  Watch, sleep not, gird thyself with prayer.

  Nay, where the heart of wrath is broken,

  Where long love ends as a thing spoken,

  How shall thy crying enter there?

  Though the iron sides of the old world falter,

  The likeness of them shall not alter

  For all the rumour of periods,

  The stars and seasons that come after,

  The tears of latter men, the laughter

  Of the old unalterable gods.

  Far up above the years and nations,

  The high gods, clothed and crowned with patience,

  Endure through days of deathlike date;

  They bear the witness of things hidden;

  Before their eyes all life stands chidden,

  As they before the eyes of Fate.

  Not for their love shall Fate retire,

  Nor they relent for our desire,

  Nor the graves open for their call.

  The end is more than joy and anguish,

  Than lives that laugh and lives that languish,

  The poppied sleep, the end of all.

  HERMAPHRODITUS

  I

  Lift up thy lips, turn round, look back for love,

  Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest;

  Of all things tired thy lips look weariest,

  Save the long smile that they are wearied of.

  Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough,

  Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best;

  Two loves at either blossom of thy breast

  Strive until one be under and one above.

  Their breath is fire upon the amorous air,

  Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire:

  And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair,

  Two things turn all his life and blood to fire;

  A strong desire begot on great despair,

  A great despair cast out by strong desire.

  II

  Where between sleep and life some brief space is,

  With love like gold bound round about the head,

  Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed,

  Turning the fruitful feud of hers and his

  To the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss;

  Yet from them something like as fire is shed

  That shall not be assuaged till death be dead,

  Though neither life nor sleep can find out this.

  Love made himself of flesh that perisheth

  A pleasure-house for all the loves his kin;

  But on the one side sat a man like death,

  And on the other a woman sat like sin.

  So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breath

  Love turned himself and would not enter in.

  III

  Love, is it love or sleep or shadow or light

  That lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes?

  Like a flower laid upon a flower it lies,

  Or like the night’s dew laid upon the night.

  Love stands upon thy left hand and thy right,

  Yet by no sunset and by no moonrise

  Shall make thee man and ease a woman’s sighs,

  Or make thee woman for a man’s delight.

  To what strange end hath some strange god made fair

  The double blossom of two fruitless flowers?

  Hid love in all the folds of all thy hair,

  Fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers,

  Given all the gold that all the seasons wear

  To thee that art a thing of barren hours?

  IV

  Yea, love, I see; it is not love but fear.

  Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know;

  Or wherefore should thy body’s blossom blow

  So sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear

  Thy gracious eyes that never made a tear —

  Though for their love our tears like blood should flow,

  Though love and life and death should come and go,

  So dreadful, so desirable, so dear?

  Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wise

  Beneath the woman’s and the water’s kiss

  Thy moist limbs melted into Salmacis,

  And the large light turned tender in thine eyes,

  And all thy boy’s breath softened into sighs;

  But Love being blind, how should he know of this?

  Au Musée du Louvre, Mars 1863.

  FRAGOLETTA

  O Love! what shall be said of thee?

  The son of grief begot by joy?

  Being sightless, wilt thou see?

  Being sexless, wilt thou be

  Maiden or boy?

  I dreamed of strange lips yesterday

  And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood

  Was like a rose’s — yea,

  A rose’s when it lay

  Within the bud.

  What fields have bred thee, or what groves

  Concealed thee, O mysterious flower,

  O double rose of Love’s,

  With leaves that lure the doves

  From bud to bower?

  I dare not kiss it, lest my lip

  Press harder than an indrawn breath,

  And all the sweet life slip

  Forth, and the sweet leaves drip,

  Bloodlike, in death.

  O sole desire of my delight!

  O sole delight of my desire!

  Mine eyelids and eyesight

  Feed on thee day and night

  Like lips of fire.

  Lean back thy throat of carven pearl,

  Let thy mouth murmur like the dove’s;

  Say, Venus hath no girl,

  No front of female curl,

  Among her Loves.

  Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair,

  Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet,

  Thy virginal strange air,

  Are these not over fair

  For Love to greet?

  How should he greet thee? what new name,

  Fit to move all men’s hearts, could move

  Thee, deaf to love or shame,

  Love’s sister, by the same

  Mother as Love?

  Ah sweet, the maiden’s mouth is cold,

  Her breast-blossoms are simply red,

  Her hair mere brown or gold,

  Fold over simple f
old

  Binding her head.

  Thy mouth is made of fire and wine,

  Thy barren bosom takes my kiss

  And turns my soul to thine

  And turns thy lip to mine,

  And mine it is.

  Thou hast a serpent in thine hair,

  In all the curls that close and cling;

  And ah, thy breast-flower!

  Ah love, thy mouth too fair

  To kiss and sting!

  Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes,

  Satiate thy lips with loving me;

  Nay, for thou shalt not rise;

  Lie still as Love that dies

  For love of thee.

  Mine arms are close about thine head,

  My lips are fervent on thy face,

  And where my kiss hath fed

  Thy flower-like blood leaps red

  To the kissed place.

  O bitterness of things too sweet!

  O broken singing of the dove!

  Love’s wings are over fleet,

  And like the panther’s feet

  The feet of Love.

  RONDEL

  These many years since we began to be,

  What have the gods done with us? what with me,

  What with my love? they have shown me fates and fears,

  Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea,

  Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers,

  These many years.

  With her, my love, with her have they done well?

  But who shall answer for her? who shall tell

  Sweet things or sad, such things as no man hears?

  May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell,

  From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheres

  These many years!

  But if tears ever touched, for any grief,

  Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf,

  Deep double shells wherethrough the eye-flower peers,

  Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief,

  Brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tears

  These many years.

  SATIA TE SANGUINE

  If you loved me ever so little,

  I could bear the bonds that gall,

  I could dream the bonds were brittle;

  You do not love me at all.

  O beautiful lips, O bosom

  More white than the moon’s and warm,

  A sterile, a ruinous blossom

  Is blown your way in a storm.

  As the lost white feverish limbs

  Of the Lesbian Sappho, adrift

  In foam where the sea-weed swims,

  Swam loose for the streams to lift,

  My heart swims blind in a sea

  That stuns me; swims to and fro,

  And gathers to windward and lee

  Lamentation, and mourning, and woe.

  A broken, an emptied boat,

  Sea saps it, winds blow apart,

  Sick and adrift and afloat,

  The barren waif of a heart.

  Where, when the gods would be cruel,

  Do they go for a torture? where

  Plant thorns, set pain like a jewel?

  Ah, not in the flesh, not there!

  The racks of earth and the rods

  Are weak as foam on the sands;

  In the heart is the prey for gods,

  Who crucify hearts, not hands.

  Mere pangs corrode and consume,

  Dead when life dies in the brain;

  In the infinite spirit is room

  For the pulse of an infinite pain.

  I wish you were dead, my dear;

  I would give you, had I to give

  Some death too bitter to fear;

  It is better to die than live.

  I wish you were stricken of thunder

  And burnt with a bright flame through,

  Consumed and cloven in sunder,

  I dead at your feet like you.

  If I could but know after all,

  I might cease to hunger and ache,

  Though your heart were ever so small,

  If it were not a stone or a snake.

  You are crueller, you that we love,

  Than hatred, hunger, or death;

  You have eyes and breasts like a dove,

  And you kill men’s hearts with a breath

  As plague in a poisonous city

  Insults and exults on her dead,

  So you, when pallid for pity

  Comes love, and fawns to be fed.

  As a tame beast writhes and wheedles,

  He fawns to be fed with wiles;

  You carve him a cross of needles,

  And whet them sharp as your smiles.

  He is patient of thorn and whip,

  He is dumb under axe or dart;

  You suck with a sleepy red lip

  The wet red wounds in his heart.

  You thrill as his pulses dwindle,

  You brighten and warm as he bleeds,

  With insatiable eyes that kindle

  And insatiable mouth that feeds.

  Your hands nailed love to the tree,

  You stript him, scourged him with rods,

  And drowned him deep in the sea

  That hides the dead and their gods.

  And for all this, die will he not;

  There is no man sees him but I;

  You came and went and forgot;

  I hope he will some day die.

  A LITANY

  [Greek: en ouranô phaennas

  krypsô par’ hymin augas,

  mias pro nyktos hepta nyktas hexete, k.t.l.]

  Anth. Sac.

  FIRST ANTIPHONE

  All the bright lights of heaven

  I will make dark over thee;

  One night shall be as seven

  That its skirts may cover thee;

  I will send on thy strong men a sword,

  On thy remnant a rod;

  Ye shall know that I am the Lord,

  Saith the Lord God.

  SECOND ANTIPHONE

  All the bright lights of heaven

  Thou hast made dark over us;

  One night has been as seven

  That its skirt might cover us;

  Thou hast sent on our strong men a sword,

  On our remnant a rod;

  We know that thou art the Lord,

  O Lord our God.

  THIRD ANTIPHONE

  As the tresses and wings of the wind

  Are scattered and shaken,

  I will scatter all them that have sinned,

  There shall none be taken;

  As a sower that scattereth seed,

  So will I scatter them;

  As one breaketh and shattereth a reed,

  I will break and shatter them.

  FOURTH ANTIPHONE

  As the wings and the locks of the wind

  Are scattered and shaken,

  Thou hast scattered all them that have sinned,

  There was no man taken;

  As a sower that scattereth seed,

  So hast thou scattered us;

  As one breaketh and shattereth a reed,

  Thou hast broken and shattered us.

  FIFTH ANTIPHONE

  From all thy lovers that love thee

  I God will sunder thee;

  I will make darkness above thee,

  And thick darkness under thee;

  Before me goeth a light,

  Behind me a sword;

  Shall a remnant find grace in my sight?

  I am the Lord.

  SIXTH ANTIPHONE

  From all our lovers that love us

  Thou God didst sunder us;

  Thou madest darkness above us,

  And thick darkness under us;

  Thou hast kindled thy wrath for a light,

  And made ready thy sword;

  Let a remnant find grace in thy sight,

  We beseech thee, O Lord.

  SEVENTH ANTIP
HONE

  Wilt thou bring fine gold for a payment

  For sins on this wise?

  For the glittering of raiment

  And the shining of eyes,

  For the painting of faces

  And the sundering of trust,

  For the sins of thine high places

  And delight of thy lust?

  For your high things ye shall have lowly,

  Lamentation for song;

  For, behold, I God am holy,

  I the Lord am strong;

  Ye shall seek me and shall not reach me

  Till the wine-press be trod;

  In that hour ye shall turn and beseech me,

  Saith the Lord God.

  EIGHTH ANTIPHONE

  Not with fine gold for a payment,

  But with coin of sighs,

  But with rending of raiment

  And with weeping of eyes,

  But with shame of stricken faces

  And with strewing of dust,

  For the sin of stately places

  And lordship of lust;

  With voices of men made lowly,

  Made empty of song,

  O Lord God most holy,

  O God most strong,

  We reach out hands to reach thee

  Ere the wine-press be trod;

  We beseech thee, O Lord, we beseech thee,

  O Lord our God.

  NINTH ANTIPHONE

  In that hour thou shalt say to the night,

  Come down and cover us;

  To the cloud on thy left and thy right,

  Be thou spread over us;

  A snare shall be as thy mother,

  And a curse thy bride;

  Thou shalt put her away, and another

  Shall lie by thy side.

  Thou shalt neither rise up by day

  Nor lie down by night;

  Would God it were dark! thou shalt say;

  Would God it were light!