Exultations

I am an eternal spirit and the things I make are but ephemera, yet I endure: Yea, and the little earth crumbles beneath our feet and we endure.
I have to thank the Editors of the English Review and the Evening Standard and St. James's Gazette for permission to include in this volume certain poems which originally appeared in those papers.
The Publisher desires to state that the Ballad of the Goodly Fere —by the wish of the Author—is reproduced exactly as it appeared in the English Review.
Hymn III From the Latin of Marc Antony Flaminius, sixteenth century. As a fragile and lovely flower unfolds its gleaming foliage on the breast of the fostering earth, if the dew and the rain draw it forth; So doth my tender mind flourish, if it be fed with the sweet dew of the fostering spirit, Lacking this, it beginneth straightway to languish, even as a floweret born upon dry earth, if the dew and the rain tend it not. Sestina for Ysolt There comes upon me will to speak in praise Of things most fragile in their loveliness; Because the sky hath wept all this long day And wrapped men's hearts within its cloak of greyness, Because they look not down I sing the stars, Because 'tis still mid-March I praise May's flowers. Also I praise long hands that lie as flowers Which though they labour not are worthy praise, And praise deep eyes like pools wherein the stars Gleam out reflected in their loveliness, For whoso look on such there is no greyness May hang about his heart on any day. The other things that I would praise to-day? Besides white hands and all the fragile flowers, And by their praise dispel the evening's greyness? I praise dim hair that worthiest is of praise And dream upon its unbound loveliness, And how therethrough mine eyes have seen the stars. Yea, through that cloud mine eyes have seen the stars That drift out slowly when night steals the day, Through such a cloud meseems their loveliness Surpasses that of all the other flowers. For that one night I give all nights my praise And love therefrom the twilight's coming greyness. There is a stillness in this twilight greyness Although the rain hath veiled the flow'ry stars, They seem to listen as I weave this praise Of what I have not seen all this grey day, And they will tell my praise unto the flowers When May shall bid them in in loveliness. O ye I love, who hold this loveliness Near to your hearts, may never any greyness Enshroud your hearts when ye would gather flowers, Or bind your eyes when ye would see the stars; But alway do I give ye flowers by day, And when day's plucked I give ye stars for praise. But most, thou Flower, whose eyes are like the stars, With whom my dreams bide all the live-long day, Within thy hands would I rest all my praise. Portrait From La Mère Inconnue. Now would I weave her portrait out of all dim splendour. Of Provence and far halls of memory, Lo, there come echoes, faint diversity Of blended bells at even's end, or As the distant seas should send her The tribute of their trembling, ceaselessly Resonant. Out of all dreams that be, Say, shall I bid the deepest dreams attend her? Nay! For I have seen the purplest shadows stand Alway with reverent chere that looked on her, Silence himself is grown her worshipper And ever doth attend her in that land Wherein she reigneth, wherefore let there stir Naught but the softest voices, praising her. Fair Helena by Rackham What I love best in all the world? When the purple twilight is unbound, To watch her slow, tall grace and its wistful loveliness, And to know her face is in the shadow there, Just by two stars beneath that cloud— The soft, dim cloud of her hair, And to think my voice can reach to her As but the rumour of some tree-bound stream, Heard just beyond the forest's edge, Until she all forgets I am, And knows of me Naught but my dream's felicity. Laudantes Decem Pulchritudinis Johannae Templi I When your beauty is grown old in all men's songs, And my poor words are lost amid that throng, Then you will know the truth of my poor words, And mayhap dreaming of the wistful throng That hopeless sigh your praises in their songs, You will think kindly then of these mad words. II I am torn, torn with thy beauty, O Rose of the sharpest thorn! O Rose of the crimson beauty, Why hast thou awakened the sleeper? Why hast thou awakened the heart within me, O Rose of the crimson thorn? III The unappeasable loveliness is calling to me out of the wind, And because your name is written upon the ivory doors, The wave in my heart is as a green wave, unconfined, Tossing the white foam toward you; And the lotus that pours Her fragrance into the purple cup, Is more to be gained with the foam Than are you with these words of mine. IV He speaks to the moonlight concerning the Beloved . Pale hair that the moon has shaken Down over the dark breast of the sea, O magic her beauty has shaken About the heart of me; Out of you have I woven a dream That shall walk in the lonely vale Betwixt the high hill and the low hill, Until the pale stream Of the souls of men quench and grow still. V Voices speaking to the sun . Red leaf that art blown upward and out and over The green sheaf of the world, And through the dim forest and under The shadowed arches and the aisles, We, who are older than thou art, Met and remembered when his eyes beheld her In the garden of the peach-trees, In the day of the blossoming. VI I stood on the hill of Yrma when the winds were a-hurrying, With the grasses a-bending I followed them, Through the brown grasses of Ahva unto the green of Asedon. I have rested with the voices in the gardens of Ahthor, I have lain beneath the peach-trees in the hour of the purple: Because I had awaited in the garden of the peach-trees, Because I had feared not in the forest of my mind, Mine eyes beheld the vision of the blossom There in the peach-gardens past Asedon. O winds of Yrma, let her again come unto me, Whose hair ye held unbound in the gardens of Ahthor! VII Because of the beautiful white shoulders and the rounded breasts I can in no wise forget my beloved of the peach-trees, And the little winds that speak when the dawn is unfurled And the rose-colour in the grey oak-leaf's fold When it first comes, and the glamour that rests On the little streams in the evening; all of these Call me to her, and all the loveliness in the world Binds me to my beloved with strong chains of gold. VIII If the rose-petals which have fallen upon my eyes And if the perfect faces which I see at times When my eyes are closed— Faces fragile, pale, yet flushed a little, like petals of roses: If these things have confused my memories of her So that I could not draw her face Even if I had skill and the colours, Yet because her face is so like these things They but draw me nearer unto her in my thought And thoughts of her come upon my mind gently, As dew upon the petals of roses. IX He speaks to the rain . O pearls that hang on your little silver chains, The innumerable voices that are whispering Among you as you are drawn aside by the wind, Have brought to my mind the soft and eager speech Of one who hath great loveliness, Which is subtle as the beauty of the rains That hang low in the moonshine and bring The May softly among us, and unbind The streams and the crimson and white flowers and reach Deep down into the secret places. X The glamour of the soul hath come upon me, And as the twilight comes upon the roses, Walking silently among them, So have the thoughts of my heart Gone out slowly in the twilight Toward my beloved, Toward the crimson rose, the fairest. Aux Belles de Londres I am aweary with the utter and beautiful weariness And with the ultimate wisdom and with things terrene, I am aweary with your smiles and your laughter, And the sun and the winds again Reclaim their booty and the heart o' me. Francesca You came in out of the night And there were flowers in your hands, Now you will come out of a confusion of people, Out of a turmoil of speech about you. I who have seen you amid the primal things Was angry when they spoke your name In ordinary places. I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind, And that the world should dry as a dead leaf, Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away, So that I might find you again, Alone. Greek Epigram Day and night are never weary, Nor yet is God of creating For day and night their torch-bearers The aube and the crepuscule. So, when I weary of praising the dawn and the sun-set, Let me be no more counted among the immortals; But number me amid the wearying ones, Let me be a man as the herd, And as the slave that is given in barter. Christophori Columbi Tumulus From the Latin of Hipolytus Capilupus, Early Cent XVI. Genoan, glory of Italy, Columbus thou sure light, Alas the urn takes even thee so soon out-blown. Its little space Doth hold thee, whom Oceanus had not the might Within his folds to hold, altho' his broad embrace Doth hold all lands. Bark-borne beyond his bound'ries unto Hind thou wast Where scarce Fame's volant self the way had cast. Plotinus As one that would draw through the node of things, Back sweeping to the vortex of the cone, Cloistered about with memories, alone In chaos, while the waiting silence sings: Obliviate of cycles' wanderings I was an atom on creation's throne And knew all nothing my unconquered own. God! Should I be the hand upon the strings?! But I was lonely as a lonely child. I cried amid the void and heard no cry, And then for utter loneliness, made I New thoughts as crescent images of me . And with them was my essence reconciled While fear went forth from mine eternity. On His Own Face in a Glass O strange face there in the glass! O ribald company, O saintly host, O sorrow-swept my fool, What answer? O ye myriad That strive and play and pass, Jest, challenge, counterlie? I? I? I? And ye? Histrion No man hath dared to write this thing as yet, And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great At times pass through us, And we are melted into them, and are not Save reflexions of their souls. Thus am I Dante for a space and am One François Villon, ballad-lord and thief Or am such holy ones I may not write, Lest blasphemy be writ against my name; This for an instant and the flame is gone. 'Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere Translucent, molten gold, that is the I And into this some form projects itself: Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine; And as the clear space is not if a form's Imposed thereon, So cease we from all being for the time, And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on. The Eyes Rest Master, for we be a-weary, weary And would feel the fingers of the wind Upon these lids that lie over us Sodden and lead-heavy. Rest brother, for lo! the dawn is without! The yellow flame paleth And the wax runs low. Free us, for without be goodly colours, Green of the wood-moss and flower colours, And coolness beneath the trees. Free us, for we perish In this ever-flowing monotony Of ugly print marks, black Upon white parchment. Free us, for there is one Whose smile more availeth Than all the age-old knowledge of thy books: And we would look thereon. Defiance Ye blood-red spears-men of the dawn's array That drive my dusk-clad knights of dream away, Hold! For I will not yield. My moated soul shall dream in your despite A refuge for the vanquished hosts of night That can not yield. Song Love thou thy dream All base love scorning, Love thou the wind And here take warning That dreams alone can truly be, For 'tis in dream I come to thee. Nel Biancheggiar Blue-Grey, and white, and white-of-rose, The flowers of the West's fore-dawn unclose. I feel the dusky softness whirr Of colour, as upon a dulcimer Her dreaming fingers lay between the tunes, As when the living music swoons But dies not quite, because for love of us —knowing our state How that 'tis troublous— It wills not die to leave us desolate. Nils Lykke Beautiful, infinite memories That are a-plucking at my heart, Why will you be ever calling and a-calling, And a-murmuring in the dark there? And a-reaching out your long hands Between me and my beloved? And why will you be ever a-casting The black shadow of your beauty On the white face of my beloved And a-glinting in the pools of her eyes? A Song of the Virgin Mother In the play Los Pastores de Belen. From the Spanish of Lope de Vega. As ye go through these palm-trees O holy angel; Sith sleepeth my child here Still ye the branches. O Bethlehem palm-trees That move to the anger Of winds in their fury, Tempestuous voices, Make ye no clamour, Run ye less swiftly, Sith sleepeth the child here Still ye your branches. He the divine child Is here a-wearied Of weeping the earth-pain, Here for his rest would he Cease from his mourning, Only a little while, Sith sleepeth this child here Stay ye the branches. Cold be the fierce winds, Treacherous round him. Ye see that I have not Wherewith to guard him, O angels, divine ones That pass us a-flying, Sith sleepeth my child here Stay ye the branches. Planh for the Young English King That is, Prince Henry Plantagenet, elder brother to Richard Coeur de Lion. From the Provençal of Bertrans de Born Si tuit li dol elh plor elh marrimen. If all the grief and woe and bitterness, All dolour, ill and every evil chance That ever came upon this grieving world Were set together they would seem but light Against the death of the young English King. Worth lieth riven and Youth dolorous, The world o'ershadowed, soiled and overcast, Void of all joy and full of ire and sadness. Grieving and sad and full of bitterness Are left in teen the liegemen courteous, The joglars supple and the troubadours. O'er much hath ta'en Sir Death that deadly warrior In taking from them the young English King, Who made the freest hand seem covetous. 'Las! Never was nor will be in this world The balance for this loss in ire and sadness! O skilful Death and full of bitterness, Well mayst thou boast that thou the best chevalier That any folk e'er had, hast from us taken; Sith nothing is that unto worth pertaineth But had its life in the young English King, And better were it, should God grant his pleasure That he should live than many a Irving dastard That doth but wound the good with ire and sadness. From this faint world, how full of bitterness Love takes his way and holds his joy deceitful, Sith no thing is but turneth unto anguish And each to-day 'vails less than yestere'en, Let each man visage this young English King That was most valiant mid all worthiest men! Gone is his body fine and amorous, Whence have we grief, discord and deepest sadness. Him, whom it pleased for our great bitterness To come to earth to draw us from misventure, Who drank of death for our salvacioun, Him do we pray as to a Lord most righteous And humble eke, that the young English King He please to pardon, as true pardon is, And bid go in with honoured companions There where there is no grief, nor shall be sadness. Alba Innominata From the Provençal. In a garden where the whitethorn spreads her leaves My lady hath her love lain close beside her, Till the warder cries the dawn—Ah dawn that grieves! Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon! Please God that night, dear night should never cease, Nor that my love should parted be from me, Nor watch cry 'Dawn'—Ah dawn that slayeth peace! Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon! Fair friend and sweet, thy lips! Our lips again! Lo, in the meadow there the birds give song! Ours be the love and Jealousy's the pain! Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon! Sweet friend and fair take we our joy again Down in the garden, where the birds are loud, Till the warder's reed astrain Cry God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon! Of that sweet wind that comes from Far-Away Have I drunk deep of my Beloved's breath, Yea! of my Love's that is so dear and gay. Ah God! Ah God! That dawn should come so soon! Envoi . Fair is this damsel and right courteous, And many watch her beauty's gracious way. Her heart toward love is no wise traitorous. Ah God! Ah God! That dawns should come so soon! Planh It is of the white thoughts that he saw in the Forest . White Poppy, heavy with dreams, O White Poppy, who art wiser than love, Though I am hungry for their lips When I see them a-hiding And a-passing out and in through the shadows —There in the pine wood it is, And they are white, White Poppy, They are white like the clouds in the forest of the sky Ere the stars arise to their hunting. O White Poppy, who art wiser than love, I am come for peace, yea from the hunting Am I come to thee for peace. Out of a new sorrow it is, That my hunting hath brought me. White Poppy, heavy with dreams, Though I am hungry for their lips When I see them a-hiding And a-passing out and in through the shadows —And it is white they are— But if one should look at me with the old hunger in her eyes, How will I be answering her eyes? For I have followed the white folk of the forest. Aye! It's a long hunting And it's a deep hunger I have when I see them a-gliding And a-flickering there, where the trees stand apart. But oh, it is sorrow and sorrow When love dies-down in the heart.