Poems | Page 8

the stars, Most richly bruised against their
golden bars, Delighted captives of their flaming spears, Find a restraint
restrainless which appears As that is, and so simply natural, In
you;--the fair detention freedom call, And overscroll with fancies the
loved prison-wall.
Such sweet captivity, and only such, In you, as in those golden bars, we
touch! Our gazes for sufficing limits know The firmament above, your
face below; Our longings are contented with the skies, Contented with
the heaven, and your eyes. My restless wings, that beat the whole world
through, Flag on the confines of the sun and you; And find the human
pale remoter of the two.

TO THE DEAD CARDINAL OF WESTMINSTER

I will not perturbate Thy Paradisal state With praise Of thy dead days;
To the new-heavened say, - "Spirit, thou wert fine clay:" This do, Thy
praise who knew.
Therefore my spirit clings Heaven's porter by the wings, And holds Its
gated golds
Apart, with thee to press A private business; - Whence, Deign me

audience.
Anchorite, who didst dwell With all the world for cell My soul Round
me doth roll
A sequestration bare. Too far alike we were, Too far Dissimilar.
For its burning fruitage I Do climb the tree o' the sky; Do prize Some
human eyes.
YOU smelt the Heaven-blossoms, And all the sweet embosoms The
dear Uranian year.
Those Eyes my weak gaze shuns, Which to the suns are Suns. Did Not
affray your lid.
The carpet was let down (With golden mouldings strown) For you Of
the angels' blue.
But I, ex-Paradised, The shoulder of your Christ Find high To lean
thereby.
So flaps my helpless sail, Bellying with neither gale, Of Heaven Nor
Orcus even.
Life is a coquetry Of Death, which wearies me, Too sure Of the amour;
A tiring-room where I Death's divers garments try, Till fit Some
fashion sit.
It seemeth me too much I do rehearse for such A mean And single
scene.
The sandy glass hence bear - Antique remembrancer; My veins Do
spare its pains.
With secret sympathy My thoughts repeat in me Infirm The turn o' the
worm
Beneath my appointed sod: The grave is in my blood; I shake To winds
that take
Its grasses by the top; The rains thereon that drop Perturb With drip
acerb
My subtly answering soul; The feet across its knoll Do jar Me from
afar.
As sap foretastes the spring; As Earth ere blossoming Thrills With far
daffodils,
And feels her breast turn sweet With the unconceived wheat; So doth
My flesh foreloathe
The abhorred spring of Dis, With seething presciences Affirm The
preparate worm.

I have no thought that I, When at the last I die, Shall reach To gain your
speech.
But you, should that be so, May very well, I know, May well To me in
hell
With recognising eyes Look from your Paradise - "God bless Thy
hopelessness!"
Call, holy soul, O call The hosts angelical, And say, - "See, far away
"Lies one I saw on earth; One stricken from his birth With curse Of
destinate verse.
"What place doth He ye serve For such sad spirit reserve, - Given, In
dark lieu of Heaven,
"The impitiable Daemon, Beauty, to adore and dream on, To be
Perpetually
"Hers, but she never his? He reapeth miseries, Foreknows His wages
woes;
"He lives detached days; He serveth not for praise; For gold He is not
sold;
"Deaf is he to world's tongue; He scorneth for his song The loud Shouts
of the crowd;
"He asketh not world's eyes; Not to world's ears he cries; Saith,--'These
Shut, if ye please;'
"He measureth world's pleasure, World's ease as Saints might measure;
For hire Just love entire
"He asks, not grudging pain; And knows his asking vain, And cries -
'Love! Love!' and dies;
"In guerdon of long duty, Unowned by Love or Beauty; And goes - Tell,
tell, who knows!
"Aliens from Heaven's worth, Fine beasts who nose i' the earth, Do
there Reward prepare.
"But are HIS great desires Food but for nether fires? Ah me, A
mystery!
"Can it be his alone, To find when all is known, That what He solely
sought
"Is lost, and thereto lost All that its seeking cost? That he Must finally,
"Through sacrificial tears, And anchoretic years, Tryst With the
sensualist?"
So ask; and if they tell The secret terrible, Good friend, I pray thee send

Some high gold embassage To teach my unripe age. Tell! Lest my feet
walk hell.

A FALLEN YEW

It seemed corrival of the world's great prime, Made to un-edge the
scythe of Time, And last with stateliest rhyme.
No tender Dryad ever did indue That rigid chiton of rough yew, To fret
her white flesh through:
But some