Part 32

Distraction is the panacea, Sir! I hear my oracle of Medicine say. Doctor! that same specific yesterday I tried, and the result will not deter A second trial. Is the devil’s line Of golden hair, or raven black, composed? And does a cheek, like any sea-shell rosed, Or clear as widowed sky, seem most divine? No matter, so I taste forgetfulness. And if the devil snare me, body and mind, Here gratefully I score:—he seemëd kind, When not a soul would comfort my distress! O sweet new world, in which I rise new made! O Lady, once I gave love: now I take! Lady, I must be flattered. Shouldst thou wake The passion of a demon, be not afraid.

XXVIII

I must be flattered. The imperious Desire speaks out. Lady, I am content To play with you the game of Sentiment, And with you enter on paths perilous; But if across your beauty I throw light, To make it threefold, it must be all mine. First secret; then avowed. For I must shine Envied,—I, lessened in my proper sight! Be watchful of your beauty, Lady dear! How much hangs on that lamp you cannot tell. Most earnestly I pray you, tend it well: And men shall see me as a burning sphere; And men shall mark you eyeing me, and groan To be the God of such a grand sunflower! I feel the promptings of Satanic power, While you do homage unto me alone.

XXIX

Am I failing? For no longer can I cast A glory round about this head of gold. Glory she wears, but springing from the mould; Not like the consecration of the Past! Is my soul beggared? Something more than earth I cry for still: I cannot be at peace In having Love upon a mortal lease. I cannot take the woman at her worth! Where is the ancient wealth wherewith I clothed Our human nakedness, and could endow With spiritual splendour a white brow That else had grinned at me the fact I loathed? A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave Of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will! we’ll sit contentedly, And eat our pot of honey on the grave.

XXX

What are we first? First, animals; and next Intelligences at a leap; on whom Pale lies the distant shadow of the tomb, And all that draweth on the tomb for text. Into which state comes Love, the crowning sun: Beneath whose light the shadow loses form. We are the lords of life, and life is warm. Intelligence and instinct now are one. But nature says: ‘My children most they seem When they least know me: therefore I decree That they shall suffer.’ Swift doth young Love flee, And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream. Then if we study Nature we are wise. Thus do the few who live but with the day: The scientific animals are they.— Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes.

XXXI

This golden head has wit in it. I live Again, and a far higher life, near her. Some women like a young philosopher; Perchance because he is diminutive. For woman’s manly god must not exceed Proportions of the natural nursing size. Great poets and great sages draw no prize With women: but the little lap-dog breed, Who can be hugged, or on a mantel-piece Perched up for adoration, these obtain Her homage. And of this we men are vain? Of this! ’Tis ordered for the world’s increase! Small flattery! Yet she has that rare gift To beauty, Common Sense. I am approved. It is not half so nice as being loved, And yet I do prefer it. What’s my drift?

XXXII

Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift To beauty, Common Sense. To see her lie With her fair visage an inverted sky Bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift, Would almost wreck the faith; but when her mouth (Can it kiss sweetly? sweetly!) would address The inner me that thirsts for her no less, And has so long been languishing in drouth, I feel that I am matched; that I am man! One restless corner of my heart or head, That holds a dying something never dead, Still frets, though Nature giveth all she can. It means, that woman is not, I opine, Her sex’s antidote. Who seeks the asp For serpent’s bites? ’Twould calm me could I clasp Shrieking Bacchantes with their souls of wine!

XXXIII

‘In Paris, at the Louvre, there have I seen The sumptuously-feathered angel pierce Prone Lucifer, descending. Looked he fierce, Showing the fight a fair one? Too serene! The young Pharsalians did not disarray Less willingly their locks of floating silk: That suckling mouth of his upon the milk Of heaven might still be feasting through the fray. Oh, Raphael! when men the Fiend do fight, They conquer not upon such easy terms. Half serpent in the struggle grow these worms. And does he grow half human, all is right.’ This to my Lady in a distant spot, Upon the theme: While mind is mastering clay, Gross clay invades it. If the spy you play, My wife, read this! Strange love talk, is it not?

XXXIV

Madam would speak with me. So, now it comes: The Deluge or else Fire! She’s well; she thanks My husbandship. Our chain on silence clanks. Time leers between, above his twiddling thumbs. Am I quite well? Most excellent in health! The journals, too, I diligently peruse. Vesuvius is expected to give news: Niagara is no noisier. By stealth Our eyes dart scrutinizing snakes. She’s glad I’m happy, says her quivering under-lip. ‘And are not you?’ ‘How can I be?’ ‘Take ship! For happiness is somewhere to be had.’ ‘Nowhere for me!’ Her voice is barely heard. I am not melted, and make no pretence. With commonplace I freeze her, tongue and sense. Niagara or Vesuvius is deferred.

XXXV

It is no vulgar nature I have wived. Secretive, sensitive, she takes a wound Deep to her soul, as if the sense had swooned, And not a thought of vengeance had survived. No confidences has she: but relief Must come to one whose suffering is acute. O have a care of natures that are mute! They punish you in acts: their steps are brief. What is she doing? What does she demand From Providence or me? She is not one Long to endure this torpidly, and shun The drugs that crowd about a woman’s hand. At Forfeits during snow we played, and I Must kiss her. ‘Well performed!’ I said: then she: ‘’Tis hardly worth the money, you agree?’ Save her? What for? To act this wedded lie!

XXXVI

My Lady unto Madam makes her bow. The charm of women is, that even while You’re probed by them for tears, you yet may smile, Nay, laugh outright, as I have done just now. The interview was gracious: they anoint (To me aside) each other with fine praise: Discriminating compliments they raise, That hit with wondrous aim on the weak point: My Lady’s nose of Nature might complain. It is not fashioned aptly to express Her character of large-browed steadfastness. But Madam says: Thereof she may be vain! Now, Madam’s faulty feature is a glazed And inaccessible eye, that has soft fires, Wide gates, at love-time, only. This admires My Lady. At the two I stand amazed.

XXXVII

Along the garden terrace, under which A purple valley (lighted at its edge By smoky torch-flame on the long cloud-ledge Whereunder dropped the chariot) glimmers rich, A quiet company we pace, and wait The dinner-bell in prae-digestive calm. So sweet up violet banks the Southern balm Breathes round, we care not if the bell be late: Though here and there grey seniors question Time In irritable coughings. With slow foot The low rosed moon, the face of Music mute, Begins among her silent bars to climb. As in and out, in silvery dusk, we thread, I hear the laugh of Madam, and discern My Lady’s heel before me at each turn. Our tragedy, is it alive or dead?

XXXVIII

Give to imagination some pure light In human form to fix it, or you shame The devils with that hideous human game:— Imagination urging appetite! Thus fallen have earth’s greatest Gogmagogs, Who dazzle us, whom we can not revere: Imagination is the charioteer That, in default of better, drives the hogs. So, therefore, my dear Lady, let me love! My soul is arrowy to the light in you. You know me that I never can renew The bond that woman broke: what would you have? ’Tis Love, or Vileness! not a choice between, Save petrifaction! What does Pity here? She killed a thing, and now it’s dead, ’tis dear. Oh, when you counsel me, think what you mean!

XXXIX

She yields: my Lady in her noblest mood Has yielded: she, my golden-crownëd rose! The bride of every sense! more sweet than those Who breathe the violet breath of maidenhood. O visage of still music in the sky! Soft moon! I feel thy song, my fairest friend! True harmony within can apprehend Dumb harmony without. And hark! ’tis nigh! Belief has struck the note of sound: a gleam Of living silver shows me where she shook Her long white fingers down the shadowy brook, That sings her song, half waking, half in dream. What two come here to mar this heavenly tune? A man is one: the woman bears my name, And honour. Their hands touch! Am I still tame? God, what a dancing spectre seems the moon!

I bade my Lady think what she might mean. Know I my meaning, I? Can I love one, And yet be jealous of another? None Commits such folly. Terrible Love, I ween, Has might, even dead, half sighing to upheave The lightless seas of selfishness amain: Seas that in a man’s heart have no rain To fall and still them. Peace can I achieve, By turning to this fountain-source of woe, This woman, who’s to Love as fire to wood? She breathed the violet breath of maidenhood Against my kisses once! but I say, No! The thing is mocked at! Helplessly afloat, I know not what I do, whereto I strive. The dread that my old love may be alive Has seized my nursling new love by the throat.

XLI

How many a thing which we cast to the ground, When others pick it up becomes a gem! We grasp at all the wealth it is to them; And by reflected light its worth is found. Yet for us still ’tis nothing! and that zeal Of false appreciation quickly fades. This truth is little known to human shades, How rare from their own instinct ’tis to feel! They waste the soul with spurious desire, That is not the ripe flame upon the bough. We two have taken up a lifeless vow To rob a living passion: dust for fire! Madam is grave, and eyes the clock that tells Approaching midnight. We have struck despair Into two hearts. O, look we like a pair Who for fresh nuptials joyfully yield all else?