If my woman's soul were stronger, if my heart were not so true, I should long have ceased remembering the love I had for you; But I dare not meet or greet you, in the old familiar way, Until we meet in Heaven, where all tears have passed away.
Frances Cochrane [18 -
ASHORE
Out I came from the dancing-place, The night-wind met me face to face, -
A wind off the harbor, cold and keen, "I know," it whistled, "where thou hast been."
A faint voice fell from the stars above - "Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!"
I found when I reached my lonely room A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom.
And this was the worst of all to bear, For some one had left white lilac there.
The flower you loved, in times that were.
Laurence Hope [1865-1904]
KHRISTNA AND HIS FLUTE
Be still, my heart, and listen, For sweet and yet acute I hear the wistful music Of Khristna and his flute. Across the cool, blue evenings, Throughout the burning days, Persuasive and beguiling, He plays and plays and plays.
Ah, none may hear such music Resistant to its charms, The household work grows weary, And cold the husband's arms. I must arise and follow, To seek, in vain pursuit, The blueness and the distance, The sweetness of that flute!
In linked and liquid sequence, The plaintive notes dissolve Divinely tender secrets That none but he can solve. O Khristna, I am coming, I can no more delay. "My heart has flown to join thee," How shall my footsteps stay?
Beloved, such thoughts have peril; The wish is in my mind That I had fired the jungle, And left no leaf behind, - Burnt all bamboos to ashes, And made their music mute, - To save thee from the magic Of Khristna and his flute.
Laurence Hope [1865-1904]
IMPENITENTIA ULTIMA
Before my light goes out forever, if God should give me choice of graces, I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be; But cry: "One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces, Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see!
"For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world's sad roses, And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat, But at Thy terrible judgment seat, when this my tired life closes, I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt.
"But once, before the sand is run and the silver thread is broken, Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years, Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token Her pure and pitiful eyes shine out, and bathe her feet with tears."
Her pitiful hands should calm and her hair stream down and blind me, Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear, And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out behind me, And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear.
Before the ruining waters fall and my life be carried under, And Thine anger cleave me through, as a child cuts down a flower, I will praise Thee, Lord, in hell, while my limbs are racked asunder, For the last sad sight of her face and the little grace of an hour.
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO CYNARAE
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head. I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat, Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay; Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, When I awoke and found the dawn was gray: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind, Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng, Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind; But I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, all the time, because the dance was long: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine; And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
QUID NON SPEREMUS, AMANTES?
Why is there in the least touch of her hands More grace than other women's lips bestow, If love is but a slave to fleshly bands Of flesh to flesh, wherever love may go?
Why choose vain grief and heavy-hearted hours For her lost voice, and dear remembered hair, If love may cull his honey from all flowers, And girls grow thick as violets, everywhere?
Nay! She is gone, and all things fall apart; Or she is cold, and vainly have we prayed; And broken is the summer's splendid heart, And hope within a deep, dark grave is laid.
As man aspires and falls, yet a soul springs Out of his agony of flesh at last, So love that flesh enthralls, shall rise on wings Soul-centered, when the rule of flesh is past.
Then, most High Love, or wreathed with myrtle sprays, Or crownless and forlorn, nor less a star, Thee may I serve and follow all my days, Whose thorns are sweet as never roses are!
Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]
"SO SWEET LOVE SEEMED"
So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change.
But I can tell - let truth be told - That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is naught to see, So delicate his motions be.
And in the end 'twill come to pass Quite to forget what once he was, Nor even in fancy to recall The pleasure that was all in all.
His little spring, that sweet we found, So deep in summer floods is drowned, I wonder, bathed in joy complete, How love so young could be so sweet.
Robert Bridges [1844-1930]
AN OLD TUNE After Gerard De Nerval
There is an air for which I would disown Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, - A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene'er I hear that music vague and old, Two hundred years are mist that rolls away; The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold A green land golden in the dying day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers, And windows gay with many-colored glass; Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her window high; It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.
Andrew Lang [1844-1912]
REFUGE
Set your face to the sea, fond lover, - Cold in darkness the sea-winds blow! Waves and clouds and the night will cover All your passion and all your woe: Sobbing waves, and the death within them, Sweet as the lips that once you pressed - Pray that your hopeless heart may win them! Pray that your weary life may rest!
Set your face to the stars, fond lover, - Calm, and silent, and bright, and true! - They will pity you, they will hover Softly over the deep for you. Winds of heaven will sigh your dirges, Tears of heaven for you be spent, And sweet for you will the murmuring surges Pour the wail of their low lament.
Set your face to the lonely spaces, Vast and gaunt, of the midnight sky! There, with the drifting cloud, your place is, There with the griefs that cannot die. Love is a mocking fiend's derision, Peace a phantom, and faith a snare! Make the hope of your heart a vision - Look to heaven, and find it there!
William Winter [1836-
MIDSUMMER
After the May time and after the June time Rare with blossoms and perfume sweet, Cometh the round world's royal noon time, The red midsummer of blazing heat, When the sun, like an eye that never closes, Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses Droop and wither and die in its rays.
Unto my heart has come this season, O, my lady, my worshiped one, When, over the stars of Pride and Reason, Sails Love's cloudless, noonday sun. Like a great red ball in my bosom burning With fires that nothing can quench or tame, It glows till my heart itself seems turning Into a liquid lake of flame.
The hopes half shy and the sighs all tender, The dreams and fears of an earlier day, Under the noontide's royal splendor, Droop like roses, and wither away. From the hills of Doubt no winds are blowing, From the isles of Pain no breeze is sent, - Only the sun in a white heat glowing Over an ocean of great content.
Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory! Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon! For the Autumn must come with its mournful story. And Love's midsummer will fade too soon.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox [1850-1919]
ASHES OF ROSES
Soft on the sunset sky Bright daylight closes, Leaving when light doth die, Pale hues that mingling lie - Ashes of roses.
When love's warm sun is set, Love's brightness closes; Eyes with hot tears are wet, In hearts there linger yet Ashes of roses.
Elaine Goodale Eastman [1863-
SYMPATHY
The color gladdens all your heart; You call it Heaven, dear, but I - Now Hope and I are far apart - Call it the sky.