The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson | Page 9

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 not fain of all thy lone
eyes promise me;
Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and
reap,
All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,
Thy
moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,
The star-crowned
solitude of thine oblivious hours!
AD DOMNULAM SUAM
Little lady of my heart!
Just a little longer,
Love me: we will pass
and part,
Ere this love grow stronger.
I have loved thee, Child! too well,
To do aught but leave thee:
Nay!

my lips should never tell
Any tale, to grieve thee.
Little lady of my heart!
Just a little longer,
I may love thee: we will
part,
Ere my love grow stronger.
Soon thou leavest fairy-land;
Darker grow thy tresses:
Soon no
more of hand in hand;
Soon no more caresses!
Little lady of my heart!
Just a little longer,
Be a child: then, we will
part,
Ere this love grow stronger.
AMOR UMBRATILIS
A gift of Silence, sweet!
Who may not ever hear:
To lay down at
your unobservant feet,
Is all the gift I bear.
I have no songs to sing,
That you should heed or know:
I have no
lilies, in full hands, to fling
Across the path you go.
I cast my flowers away,
Blossoms unmeet for you!
The garland I
have gathered in my day:
My rosemary and rue.
I watch you pass and pass,
Serene and cold: I lay
My lips upon your
trodden, daisied grass,
And turn my life away.
Yea, for I cast you, sweet!
This one gift, you shall take:
Like
ointment, on your unobservant feet,
My silence, for your sake.
AMOR PROFANUS
Beyond the pale of memory,
In some mysterious dusky grove;
A
place of shadows utterly,
Where never coos the turtle-dove,
A
world forgotten of the sun:
I dreamed we met when day was done,

And marvelled at our ancient love.
Met there by chance, long kept apart,
We wandered through the

darkling glades;
And that old language of the heart
We sought to
speak: alas! poor shades!
Over our pallid lips had run
The waters of
oblivion,
Which crown all loves of men or maids.
In vain we stammered: from afar
Our old desire shone cold and dead:

That time was distant as a star,
When eyes were bright and lips
were red.
And still we went with downcast eye
And no delight in
being nigh,
Poor shadows most uncomforted.
Ah, Lalage! while life is ours,
Hoard not thy beauty rose and white,

But pluck the pretty, fleeting flowers
That deck our little path of light:

For all too soon we twain shall tread
The bitter pastures of the dead:

Estranged, sad spectres of the night.
VILLANELLE OF MARGUERITE'S
"A little, passionately, not at all?"
She casts the snowy petals on the
air:
And what care we how many petals fall!
Nay, wherefore seek the seasons to forestall?
It is but playing, and
she will not care,
A little, passionately, not at all!
She would not answer us if we should call
Across the years: her
visions are too fair;
And what care we how many petals fall!
She knows us not, nor recks if she enthrall
With voice and eyes and
fashion of her hair,
A little, passionately, not at all!
Knee-deep she goes in meadow grasses tall,
Kissed by the daisies that
her fingers tear:
And what care we how many petals fall!
We pass and go: but she shall not recall
What men we were, nor all
she made us bear:
"A little, passionately, not at all!"
And what care
we how many petals fall!

YVONNE OF BRITTANY
In your mother's apple-orchard,
Just a year ago, last spring:
Do you
remember, Yvonne!
The dear trees lavishing
Rain of their starry
blossoms
To make you a coronet?
Do you ever remember, Yvonne?

As I remember yet.
In your mother's apple-orchard,
When the world was left behind:

You were shy, so shy, Yvonne!
But your eyes were calm and kind.

We spoke of the apple harvest,
When the cider press is set,
And
such-like trifles, Yvonne!
That doubtless you forget.
In the still, soft Breton twilight,
We were silent; words were few,

Till your mother came out chiding,
For the grass was bright with dew:

But I know your heart was beating,
Like a fluttered, frightened
dove.
Do you ever remember, Yvonne?
That first faint flush of
love?
In the fulness of midsummer,
When the apple-bloom was shed,
Oh,
brave was your surrender,
Though shy the words you said.
I was
glad, so glad, Yvonne!
To have led you home at last;
Do you ever
remember, Yvonne!
How swiftly the days passed?
YVONNE OF BRITTANY
In your mother's apple-orchard
It is grown too dark to stray,
There
is none to chide you, Yvonne!
You are over far away.
There is dew
on your grave grass, Yvonne!
But your feet it shall not wet:
No,
you never remember, Yvonne!
And I shall soon forget.
BENEDICTIO DOMINI