Part 116

A little time for laughter, A little time to sing, A little time to kiss and cling, And no more kissing after.

A little while for scheming Love's unperfected schemes; A little time for golden dreams, Then no more any dreaming.

A little while 'twas given To me to have thy love; Now, like a ghost, alone I move About a ruined heaven.

A little time for speaking Things sweet to say and hear; A time to seek, and find thee near, Then no more any seeking.

A little time for saying Words the heart breaks to say; A short sharp time wherein to pray, Then no more need of praying;

But long, long years to weep in, And comprehend the whole Great grief that desolates the soul, And eternity to sleep in.

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]

AFTER SUMMER

We'll not weep for summer over, - No, not we: Strew above his head the clover, - Let him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying, Shed their tears There upon him, where he's lying With his peers.

Unto some of them he proffered Gifts most sweet; For our hearts a grave he offered, - Was this meet?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished In his wrath, - All the lovely dreams we cherished Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, Far apart, Sundered wide as seas can sunder Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows That were ours, - Bitter nights, more bitter morrows; Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness, Saying, "See, These are yours, in place of gladness, - Gifts from me"?

Nay, the rest that will be ours Is supreme, - And below the poppy flowers Steals no dream.

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]

ROCOCO

Take hand and part with laughter; Touch lips and part with tears; Once more and no more after, Whatever comes with years. We twain shall not remeasure The ways that left us twain; Nor crush the lees of pleasure From sanguine grapes of pain.

We twain once well in sunder, What will the mad gods do For hate with me, I wonder, Or what for love with you? Forget them till November, And dream there's April yet, Forget that I remember, And dream that I forget.

Time found our tired love sleeping, And kissed away his breath; But what should we do weeping, Though light love sleep to death? We have drained his lips at leisure, Till there's not left to drain A single sob of pleasure, A single pulse of pain.

Dream that the lips once breathless Might quicken if they would; Say that the soul is deathless; Dream that the gods are good; Say March may wed September, And time divorce regret; But not that you remember, And not that I forget.

We have heard from hidden places What love scarce lives and hears: We have seen on fervent faces The pallor of strange tears: We have trod the wine-vat's treasure, Whence, ripe to steam and stain, Foams round the feet of pleasure The blood-red must of pain.

Remembrance may recover And time bring back to time The name of your first lover, The ring of my first rhyme: But rose-leaves of December The frosts of June shall fret, The day that you remember, The day that I forget.

The snake that hides and hisses In heaven we twain have known; The grief of cruel kisses, The joy whose mouth makes moan; The pulses' pause and measure, Where in one furtive vein Throbs through the heart of pleasure The purpler blood of pain.

We have done with tears and treasons And love for treason's sake; Room for the swift new seasons, The years that burn and break, Dismantle and dismember Men's days and dreams, Juliette; For love may not remember, But time will not forget.

Life treads down love in flying, Time withers him at root; Bring all dead things and dying, Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, Where, crushed by three days' pressure Our three days' love lies slain; And earlier leaf of pleasure, And latter flower of pain.

Breathe close upon the ashes, It may be flame will leap; Unclose the soft close lashes, Lift up the lids and weep. Light love's extinguished ember, Let one tear leave it wet For one that you remember And ten that you forget.