So, all day long, the uncertain combat flowed, Between the gray bents and the broken ground; And the smooth sward was cumbered with the dead, On whom we stumbled. But at last the night Came, shadowing with her blue veils the sea, And we and they drew off; and when the noise Of war was stilled, and only moans of men Broke silence, with the laughter of the sea That curled, and foamed, and rippled on the beach, I hailed them, and they answered me, and sent Tall Flosi, son of Gunnar, their best man Since Sigurd fell. Over the level sward, Now with the dead strown thick as shocks of corn After a reaping, strode he; and the moon Tipped his bright spear with silver, lit his helm And burnished shield; but when his eyes and mine Met, and he knew me, he stood waiting there. And I spoke, pointing, with my spear, to those White faces staring sightless to the moon From the smooth sward: "Lo! let us make a truce And mourn these dead, for they were goodly men. My friends or thine, who lie there strengthless now With Sigurd whom I slew. Him men shall mourn In Bergthorsknoll, as the bright gods in heaven Mourn golden Balder; but his praise shall be Within the hearts and on the lips of men A song for ever. Him I hated not, Nay, rather loved! Though he bore hate to me For Swinefell's spoiling, and for Gudrun's sake, Her, whom mine eyes beholding, straight mine heart Desired with all its strength. So for one prize Strove we, nor could we yield, but one must die: Whence lies he there. The gods have willed it so! But let us build a pyre within his ship Heaped up with spoil, and let us mourn for him, And launch him, burning, on the eternal sea. And when the dawn of the third day is red, If your mind is for fighting, we shall fight Again; or ye shall launch your ships and go Over the bright ways of the shining sea." I spake, and Flosi answered, gazing down Upon the dead, whose armour glimmered there Under the shining moon, as glimmer pools Innumerable in the leafless woods: "Yea, one slim maid hath slain too many men.
Well is she Gudrun called, unto men's hearts A snare and peril! What is in one face That men should die for it? A kitchen slut To some dull clown is royal. But he lies There, and I cannot hold mine heart from tears So loved I him: I count all women light As flax beside his loss. Why didst not thou, When we two met amid the ringing blows And mine axe failed me, strike?" And I, to him, Impatient, for my wound was cold and irked My shoulder: "Go, and boast among the ships That Helgi fled thee. Helmsdale held me once. I could not slay thee for Kiartan's sake." And he, astonied, stood there, as if light Fell on remembered places in his heart: "Kiartan! O Kiartan!" broke from him In one long sigh; and he drew in his breath Quickly, remembering his brother's stead Above the land-locked bays; and his heart saw His mother bend down over the bright hearth, With her sweet, patient face, so old and wise, Lit by the flickering firelight. Thus he stood, Forgetting war and death; and when he spoke Again, his voice was changed, and soft in speech, While we went down toward the twinkling fires That lit the shore, and set a watch with brands To scare the wolves, who barked within the woods, Snuffing the tainted air. And Flosi came, Alone of all the Jarls, up to mine house, While they abode there. And when dawn was red Upon the third day, launching their black ships, They went upon the bright ways of the sea.
Softly the sails dropped down that sea of light Under the milky skies; all liquid gold The pure fire broken by the cleaving prows And whitening in their wake; as I watched them I thought all life went thus, man's voyaging heart, Over the loud, glad, golden ways of time. With oars taught by a song, to seek some joy, Some rapture, some warm isle in happy seas, Adventuring. A lure there is for us In far horizons, dreamed-of, misty lands. A voice that calls us. Yea, but look on love! She lay there who, but two nights past, had watched One burning ship drift over the sea's rim Into the dark. Was she not mine indeed, Now, whom mine arm had won? All mine! all mine! The long, bright braids of hair; the little breasts, Like cups of carven ivory; the smooth, Cool, marble whiteness; curves one knew by touch Only, too gradual for eyes: it seemed God's hands, there, had felt joy in them, and wrought Delighting: and the blue eyes, brimmed with light; And thee, my son, forged in the intense hour's flame And inmost heat of whiteness. Mine! all mine! All mine: and yet some shadow slipped from me, Some frail, soft, sweet, intangible delight Escaping from mine hands. So have I gone Over blue windless seas, bare of all life, And urged the labouring oars; but every dawn Showed still the same blue, stainless shield, whose boss Was our one ship, until it hushed our songs, That deep, vast, desolating blue of sky And tranquil waters. I had all of her But some few drops of joy she yielded not, They being hers to give or keep, a dew Distilled within her soul. Yea, I loved her! I think no love is peace, and we but break Against each other; and our hands are vain To grasp what is worth holding; and our sense Too coarse a net to snare what no speech saith, We go alone through all our days, alone Even when all is given! But him she loved; And dreamed upon his face, remembering.
Even so, I am glad! Yea, all my heart is glad I had her for mine own. I grasped the joy, The quick, warm, breathing life; and if the dream Fled from me, yet mine hands held priceless things, And dreams are winged to fly. They are poor fools Who deem the better love is a bowed heart And silent lips. If thou hadst beauty close, Because the white bird fluttered on thy breast, Wouldst loose it? Or would not a quicker pulse Beat in thine heart, and eager fingers close More firmly on the snowy, ruffled plumes, Till the thing yielded, panting? Will ye win? Then must ye dare. There is a lean saint stalled Somewhere among my scullions, in the stead: A half-drowned rat we haled from out the sea, Who says God saved him! He stakes his poor life, Having not strength enough to lift mine axe, Against a greater glory. Love to him Is as a golden net to snare his feet, And women perilous lures: he would keep them maids, Nor make one mother, but would rather see Life, which the gods made lovely, fade and die Ashen as winter woods, nor break again In all the foaming blossom of the spring, Whitening every field. He never knew The keen, sweet joy that smites through every sense Into the shuddering soul, and whelms the world In an immortal glory, while God builds Life beyond us, creating out of clay The world's imperishable dream, the hope, The wonder, the desire, that gives us sight Beyond our mortal doom. I have little wit; I only know that in the looms of time God's will moves like a shuttle to and fro. I have heard him in the waves, and on the wind; I have seen his splendour shine among the swords, Soften the eyes of women, light and smile On a child's lips; and know his presence there Where all the waves stream eagerly to lick The sunset's bloody splendours. Balder, the bright Beautiful Balder, whose eyes hold our hope, Who hath made love a light, and life a song, In all men's eyes, and on their lips, who hath sown The fields of heaven thick with golden fires, As men sow corn: and forges in this flame, Of life, with ringing blows, a strong man's soul As swords are fashioned, keen-edged, straight, and blue, How shall I die dispraising thee, whose praise Comes, laden with the blown scents of the spring, Opening dewy eyelids of bright buds, And brings the swallows? Thee I will not curse, Nor life, nor women, nor the fool himself Who blinks weak eyes, and calls the glory vain.
The sea is darkened now; and I can hear The long moan of the waves upon the shore. Some fret is on me! I would go again Over the gray fields of the restless sea, Among the vexed waves and the stinging spray. Nay, one drowns here in death; and why not there To wash about among the changing tides Under the changing moon? I would not rest Within a little earth. As Sigurd went, Send me; and she will watch me burning, drift Over the rim of Ocean, ere I sink Into the dark still deeps, where are ribbed wrecks And strong men dead. Lo! it is time to die, For the old glory fades out of the world And the swords rust in peace. Yea, I would go Now, for this death is but another sea To venture on; a strong man will win through And cast up somewhere on another shore With his old lust for fighting. All of life I have seen, and many cities of proud kings, And I have gotten gold, and wine, and fame, Among strange peoples, and white girls were mine To love a little while on drowsy nights, When a low, yellow moon lights up a land Full of ripe stooks. Now it is time to go, Regretting nothing. Gudrun, come to me! Come to me, Gudrun! Lean thy lovely face Over me once again. 'Tis wet with tears: We have grown close together. Weep no more; Let the old wonder light up in thine eyes; Death will be dark without it.
LES HEURES ISOLÉES
FOR E.F.
Tout homme à s'expliquer se diminue. On se doit son propre secret. Toute belle vie se compose d'heures isolées.
Henri de Régnier.