The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson | Page 8

all humility, to my
friends? Trivial, too, perhaps, only to name you even here? Trivial,
presumptuous? For I need not write your name for you at least to know
that this and all my work is made for you in the first place, and I need
not to 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
poussière se soulevait derrière vos pas. Vous me faisiez l'effet d'un
clair-de-lune par une nuit d'été, quand tout est parfums, ombres douces,
blancheurs, infini; et les délices de la chair et de l'âme étaient contenues
pour moi dans votre nom que je me répétais en tachant de le baiser sur
mes lèvres.
"Quelquefois vos paroles me reviennent comme un écho lointain,
comme le son d'une cloche apporté par le vent; et il me semble que
vous êtes là quand je lis des passages de l'amour dans les livres.... Tout
ce qu'on y blâme d'exagéré, vous me l'avez fait ressentir._"
PONT-AVEN, FINISTÈRE, 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