Living With Complexity

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Living With Complexity

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.
 SOMEWHERE OR OTHER.

SOMEWHERE or other there must surely be

The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me!
Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;

Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;

With just a wall, a hedge between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
Fallen on a turf grown green.

Christina G. Rossetti.
 FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED.

PEACE in her chamber, wheresoe’er

It be, a holy place:
The thought still brings my soul such grace
As morning meadows wear.

Whether it still be small and light,

A maid’s who dreams alone,
As from her orchard-gate the moon
Its ceiling showed at night:

Or whether, in a shadow dense

As nuptial hymns invoke,
Innocent maidenhood awoke
To married innocence:

Then still the thanks unheard await

The unconscious gift bequeathed;
For there my soul this hour has breathed
An air inviolate.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

 LOVE ENTHRONED.

I MARKED all kindred Powers the heart finds fair:—

Truth, with awed lips; and Hope, with eyes upcast;
And Fame, whose loud wings fan the ashen Past
To signal-fires, Oblivion’s flight to scare;
And Youth, with still some single golden hair
Unto his shoulder clinging, since the last
Embrace wherein two sweet arms held him fast;
And Life, still wreathing flowers for Death to wear.

Love’s throne was not with these; but far above

All passionate wind of welcome and farewell
He sat in breathless bowers they dream not of;
Though Truth foreknow Love’s heart, and Hope foretell,
And Fame be for Love’s sake desirable,
And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet to Love.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

 SUDDEN LIGHT.

I HAVEButbeen here before,

when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,—

How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow’s soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?

And shall not thus time’s eddying flight
Still with our lives our loves restore
In death’s despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

 A PERFECT DAY.

BLAND air and leagues of immemorial blue;

No subtlest hint of whitening rime or cold;
A revel of rich colours, hue on hue,
From radiant crimson to soft shades of gold.

A vagueness in the undulant hill line,

The flutter of a bird’s south-soaring wing;
Æolian harmonies in groves of pine,
And glad brook laughter like the mirth of spring.

A sense of gracious calm afar and near,

And yet a something wanting,—one fine ray
For consummation. Love, were you but here,
Then were the day indeed a perfect day.

Clinton Scollard.
RUS IN URBE.
POETS are singing, the whole world over,
Of May in melody, joys for June;
Dusting their feet in the careless clover,
And filling their hearts with the blackbird’s tune.
The “brown bright nightingale” strikes with pity
The sensitive heart of a count or clown;
But where is the song for our leafy city,
And where the rhymes for our lovely town?

“Oh for the Thames and its rippling reaches,

Where almond rushes and breezes sport!
Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches;
Give me a dinner at Hampton Court!”
Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden;
We’ve flowers by day, and have scents at dark;
The limes are in leaf in the cockney garden,
And lilacs blossom in Regent’s Park.

“Come for a blow,” says a reckless fellow,

Burn’d red and brown by passionate sun;
“Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellow
The season of kisses has just begun!
Come to the fields where bluebells shiver,
Hear cuckoo’s carol, or plaint of dove:
Come for a row on the silent river;
Come to the meadows and learn to love!”

Yes, I will come when this wealth is over

Of softened colour and perfect tone:
The lilac’s better than fields of clover;
I’ll come when blossoming May has flown.
When dust and dirt of a trampled city
Have dragged the yellow laburnum down,
I’ll take my holiday,—more’s the pity,—
And turn my back upon London town.
Margaret! am I so wrong to love it,
This misty town that your face shines through?
A crown of blossom is waved above it;
But heart and life of the whirl—’tis you!
Margaret! pearl! I have sought and found you;
And though the paths of the wind are free,
I’ll follow the ways of the world around you,
And build my nest on the nearest tree.

Clement Scott.
 SONG.

LOVE in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me!

Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme.
What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!
Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!

What if he changeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!

Oh, can the waters be void of the wind?
What if he wendeth afar and apart from me,
What if he leave me to perish behind?

What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!

A flame i’ the dusk, a breath of Desire?
Nay, my sweet Love is the heart and the soul of me,
And I am the innermost heart of his fire!

Love in my heart! oh, heart of me, heart of me!

Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme.
What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart of me!
Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream!

William Sharp.
 THE COMING OF LOVE.

IN and out the osier beds, all along the shallows,

Lifts and laughs the soft south wind, or swoons among the grasses.
But, ah! whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows?
Who laughs so low and sweet? Who sighs—and passes?

Flower of my heart, my darling, why so slowly

Lift’st thou thine eyes to mine, sweet wells of gladness?
Too deep this new-found joy, and this new pain too holy;
Or is there dread in thine heart of this divinest madness?

Who sighs with longing there? who laughs alow—and passes?

Whose following feet are these that bend the tall marsh-mallows?
Who comes upon the wind that stirs the heavy seeding grasses
In and out the osier beds, and hither through the shallows?

Flower of my heart, my Dream, who whispers near so gladly?

Whose is the golden sunshine-net o’erspread for capture?
Lift, lift thine eyes to mine, who love so wildly, madly—
Those eyes of brave desire, deep wells o’er-brimmed with rapture.

William Sharp.
 RECALL.

“Love me, or I am slain!” I cried, and meant

Bitterly true each word. Nights, morns, slipped by,
Moons, circling suns, yet still alive am I;
But shame to me, if my best time be spent.

On this perverse, blind passion! Are we sent

Upon a planet just to mate and die,
A man no more than some pale butterfly
That yields his day to nature’s sole intent?

Or is my life but Marguerite’s ox-eyed flower,

That I should stand and pluck and fling away,
One after one, the petal of each hour,
Like a love-dreamy girl, and only say,
“Loves me,” and “loves me not,” and “loves me”? Nay!
Let the man’s mind awake to manhood’s power.

Edward Rowland Sill.

 FANTASIA.

WE’re all alone, we’re all alone!

The moon and stars are dead and gone;
The night’s at deep, the wind asleep,
And thou and I are all alone!

What care have we though life there be?

Tumult and life are not for me!
Silence and sleep about us creep;
Tumult and life are not for thee!

How late it is since such as this

Had topped the height of breathing bliss!
And now we keep an iron sleep,—
In that grave thou, and I in this!

Harriet Prescott Spofford.

 ONLY A LEAF.

WHEN the late leaves lit all the place,

He left her with her ashen face;
“We shall not meet!” he lightly cried;
“Good-bye, sweetheart, the world is wide.”

Though bright the sunshine on that day,

Though the bare boughs around her lay,
She thought in blackened shadow stood
The melancholy autumn wood.

She bent, and lifted from the sod

A leaf whereon his foot had trod,—
An idle leaf, but dead and sere,
It held the heart’s blood of a year!

Harriet Prescott Spofford.

 SONG FROM A DRAMA.

I KNOW not if moonlight or starlight

Be soft on the land or the sea,—
I catch but the near light, the far light,
Of eyes that are burning for me;
The scent of the night, of the roses,
May burden the air for thee, sweet,—
’Tis only the breath of thy sighing
I know, as I lie at thy feet.

The winds may be sobbing or singing,

Their touch may be fervent or cold,
The night-bells may toll or be ringing,—
I care not, while thee I enfold!
The feast may go on, and the music
Be scattered in ecstasy round,—
Thy whisper, “I love thee! I love thee!”
Hath flooded my soul with its sound.

I think not of time that is flying,

How short is the hour I have won,
How near is this living to dying,
How the shadow still follows the sun;
There is naught upon earth, no desire,
Worth a thought, though ’twere had by a sign!
I love thee! I love thee! bring nigher
Thy spirit, thy kisses to mine.

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

 THE VIOLET.

OH!Thine
faint delicious spring-time violet,
odour, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow

Blows through that open door
The sound of wind-borne bells more sweet and low
And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar from that beloved place,

And that beloved hour,
When Life hung ripening in Love’s golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,

The lark sings o’er my head
Drowned in the sky—oh, pass, ye visions, pass!
I would that I were dead.

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door

From which I ever flee?
O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!

O violet! thy odour through my brain

Hath searched, and stung to grief
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf.

W. W. Story.
 TO MY LADY.

FROM out the past she comes to me,

My Lady whom I loved long syne:
Her face is very fair to see,
Her gray eyes still with love-light shine,
I needs must think she still is mine.

Once—in those old years long ago—

I waited at the hour of dawn.
And, with the first faint Eastern glow—
Before the sun his sword had drawn
And flushed its light the world upon,
My Lady’s true love did I know!

But now at eve she comes—I stand

Alone. Among the autumn trees
Her white robe glimmers, and the breeze
Wafts me a ghostly fragrance rare.
Ah me! No rose doth she now bear—
But crimson poppies in her hand.

Edward Fairbrother Strange.

 AT PARTING.

FORFolded
a day and night, Love sang to us, played with us,
us round from the dark and the light;
And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made with us,
Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us,
Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight
For a day and a night.

From his foes that kept watch with his wings had he hidden us,
Covered us close from the eyes that would smite,
From the feet that had tracked and the tongues that had chidden us,
Sheltering in shade of the myrtles forbidden us,
Spirit and flesh growing one with delight
For a day and a night.

But his wings will not rest, and his feet will not stay for us:
Morning is here in the joy of its might;
With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us:
Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us;
Love can but last in us here at his height
For a day and a night.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

AUGUST.
THERE were four apples on the bough,
Half gold, half red, that one might know
The blood was ripe inside the core;
The colour of the leaves was more
Like stems of yellow corn that grow
Through all the gold June meadow’s floor.

The warm smell of the fruit was good

To feed on, and the split green wood,
With all its bearded lips and stains
Of mosses in the clover veins,
Most pleasant, if one lay or stood
In sunshine or in happy rains.

There were four apples on the tree,

Red-stained through gold, that all might see
The sun went warm from core to rind;
The green leaves made the summer blind
In that soft place they kept for me
With golden apples shut behind.

The leaves caught gold across the sun,

And where the bluest air begun,
Thirsted for song to help the heat;
As I to feel my lady’s feet
Draw close before the day were done:
Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.

In the mute August afternoon

They trembled to some undertune
Of music in the silver air:
Great pleasure was it to be there
Till green turned duskier, and the moon
Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.

That August time it was delight

To watch the red moon’s wane to white
’Twixt gray-seamed stems of apple-trees:
A sense of heavy harmonies
Grew on the growth of patient night,
More sweet than shapen music is.

But some three hours before the moon

The air, still eager from the noon,
Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;
Against the stem I leant my head;
The colour soothed me like a tune,
Green leaves all round the gold and red.

I lay there till the warm smell grew

More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew
Between the round ripe leaves had blurred
The rind with stain and wet; I heard
A wind that blew and breathed and blew,
Too weak to alter its one word.

The wet leaves next the gentle fruit

Felt smoother, and the brown tree root
Felt the mould warmer: I, too, felt
(As water feels the slow gold melt
Right through it when the day burns mute)
The peace of time wherein love dwelt.

There were four apples on the tree,

Gold stained on red that all might see
The sweet blood filled them to the core:
The colour of her hair is more
Like stems of fair faint gold, that be
Mown from the harvest’s middle floor.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

BETWEEN THE SUNSET AND THE SEA.

BETWEEN the sunset and the sea

My love laid hands and lips on me.
Of sweet came sour, of day came night,
Of long desire came brief delight:
Ah, love, and what thing came of thee
Between the sea-downs and the sea?

Between the sea-mark and the sea

Joy grew to grief, grief grew to me;
Love turned to tears, and tears to fire,
And dead delight to new desire;
Love’s talk, love’s touch there seemed to be
Between the sea-sand and the sea.

Between the sundown and the sea

Love watched one hour of love with me;
Then down the all-golden water-ways
His feet flew after yesterdays;
I saw them come and saw them flee
Between the sea-foam and the sea.

Between the sea-strand and the sea

Love fell on sleep, sleep fell on me;
The first star saw twain turn to one
Between the moonrise and the sun;
The next, that saw not love, saw me
Between the sea-banks and the sea.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

 THE OBLATION.

ASKAllnothing more of me, sweet:

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.

 ON JUDGE’S WALK.

THAT night on Judge’s Walk the wind

Was as the voice of doom;
The heath, a lake of darkness, lay
As silent as the tomb.

The vast night brooded, white with stars,

Above the world’s unrest;
The awfulness of silence ached
Like a strong heart repressed.

That night we walked beneath the trees,

Alone, beneath the trees;
There was some word we could not say
Half uttered in the breeze.

That night on Judge’s Walk we said

No word of all we had to say;
And now no word shall e’er be said
Before the Judgment Day.

Arthur Symons.
ICH HÖR’ ES SOGAR IM TRAUM.
SINGI hear
on, sing on: half dreaming still
you singing down the hill,
Through the green wood, beside the rill.

Each to the other sing, sweet birds;

Make music sweeter far than words;
Drown my still soul with song, sweet birds.

Under each starbeam there was sleep;

Far down the river wandered deep;
The woods closed round it still and steep.

One watch-dog from the lone farm bayed;

The waterfowl beneath the shade
Of sedge and flowering reed were laid.

The birds sang on, and slumber shed

Like silver clouds upon my head;
I slept, nor stirred me in my bed.

Into my room he seemed to glide;

The moonbeams through the window wide
Snowed in upon my white bedside.

He kissed my lips, he kissed my cheek;

I could not kiss him back nor speak:
I feared the blissful sleep to break.

Sing louder, nightingales of May!

Sing, dash my golden dream away!
Sing anthems to the orient day!

The moonlight pales; the gray cock crows;

A murmur in the tree top goes;
Sleep sheds her petals like a rose.

John Addington Symonds

John Addington Symonds.
 OH, WHEN WILL IT BE?

OH,That
when will it be, oh, when will it be, oh, when
she shall be here, and the flute be here, and the wine be here? oh,
then
Her lips shall kiss the lips of the flute, and my lips shall kiss the wine,
And I shall drink music from her sweet lips, and she shall drink madness
from mine.

John Addington Symonds.

BALLADE OF THE LADYES OF LONG SYNE.

From the French of François Villon.

TELL me wher, in what contree, is

Flora, the beautifulle Romaine?
Thais and Archipiadis,
Wher are they now, those cosins twaine?
And Echo, gretyng her love agein
By banke of river and marge of mere,
Whos beaute was fre fro mortall stayne?
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

Wher is the lerned Helowis,

For whom undon in celle did plaine
Pierre Abelard at Saint Denys?
For love’s reward he had this peine
Where is the quene who did ordeine
That Buridan shulde drift in fere
Sowed in a sacke adoun the Saine?
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

Quene Blanche, fayre as the floure-de-lys,

Who sang as swete as the meremaid strayne,
Alys too, Bertha, Bietris,
And Hermengarde, who halt the Mayne,
And Joan, the good may of Lorraine,
At Rouen brent by Englyshe fere,—
Wher are they, Virgine soveraine?
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

ENVOY.
PRINCE, for this sevennyght be not fain,
Nor this twelfmonthe to question wher
They be, withouten this refraine,
Nay, wher are the snowes that fell last year?

Stephen Temple.
FATIMA.
O LOVE, Love, Love! O withering might!
O sun, that from thy noonday height
Shudderest when I strain my sight,
Throbbing thro’ all thy heat and light,
Lo, falling from my constant mind,
Lo, parch’d and wither’d, deaf and blind,
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

Last night I wasted hateful hours

Below the city’s eastern towers:
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
I roll’d among the tender flowers:
I crush’d them on my breast, my mouth:
I looked athwart the burning drought
Of that long desert to the south.

Last night, when some one spoke his name,

From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shiver’d in my narrow frame.
O Love, O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul thro’
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Before he mounts the hill, I know

He cometh quickly: from below
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
Before him, striking on my brow.
In my dry brain my spirit soon,
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,
Faints like a dazzled morning moon.

The wind sounds like a silver wire,

And from beyond the noon a fire
Is pour’d upon the hills, and nigher
The skies stoop down in their desire;
 p ;
And, isled in sudden seas of light,
My heart, pierc’d thro’ with fierce delight,
Bursts into blossom in his sight.

My whole soul waiting silently,

All naked in a sultry sky,
Droops blinded with his shining eye:
I will possess him or will die.
I will grow round him in his place,
Grow, live, die looking on his face,
Die, dying clasp’d in his embrace.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

NOW SLEEPS THE CRIMSON PETAL.

NOWNor
sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,

And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,

And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves

A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

And slips into the bosom of the lake;
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.