Part 117

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

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 where through 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!

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

THE OBLATION

Ask nothing more of me, sweet; All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet: Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar.

All things were nothing to give Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you, sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of your wings as they soar, Trodden by chance of your feet.

I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet: He that hath more, let him give; He that hath wings, let him soar; Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

THE SONG OF THE BOWER From "The House of Life"

Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free. Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber, Oh! the last time, and the hundred before: Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember, Yet something that sighs from him passes the door.

Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower, What does it find there that knows it again? There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower, Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. Ah! yet what shelter is still shed above it, - What waters still image its leaves torn apart? Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it, And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart.

What were my prize, could I enter thy bower, This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn? Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower, Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is colder!) Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day; My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder, My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away.

What is it keeps me afar from thy bower, - My spirit, my body, so fain to be there? Waters engulfing or fires that devour? - Earth heaped against me or death in the air? Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity, The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell; Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city, The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell.

Shall I not one day remember thy bower, One day when all days are one day to me? - Thinking, "I stirred not, and yet had the power," Yearning, "Ah God, if again it might be!" Peace, peace! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway, So dimly so few steps in front of my feet, - Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way. . . . Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we meet?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti [1828-1882]

SONG

We break the glass, whose sacred wine To some beloved health we drain, Lest future pledges, less divine, Should e'er the hallowed toy profane; And thus I broke a heart that poured Its tide of feelings out for thee, In draughts, by after-times deplored, Yet dear to memory.

But still the old, impassioned ways And habits of my mind remain, And still unhappy light displays Thine image chambered in my brain, And still it looks as when the hours Went by like flights of singing birds, Or that soft chain of spoken flowers And airy gems, - thy words.

Edward Coote Pinkney [1802-1828]

MAUD MULLER

Maud Muller on a summer's day Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, -