IN ARMOUR,
But wherein shall Art work? Shall beauty lead
It captive, and set kisses on its mouth?
Shall it be strained unto the breast of youth,
And in a garden live where grows no weed?
Shall it, in dalliance with the flaunting world,
Play but soft airs, sing but sweet-tempered songs?
Veer lightly from the stress of all great wrongs,
And lisp of peace ‘mid battle-flags unfurled?
Shall it but pluck the sleeve of wantonness,
And gently chide the folly of our time?
But wave its golden wand at sin’s duress,
And say, “Ah me! ah me!” to fallow crime?
Nay, Art serves Truth, and Truth with Titan blows,
Strikes fearless at all evil that it knows.
IN THEE MY ART
In thee is all my art; from thee I draw
The substance of my dreams, the waking plan
Of practised thought; I can no measure scan,
But thou work’st in me like eternal law.
If I were rich in goodly title deeds
Of broad estate, won from posterity;
If from decaying Time I snatched a see
Richer than prelates pray for with their beads;
If some should bring before me frankincense,
And make a pleasant fire to greet mine eyes;
If there were given me for recompense
Gifts fairer than a seraph could devise:
I would, my sovereign, kneel to thee and say,
“It all is thine; thou showedst me the way.”
DENIAL
But is it so that I must never kiss
Thee on the brow, or smooth thy silken hair?
Never close down thine eyelids with Love’s prayer,
Or fold my arms about my new-found bliss?
Must I unto the courses of my age
Worship afar, lest haply I profane
The temple that is now my holy fane,
For which my song is given as a gage?
Shall I who cry to all, “Come not within
The bounds where I my lady have enshrined;
I am her cavalier”; shall I not win
One dear caress, the rich exchequer find
Of thy soft cheek? If thou command, my lips
Shall find surcease but at thy fingertips.