The Unknown Eros | Page 4

more;

One sweet drop more in the measureless increase
Of honied peace.
VI. TRISTITIA.
Darling, with hearts conjoin'd in such a peace
That Hope, so not to
cease,
Must still gaze back,
And count, along our love's most happy
track,
The landmarks of like inconceiv'd increase,
Promise me this:

If thou alone should'st win
God's perfect bliss,
And I, beguiled by
gracious-seeming sin,
Say, loving too much thee,
Love's last goal
miss,
And any vows may then have memory,
Never, by grief for
what I bear or lack,
To mar thy joyance of heav'n's jubilee.
Promise
me this;
For else I should be hurl'd,
Beyond just doom
And by thy
deed, to Death's interior gloom,
From the mild borders of the banish'd
world
Wherein they dwell
Who builded not unalterable fate
On
pride, fraud, envy, cruel lust, or hate;
Yet loved too laxly sweetness
and heart's ease,
And strove the creature more than God to please.
For such as these
Loss without measure, sadness without end!
Yet
not for this do thou disheaven'd be
With thinking upon me.

Though
black, when scann'd from heaven's surpassing bright, This might mean
light,
Foil'd with the dim days of mortality.
For God is everywhere.

Go down to deepest Hell, and He is there,
And, as a true but quite
estranged Friend,
He works, 'gainst gnashing teeth of devilish ire,

With love deep hidden lest it be blasphemed,
If possible, to blend

Ease with the pangs of its inveterate fire;
Yea, in the worst
And
from His Face most wilfully accurst
Of souls in vain redeem'd,
He
does with potions of oblivion kill
Remorse of the lost Love that helps

them still.
Apart from these,
Near the sky-borders of that banish'd world,

Wander pale spirits among willow'd leas,
Lost beyond measure,
sadden'd without end,
But since, while erring most, retaining yet

Some ineffectual fervour of regret,
Retaining still such weal
As
spurned Lovers feel,
Preferring far to all the world's delight
Their
loss so infinite,
Or Poets, when they mark
In the clouds dun
A
loitering flush of the long sunken sun,
And turn away with tears into
the dark.
Know, Dear, these are not mine
But Wisdom's words, confirmed by
divine
Doctors and Saints, though fitly seldom heard
Save in their
own prepense-occulted word,
Lest fools be fool'd the further by false
hope,
And wrest sweet knowledge to their own decline;
And (to
approve I speak within my scope)
The Mistress of that dateless exile
gray
Is named in surpliced Schools Tristitia.
But, O, my Darling, look in thy heart and see
How unto me,

Secured of my prime care, thy happy state,
In the most unclean cell

Of sordid Hell,
And worried by the most ingenious hate,
It never
could be anything but well,
Nor from my soul, full of thy sanctity,

Such pleasure die
As the poor harlot's, in whose body stirs
The
innocent life that is and is not hers:
Unless, alas, this fount of my
relief
By thy unheavenly grief
Were closed.
So, with a
consecrating kiss
And hearts made one in past all previous peace,

And on one hope reposed,
Promise me this!
VII. THE AZALEA.
There, where the sun shines first
Against our room,
She train'd the
gold Azalea, whose perfume
She, Spring-like, from her breathing
grace dispersed.
Last night the delicate crests of saffron bloom,
For
this their dainty likeness watch'd and nurst,
Were just at point to burst.


At dawn I dream'd, O God, that she was dead,
And groan'd aloud
upon my wretched bed,
And waked, ah, God, and did not waken her,

But lay, with eyes still closed,
Perfectly bless'd in the delicious
sphere
By which I knew so well that she was near,
My heart to
speechless thankfulness composed.
Till 'gan to stir
A dizzy
somewhat in my troubled head--
It was the azalea's breath, and she
was dead!
The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed,
And I
had fall'n asleep with to my breast
A chance-found letter press'd
In
which she said,
'So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu!
Parting's
well-paid with soon again to meet,
Soon in your arms to feel so small
and sweet,
Sweet to myself that am so sweet to you!'
VIII. DEPARTURE.
It was not like your great and gracious ways!
Do you, that have
nought other to lament,
Never, my Love, repent
Of how, that July
afternoon,
You went,
With sudden, unintelligible phrase,
And
frighten'd eye,
Upon your journey of so many days,
Without a
single kiss, or a good-bye?
I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;

And so we sate, within the low sun's rays,
You whispering to me,
for your voice was weak,
Your harrowing praise.
Well, it was well,

To hear you such things speak,
And I could tell
What made your
eyes a growing gloom of love,
As a warm South-wind sombres a
March grove.
And it was like your great and gracious ways
To turn
your talk on daily things, my Dear,
Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash

To let the laughter flash,
Whilst I drew near,

Because you spoke
so low that I could scarcely hear.
But all at once to leave me at the
last,
More at the wonder than the loss aghast,
With huddled,
unintelligible phrase,
And frighten'd eye,
And go your journey of
all days
With not one kiss, or a good-bye,
And the only loveless
look the look with which you pass'd:
'Twas all unlike your great and
gracious ways.
IX. EURYDICE.

Is this the portent of the day nigh past,
And of a restless grave
O'er
which the eternal sadness gathers fast;
Or