Part 7

“Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night? Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?” that may be, And yet they are not beautiful to me. Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.

(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid So underneath white curtains, and so veiled That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed To see more than the shyly lifted lid.)

“Her perfect mouth so liked a carved kiss?” “Her honeyed-mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?” I would not taste its sweetness for a crown; Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.

(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried, Lies like a young grape’s bloom, untouched and sweet, And though I plead in passion at her feet, She would not let me brush it if I died.)

In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie For thy rare smile, or die from loss of it, Armoured by my sweet lady’s trust, I sit, And know thou are not worth her faintest sigh.

NOTHING REMAINS

Nothing remains of unrecorded ages That lie in the silent cemetery time; Their wisdom may have shamed our wisest sages, Their glory may have been indeed sublime. How weak do seem our strivings after power, How poor the grandest efforts of our brains, If out of all we are, in one short hour Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Spaces, Time and decay uproot the forest trees. Even the mighty mountains leave their places, And sink their haughty heads beneath strange seas The great earth writhes in some convulsive spasms And turns the proudest cities into plains. The level sea becomes a yawning chasm— Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Forces, The sad seas cease complaining and grow dry, Rivers are drained and altered in their courses, Great stars pass out and vanish from the sky. Ideas die and old religions perish, Our rarest pleasures and our keenest pains Are swept away with all we hate or cherish— Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Nameless And all-creative spirit of the Law, Uncomprehended, comprehensive, blameless, Invincible, resistless, with no flaw; So full of love it must create for ever, Destroying that it may create again, Persistent and perfecting in endeavour, It yet must bring forth angels, after men— This, this remains!

COMRADES

I and my Soul are alone to-day, All in the shining weather; We were sick of the world, and put it away, So we could rejoice together.

Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue sky Is mixing a rare, sweet wine, In the burnished gold of this cup on high, For me, and this Soul of mine.

We find it a safe and royal drink, And a cure for every pain; It helps us to love, and helps us to think, And strengthens body and brain.

And sitting here, with my Soul alone, Where the yellow sun-rays fall, Of all the friends I have ever known I find it the best of all.

We rarely meet when the world is near, For the World hath a pleasing art And brings me so much that is bright and dear That my Soul it keepeth apart.

But when I grow weary of mirth and glee, Of glitter, glow, and splendour, Like a tried old friend it comes to me, With a smile that is sad and tender.

And we walk together as two friends may, And laugh and drink God’s wine. Oh, a royal comrade any day I find this Soul of mine.

WHAT GAIN?

Now, while thy rounded cheek is fresh and fair, While beauty lingers, laughing, in thine eyes, Ere thy young heart shall meet the stranger, “Care,” Or thy blithe soul become the home of sighs, Were it not kindness should I give thee rest By plunging this sharp dagger in thy breast? Dying so young, with all thy wealth of youth, What part of life wouldst thou not claim, in sooth? Only the woe, Sweetheart, that sad souls know.

Now, in this sacred hour of supreme trust, Of pure delight and palpitating joy, Ere change can come, as come it surely must, With jarring doubts and discords, to destroy Our far too perfect peace, I pray thee, Sweet, Were it not best for both of us, and meet, If I should bring swift death to seal our bliss? Dying so full of joy, what could we miss? Nothing but tears, Sweetheart, and weary years.

How slight the action! Just one well-aimed blow Here, where I feel thy warm heart’s pulsing beat, And then another through my own, and so Our perfect union would be made complete: So, past all parting, I should claim thee mine. Dead with our youth, and faith, and love divine, Should we not keep the best of life that way? What shall we gain by living day on day? What shall we gain, Sweetheart, but bitter pain?

TO THE WEST

Not to the crowded East, Where, in a well-worn groove, Like the harnessed wheel of a great machine, The trammelled mind must move— Where Thought must follow the fashion of Thought, Or be counted vulgar and set at naught.

Not to the languid South, Where the mariners of the brain Are lured by the Sirens of the Sense, And wrecked upon its main— Where Thought is rocked, on the sweet wind’s breath To a torpid sleep that ends in death.

But to the mighty West, That chosen realm of God, Where Nature reaches her hands to men, And Freedom walks abroad— Where mind is King, and fashion is naught, There shall the New World look for thought

To the West, the beautiful West, She shall look, and not in vain— For out of its broad and boundless store Come muscle, and nerve, and brain. Let the bards of the East and the South be dumb— For out of the West shall the Poets come.

They shall come with souls as great As the cradle where they were rocked; They shall come with brows that are touched with fire Like the gods with whom they have walked; They shall come from the West in royal state, The Singers and Thinkers for whom we wait.