The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson | Page 8

be reminded by my critics that I have no silver tongue such as were fit to praise you. So for once you shall go indedicate, if not quite anonymous; and I will only commend my little book to you in sentences far beyond my poor compass which will help you perhaps to be kind to it:
"_Votre personne, vos moindres mouvements me semblaient avoir dans le monde une importance extrahumaine. Mon coeur comme de la poussi��re se soulevait derri��re vos pas. Vous me faisiez l'effet d'un clair-de-lune par une nuit d'��t��, quand tout est parfums, ombres douces, blancheurs, infini; et les d��lices de la chair et de l'ame ��taient contenues pour moi dans votre nom que je me r��p��tais en tachant de le baiser sur mes l��vres.
"Quelquefois vos paroles me reviennent comme un ��cho lointain, comme le son d'une cloche apport�� par le vent; et il me semble que vous ��tes l�� quand je lis des passages de l'amour dans les livres.... Tout ce qu'on y blame d'exag��r��, vous me l'avez fait ressentir._"
PONT-AVEN, FINIST��RE, 1896.
VERSES
Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam
They are not long, the weeping and the laughter.?Love and desire and hate:?I think they have no portion in us after?We pass the gate.
They are not long, the days of wine and roses:?Out of a misty dream?Our path emerges for a while, then closes?Within a dream.
A CORONAL
WITH HIS SONGS AND HER DAYS TO HIS LADY AND TO LOVE
Violets and leaves of vine,?Into a frail, fair wreath?We gather and entwine:?A wreath for Love to wear,?Fragrant as his own breath,?To crown his brow divine,?All day till night is near.?Violets and leaves of vine?We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine?For Love that lives a day,?We gather and entwine.?All day till Love is dead,?Till eve falls, cold and gray,?These blossoms, yours and mine,?Love wears upon his head,?Violets and leaves of vine?We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine,?For Love when poor Love dies?We gather and entwine.?This wreath that lives a day?Over his pale, cold eyes,?Kissed shut by Proserpine,?At set of sun we lay:?Violets and leaves of vine?We gather and entwine.
NUNS OF THE PERPETUAL ADORATION
Calm, sad, secure; behind high convent walls,?These watch the sacred lamp, these watch and pray:?And it is one with them when evening falls,?And one with them the cold return of day.
These heed not time; their nights and days they make?Into a long, returning rosary,?Whereon their lives are threaded for Christ's sake;?Meekness and vigilance and chastity.
A vowed patrol, in silent companies,?Life-long they keep before the living Christ.?In the dim church, their prayers and penances?Are fragrant incense to the Sacrificed.
Outside, the world is wild and passionate;?Man's weary laughter and his sick despair?Entreat at their impenetrable gate:?They heed no voices in their dream of prayer.
They saw the glory of the world displayed;?They saw the bitter of it, and the sweet;?They knew the roses of the world should fade,?And be trod under by the hurrying feet.
Therefore they rather put away desire,?And crossed their hands and came to sanctuary?And veiled their heads and put on coarse attire:?Because their comeliness was vanity.
And there they rest; they have serene insight?Of the illuminating dawn to be:?Mary's sweet Star dispels for them the night,?The proper darkness of humanity.
Calm, sad, secure; with faces worn and mild:?Surely their choice of vigil is the best??Yea! for our roses fade, the world is wild;?But there, beside the altar, there, is rest.
VILLANELLE OF SUNSET
Come hither, Child! and rest:?This is the end of day,?Behold the weary West!
Sleep rounds with equal zest?Man's toil and children's play:?Come hither, Child! and rest.
My white bird, seek thy nest,?Thy drooping head down lay:?Behold the weary West!
Now are the flowers confest?Of slumber: sleep, as they!?Come hither, Child! and rest.
Now eve is manifest,?And homeward lies our way:?Behold the weary West!
Tired flower! upon my breast,?I would wear thee alway:?Come hither, Child! and rest;?Behold, the weary West!
MY LADY APRIL
Dew on her robe and on her tangled hair;?Twin dewdrops for her eyes; behold her pass,?With dainty step brushing the young, green grass,?The while she trills some high, fantastic air,?Full of all feathered sweetness: she is fair,?And all her flower-like beauty, as a glass,?Mirrors out hope and love: and still, alas!?Traces of tears her languid lashes wear.
Say, doth she weep for very wantonness??Or is it that she dimly doth foresee?Across her youth the joys grow less and less?The burden of the days that are to be:?Autumn and withered leaves and vanity,?And winter bringing end in barrenness.
TO ONE IN BEDLAM
With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,?Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;?Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line?His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,
Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars?With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine?Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchaunted wine,?And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?
O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,?Am I