Silverpoints | Page 3

sang on;?The fluffy bee knows us, and fills?His house with sweet to think upon.
Deep in the dear dust, Dear, we dream,?Our melancholy is a thing?At last our own; and none esteem?How our black lips are blackening.
And none note how our poor eyes fall,?Nor how our cheeks are sunk and sere . . .?Dear, when you waken, will you call? . . .?Alas! we are not very near.
Ainsi, elle viendrait �� moi! les yeux bien fous!?Et elle me suivrait avec cet air partout!
TO E. M. G.
Lean back, and press the pillow deep,?Heart's dear demesne, dear Daintiness;?Close your tired eyes, but not to sleep . . .?How very pale your pallor is!
You smile, your cheek's voluptuous line?Melts in your dimpled saucy cave.?Your hairbraids seem a wilful vine,?Scorning to imitate a wave.
Your voice is tenebrous, as if?An angel mocked a blackbird's pipe.?You are my magic orchard feoff,?Where bud and fruit are always ripe.
O apple garden! all the days?Are fain to crown the darling year,?Ephemeral bells and garland bays,?Shy blade and lusty, bursting ear.
In every kiss I call you mine,?Tell me, my dear, how pure, how brave?Our child will be! what velvet eyne,?What bonny hair our child will have!
CROCUSES IN GRASS
TO CHARLES HAZELWOOD SHANNON
Purple and white the crocus flowers,
And yellow, spread upon?The sober lawn; the hours?Are not more idle in the sun.
Perhaps one droops a prettier head,
And one would say: Sweet Queen,?Your lips are white and red,?And round you lies the grass most green.
And she, perhaps, for whom is fain
The other, will not heed;?Or, that he may complain,?Babbles, for dalliaunce, with a weed.
And he dissimulates despair,
And anger, and suprise;?The while white daisies stare?--And stir not--with their yellow eyes.
POEM
TO ARTHUR EDMONDS
Geranium, houseleek, laid in oblong beds?On the trim grass. The daisies' leprous stain?Is fresh. Each night the daisies burst again,?Though every day the gardener crops their heads.
A wistful child, in foul unwholesome shreds,?Recalls some legend of a daisy chain?That makes a pretty necklace. She would fain?Make one, and wear it, if she had some threads.
Sun, leprous flowers, foul child. The asphalt burns.?The garrulous sparrows perch on metal Burns.?Sing! Sing! they say, and flutter with their wings.?He does not sing, he only wonders why?He is sitting there. The sparrows sing. And I?Yield to the strait allure of simple things.
ON A PICTURE
TO PIERRE LOUYS
Not pale, as one in sleep or holier death,?Nor illcontent the lady seems, nor loth?To lie in shadow of shrill river growth,?So steadfast are the river's arms beneath.
Pale petals follow her in very faith,?Unmixed with pleasure or regret, and both?Her maidly hands look up, in noble sloth?To take the blossoms of her scattered wreath.
No weakest ripple lives to kiss her throat.?Nor dies in meshes of untangled hair;?No movement stirs the floor of river moss.
Until some furtive glimmer gleam across?Voluptuous mouth, where even teeth are bare,?And gild the broidery of her petticoat. . . .
PARSIFAL IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH?OF PAUL VERLAINE
Conquered the flower-maidens, and the wide embrace?Of their round proffered arms, that tempt the virgin boy;?Conquered the trickling of their babbling tongues; the coy?Back glances, and the mobile breasts of subtle grace;
Conquered the Woman Beautiful, the fatal charm?Of her hot breast, the music of her babbling tongue;?Conquered the gate of Hell, into the gate the young?Man passes, with the heavy trophy at his arm,
The holy Javelin that pierced the Heart of God.?He heals the dying king, he sits upon the throne,?King, and high priest of that great gift, the living Blood.
In robe of gold the youth adores the glorious Sign?Of the green goblet, worships the mysterious Wine.?And oh! the chime of children's voices in the dome.
A CRUCIFIX
TO ERNEST DOWSON
A gothic church. At one end of an aisle,?Against a wall where mystic sunbeams smile?Through painted windows, orange, blue, and gold,?The Christ's unutterable charm behold.?Upon the cross, adorned with gold and green,?Long fluted golden tongues of sombre sheen,?Like four flames joined in one, around the head?And by the outstretched arms, their glory spread.?The statue is of wood; of natural size?Tinted; one almost sees before one's eyes?The last convulsion of the lingering breath.?"Behold the man!" Robust and frail. Beneath?That breast indeed might throb the Sacred Heart.?And from the lips, so holily dispart,?The dying murmur breathes "Forgive! Forgive!"?O wide-stretched arms! "I perish, let them live."?Under the torture of the thorny crown,?The loving pallor of the brow looks down?On human blindness, on the toiler's woes;?The while, to overturn Despair's repose,?And urge to Hope and Love, as Faith demands,?Bleed, bleed the feet, the broken side, the hands.?A poet, painter, Christian,--it was a friend?Of mine--his attributes most fitly blend--?Who saw this marvel, made an exquisite?Copy; and, knowing how I worshipped it,?Forgot it, in my room, by accident.?I write these verses in acknowledgment.
LE CHEVALIER MALHEUR
Grim visor'd cavalier!
Rides silently MISCHANCE.?Stabbed is my dying heart
of his unpitying lance.?My poor hearts blood leaps forth,
a single crimson jet.?The hot sun licks it up
where petals pale are wet.?Deep