Charmides and Other Poems | Page 9

been?A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,?Could in the loveless land of Hades glean?One scorching harvest from those fields of flame?Where passion walks with naked unshod feet?And is not wounded, - ah! enough that once their lips could meet
In that wild throb when all existences?Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy?Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress?Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone?Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne?Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.
POEMS
REQUIESCAT
Tread lightly, she is near?Under the snow,?Speak gently, she can hear?The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair?Tarnished with rust,?She that was young and fair?Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,?She hardly knew?She was a woman, so?Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,?Lie on her breast,?I vex my heart alone,?She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear?Lyre or sonnet,?All my life's buried here,?Heap earth upon it.
AVIGNON
SAN MINIATO
See, I have climbed the mountain side?Up to this holy house of God,?Where once that Angel-Painter trod?Who saw the heavens opened wide,
And throned upon the crescent moon?The Virginal white Queen of Grace, -?Mary! could I but see thy face?Death could not come at all too soon.
O crowned by God with thorns and pain!?Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!?My heart is weary of this life?And over-sad to sing again.
O crowned by God with love and flame!?O crowned by Christ the Holy One!?O listen ere the searching sun?Show to the world my sin and shame.
ROME UNVISITED
I.
The corn has turned from grey to red,?Since first my spirit wandered forth?From the drear cities of the north,?And to Italia's mountains fled.
And here I set my face towards home,?For all my pilgrimage is done,?Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun?Marshals the way to Holy Rome.
O Blessed Lady, who dost hold?Upon the seven hills thy reign!?O Mother without blot or stain,?Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!
O Roma, Roma, at thy feet?I lay this barren gift of song!?For, ah! the way is steep and long?That leads unto thy sacred street.
II.
And yet what joy it were for me?To turn my feet unto the south,?And journeying towards the Tiber mouth?To kneel again at Fiesole!
And wandering through the tangled pines?That break the gold of Arno's stream,?To see the purple mist and gleam?Of morning on the Apennines
By many a vineyard-hidden home,?Orchard and olive-garden grey,?Till from the drear Campagna's way?The seven hills bear up the dome!
III.
A pilgrim from the northern seas -?What joy for me to seek alone?The wondrous temple and the throne?Of him who holds the awful keys!
When, bright with purple and with gold?Come priest and holy cardinal,?And borne above the heads of all?The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
O joy to see before I die?The only God-anointed king,?And hear the silver trumpets ring?A triumph as he passes by!
Or at the brazen-pillared shrine?Holds high the mystic sacrifice,?And shows his God to human eyes?Beneath the veil of bread and wine.
IV.
For lo, what changes time can bring!?The cycles of revolving years?May free my heart from all its fears,?And teach my lips a song to sing.
Before yon field of trembling gold?Is garnered into dusty sheaves,?Or ere the autumn's scarlet leaves?Flutter as birds adown the wold,
I may have run the glorious race,?And caught the torch while yet aflame,?And called upon the holy name?Of Him who now doth hide His face.
ARONA
HUMANITAD
It is full winter now: the trees are bare,?Save where the cattle huddle from the cold?Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear?The autumn's gaudy livery whose gold?Her jealous brother pilfers, but is true?To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it blew
From Saturn's cave; a few thin wisps of hay?Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the wain?Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer's day?From the low meadows up the narrow lane;?Upon the half-thawed snow the bleating sheep?Press close against the hurdles, and the shivering house-dogs creep
From the shut stable to the frozen stream?And back again disconsolate, and miss?The bawling shepherds and the noisy team;?And overhead in circling listlessness?The cawing rooks whirl round the frosted stack,?Or crowd the dripping boughs; and in the fen the ice-pools crack
Where the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds?And flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck,?And hoots to see the moon; across the meads?Limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck;?And a stray seamew with its fretful cry?Flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky.
Full winter: and the lusty goodman brings?His load of faggots from the chilly byre,?And stamps his feet upon the hearth, and flings?The sappy billets on the waning fire,?And laughs to see the sudden lightening scare?His children at their play, and yet, - the spring is in the air;
Already the slim crocus stirs the snow,?And soon yon blanched fields will bloom again?With nodding cowslips for some lad to mow,?For with the first warm kisses of the rain?The winter's icy sorrow breaks to tears,?And the brown thrushes mate, and