A Jongleur Strayed | Page 4

hand,?Oases green arise, and camel-bells;?For in the long adventure of your eyes?Are all the wandering ways to Paradise.
Existence, in your being, comes and goes;?What were the garden, love, without the rose??In vain were ears to hear,?And eyes in vain,?Lacking your ordered music, sphere to sphere,?Blind, should your beauty blossom not again.
The pulse that shakes the world with rhythmic beat?Is but the passing of your little feet;?And all the singing vast of all the seas,?Down from the pole?To the Hesperides,?Is but the praying echo of your soul.
Therefore, beloved, know that this is true--?The world exists and vanishes in you!?Tis not a lover's fancy; ask the sky?If all its stars depend not, even as I,?Upon your eyelids, when they open or close;?And let the garden answer with the rose.
BALLADE OF THE UNCHANGING B��LOVED
(TO I----a)
When rumour fain would fright my ear?With the destruction and decay?Of things familiar and dear,?And vaunt of a swift-running day?That sweeps the fair old Past away;?Whatever else be strange and new,?All other things may go or stay,?So that there be no change in you.
These loud mutations others fear?Find me high-fortressed 'gainst dismay,?They trouble not the tranquil sphere?That hallows with immortal ray?The world where love and lovers stray?In glittering gardens soft with dew--?O let them break and burn and slay,?So that there be no change in you.
Let rapine its republics rear,?And murder its red sceptre sway,?Their blood-stained riot comes not near?The quiet haven where we pray,?And work and love and laugh and play;?Unchanged, our skies are ever blue,?Nothing can change, for all they say,--?So that there be no change in you.
ENVOI
Princess, let wild men brag and bray,?The pure, the beautiful, the true.?Change not, and changeless we as they--?So that there be no change in you.
LOVE'S ARITHMETIC
You often ask me, love, how much I love you,?Bidding my fancy find?An answer to your mind;?I say: "Past count, as there are stars above you."?You shake your head and say,?"Many and bright are they,?But that is not enough."
Again I try:?"If all the leaves on all the trees?Were counted over,?And all the waves on all the seas,?More times your lover,?Yea! more than twice ten thousand times am I."?"'Tis not enough," again you make reply.
"How many blades of grass," one day I said,?"Are there from here to China? how many bees?Have gathered honey through the centuries??Tell me how many roses have bloomed red?Since the first rose till this rose in your hair??How many butterflies are born each year??How many raindrops are there in a shower??How many kisses, darling, in an hour?"?Thereat you smiled, and shook your golden head;?"Ah! not enough!" you said.?Then said I: "Dear, it is not in my power?To tell how much, how many ways, my love;?Unnumbered are its ways even as all these,?Nor any depth so deep, nor height above,?May match therewith of any stars or seas."?"I would hear more," you smiled . . .
"Then, love," I said,?"This will I do: unbind me all this gold?Too heavy for your head,?And, one by one, I'll count each shining thread,?And when the tale of all its wealth is told . . ."?"As much as that!" you said--?"Then the full sum of all my love I'll speak,?To the last unit tell the thing you ask . . ."?Thereat the gold, in gleaming torrents shed,?Fell loose adown each cheek,?Hiding you from me; I began my task.
"'Twill last our lives," you said.
BEAUTY'S WARDROBE
My love said she had nought to wear;?Her garments all were old,?And soon her body must go bare?Against the winter's cold.
I took her out into the dawn,?And from the mountain's crest?Unwound long wreaths of misty lawn,?And wound them round her breast.
Then passed we to the maple grove,?Like a great hall of gold,?The yellow and the red we wove?In rustling flounce and fold.
"Now, love," said I, "go, do it on!?And I would have you note?No lovely lady dead and gone?Had such a petticoat."
Then span I out of milkweeds fine?Fair stockings soft and long,?And other things of quaint design?That unto maids belong.
And beads of amber and of pearl?About her neck I strung,?And in the bronze of her thick hair?The purple grape I hung. . . .
Then led her to a glassy spring,?And bade her look and see?If any girl in all the world?Had such fine clothes as she.
THE VALLEY
I will walk down to the valley?And lay my head in her breast,?Where are two white doves,?The Queen of Love's,?In a silken nest;?And, all the afternoon,?They croon and croon?The one word "Rest!"?And a little stream?That runs thereby?Sings "Dream!"?Over and over?It sings--?"O lover,?Dream!"
BALLADE OF THE BEES OF TREBIZOND
There blooms a flower in Trebizond?Stored with such honey for the bee,?(So saith the antique book I conned)?Of such alluring fragrancy,?Not sweeter smells the Eden-tree;?Thither the maddened feasters fly,?Yet--so alas! is it with me--?To taste that honey is to die.
Belov��d, I, as foolish fond,?Feast still my eyes and heart on thee,?Asking no blessedness beyond?Thy