That all their frailty is at once revealed,
However much they wish it were concealed;
For common wisdom lies beyond their ken.
Like some slain victim toward a lion’s den,
So are they led, when once to love they yield.
The warrior tamed lays by his trusted shield;
The youth, his youth; old age its reason then.
In each condition is mankind disturbed,
Played false, or in unguarded mood surprised,
Made mad by overjoy, or else perturbed
Through sudden fear that love must be disguised.
By some such thought my love alone is curbed,
The which, I trow, thou hast ere now surmised.
CX
Not all the years of my uncounted pain
Could teach me wisdom to myself and thee;
So I still love, and thou still holdest me;
Nor all the torture of thy fair disdain
Wring from thy lips confession, or attain
The height of misery that love must be
When, unexpressed, itself it may not free
From silent thought, or find some speech again.
Yet love, though long unkind, hath taught me this,
That I may find expression on its page;
Though not the record of its perfect bliss,
Yet, something of its value to mine age,
Mixèd with poison from the fatal kiss
That love still bringeth in its equipage.
CXI
At least thou canst not say I have not loved,
Make accusation fit time’s test of me.
Bring all thy grievance to love’s court, and see
How truly my devotion hath been proved,
And what high motive hath my spirit moved.
Bring all the powers to bear that lie in thee.
At least thou canst not claim inconstancy
As comrade to that love by thee disproved.
For this sad company my soul hath still,
That is alike companion to my thought,
Precursor of my fate and fate’s dark will;
My mendicant desire that thou be brought
Into my life, my empty heart to fill,
And there remain; my own and dearly sought.
CXII
Often do I in meditation dream
That in my garden thou art, with my flowers:
To watch with me the foxglove, as it towers
High o’er the feathery fern above the stream.
The waving corn-flower catcheth the sun’s gleam.
The yellow poppies, born in summer hours,
Now bloomed, shed all their seeds in tiny showers,
And nature in a lovely mood would seem.
So thou, in my imagination, art.
And ’neath the azured canopy of heaven,
We twain, like children, each do play a part;
Now, by the sun, beneath love’s bower driven;
Now, by some wingèd creature, caused to start
And leave the goal for which we both have striven.
CXIII
If thou who readst this verse do find herein
More tragedy than joyous thought exprest,
Oh, marvel not, that grief should not be drest
By me, in bright array, to cloak my sin.
My sin is love, love which I may not win;
And by this fact is my heart overprest
With weight of sorrow, and my soul distrest,
That I must end where others do begin.
So, if thou seekest to find within this line
Enjoyment of a jest, pray put it by.
’Tis simply for love’s elegy to twine
A wreath of myrtle with a lover’s sigh.
For if this verse were gay, ’twould not be mine,
Since lacking of my true love’s love am I.
CXIV
Yet ne’ertheless would I make holiday;
Exchange love’s martyrdom; be light of heart;
Take note of others who enjoy love’s art;
Make measurable sport of what I may;
Seek men and women who are blithe and gay;
Forget the past and love’s more cruel mart,
Wherein doth sorrow play so large a part;
And mirror life in a more mirthful way.
Oh! that I might be now the youth I was,
Before love’s mastery enslaved my soul:
Free in my fancy, free from life’s stern laws,
When love of life alone was my heart’s goal.
Then hath it need of holiday, because
For long it heareth nightly love’s dirge toll.
CXV
Oh! well have I examined my defect,
And all my faults and follies, yet anew
(Knowing, alas, too well, they be not few),
And marshalled them, that I may thus detect,
Which fault or folly love doth not protect,
And which would separate my heart from you.
From some like cause ’twould seem you must eschew
This proffered courtship, and my love reject.
Then tell me, dear, the which I do adjure
Your honor and your honesty to name.
For ’tis my right, while my love doth endure,
To ask if fault or scandal shall proclaim
Its untoward presence, and your thought allure.
For lies should not kill love, nor hurt my fame.
CXVI
Oh! what a thought hath filled my brain this night,
And burned my fevered brow, as I suspect
That all these years, the love thou didst reject
Was, through strange chance, belittled in thy sight
By some foul slander or some worldly wight.
Methinks some poisonous tongue doth intersect
Both love and friendship, and its shade reflect
Unseen upon me, like some evil sprite.
What’s this, that with a start I do behold,
As darkness cloaks me round in cold embrace?
Some goblin, born of fear, by fear made bold?
Some lie that lives, yet dares not show its face?
Some tale that knows ’tis false as soon as told?
Such company my love doth poorly grace.
CXVII
And with the morn, though sunrise shall disperse
Those phantoms that dark hours oft have sought,
The spectral visage of some midnight thought
Doth still unite its poison to my verse.
In truth, suspicion makes a cruel nurse,
A poor companion, that the world hath brought
To tend the soul when, ill and overwrought,
It reaches by such means a stage still worse.
Let not my life, then, kill this tree of love,
Nor canker-worm destroy its fresh green leaf,
Nor moth devour its foliage from above;
So that its ruin shatter my belief
In love’s ideal and Cupid’s vernal grove.
For love that doth prove false must die of grief.
CXVIII
Not every prince, nor king, nor emperor liveth,
After his years upon this earth pass by;
Not every painter’s brush, nor poet’s sigh
Bringeth to the world the passion that it giveth;
Not every sculptor’s chiselled stone outliveth
The fell destruction of time’s tenancy;
Nor men thought great, nor man’s inconstancy,
Commit the sins that life’s last court forgiveth,
Not such as these form that immortal band,
Whose names adorn the temples of past ages.
Nay, those decreed by nature to withstand
The deep emotions written o’er life’s pages.
Their thoughts with all mankind go hand in hand,
Their loves make one with genius and the sages.
CXIX
How shall I all thy virtues here recount,
Dear one, within the limit of this line;
Or round thy brow a wreath of roses twine,
To mark the passage of the years we mount;
Or how, in this short verse, describe the fount
Of love, within my heart, that is all thine?
Within thy soul’s retreat a light doth shine,
That maketh my return of poor account.
Then of my homage take what is thy due,
That which is mine to give, and free the giving.
For all I have is now derived from you,
The best of all that maketh life worth living:
A gift of nature, given unto few,
Though, when received, a cause for their thanksgiving.
CXX
’Tis strange, how little doth the world perceive
The interchange of thought ’twixt thee and me;
And how far distant from the truth it be
When, guessing of my love, it doth deceive
Itself and others, and some tale conceive
That hath no setting for my heart or thee.
Then happy are we that it doth not see
Beyond the false report it would receive.
So thou, sweet one, unmarried to my love
That all these years hath sought thee near at hand,
And seen thee bud and flower, as I strove
To wait till Cupid touch thee with his wand;
So thou, upon some pedestal above,
Locked in the secret of my heart shall stand.
CXXI
That which we have we value not to-day,
Yet when ’tis gone its absence we deplore.
If fortune flieth and be ours no more,
Its trail of sorrow passeth on our way,
If by infirmity we cease to play
Those truant games that childhood doth adore,
Then are we all anxiety therefore;
Since many long for youth when they grow gray.
So thou, who hast not felt love’s fiercest pain,
And all unconscious cast my love aside,
Mayst wake to knowledge, and would love regain
When I no longer on this earth reside,
Remembered by my love, that shall remain;
But thou, for killing me with thy false pride.
CXXII
Oh, chide me not, if in this life I make
Poor tillage of the soil that men do plough;
And hold me not transgressor, if I now
Of this world’s order would not so partake.
Love’s harvester am I, my love at stake,
And by lost love my thought, it seems, must grow.
While others happy issue from it know,
My soul may not produce till my heart break.
Then plough, sad spirit, o’er the cheerless morrow,
And though thy husbandry be but a line,
Know that its fruit, born like a child of sorrow,
May bear thy likeness, and be thy life’s sign
In after years, so that the world shall borrow
Some portion of the love that once was thine.
CXXIII
If thou wert chainèd by the bans of life,
And wedded to another, as thy lord,
I well might pierce this heart as with a sword,
And leave to love the virtue of a wife.
But since thou holdest, by love’s hand, a knife,
Made sharp by wit, thy maidenhood’s reward;
Thou mayst so wound me by one fickle word,
That I am all at enmity and strife.
Unwedded then, save to youth’s foolish pride,
Thou art still free, and chaste as virgin snow,
That, taken in captivity, doth fade,
And melt to water, clear as for a bride.
Then surely I through frosty drifts may plough,
To capture, in love’s chase, th’ unwedded maid.
CXXIV
Thou art, in truth, my muse’s only guide,
That fashions by this pen thine image here,
Developèd, through loving, year by year:
The picture of thy beauty and thy pride.
For all my verse doth hold, thou dost decide,
Since, writing, I the thought of thee hold dear,
And must portray thy very joy and fear,
This mirror and thyself stand side by side.
Then, should thy true resemblance live herein
(An only offspring of my love, for me),
I treasure this thy likeness as my child;
And think thereon, as I do think on thee.
For thou art both my angel and my sin;
Since ’twas my sin to be by thee beguiled.
CXXV
Back from the sculptured chantry of the past,
The chiselled forms of memory appear,
Like stately sentinels of night, yet dear
And welcome, as they gather swift and fast;
Fast on the heels of love, returned at last,
And swift, as recollection draweth near.
The songs of th’ exalted choir ring so clear,
They echo thoughts that time hath long recast.
Old chambers of the mind lie thus exposed,
By some strange magic, moved with nature’s wand,
And furnished by deft hands. Doors, once fast closed,
Are opened to admit the wondrous band
Of spiritual workmen, unopposed,
Who build anew things fashioned by our hand.
CXXVI
If all the value of my love is this,
That by its pain my verse may have some lasting,
Oh, let it bear the fruit of my long fasting;
Not in fulfilment of its end remiss,
But yielding somewhat of that holy bliss
Denied me, though on others its joy casting.
No youthful heart, no hope let me be blasting;
No maiden keep from her true lover’s kiss.
Then end thy tale, sad heart that in me dieth,
For want of sunshine from my love’s sweet smile.
Give unto life the love that in thee lieth;
Since what thou lovest only would defile.
Gain for thyself the name of one who trieth
Love’s truth to teach, though sorrowing the while.
CXXVII
Oh! lay aside thy pen, since thou must sing
Forever in a mournful minor key,
And let the world thy disappointment see,
And hear the death-knell of thy spirit ring.
Why write of love, since love thou canst not bring
Within thy craving heart, that still must be
Unsatisfied? Why on thy bended knee
Beg life from some cold, adamantine thing?
Yet at this final moment, more than e’er,
Dost thou seem near to me, dear heart, and more
Than when first found, dost thou seem sweet and fair,
And of my love possess a greater store!
Then though my voice be still, and dead the air,
In silence must I thy dear self adore.
CXXVIII
The Wounded Eros fell upon the ground,
His bow and quiver lying at his side;
The one destroyed, the other but half tried.
An arrow, aimed at man, its way had found
Beneath the child’s soft flesh; and with a sound
At once both sweet and sad, he sank and cried
In pain to Venus, beauty’s queen and bride,
As she descended from the heavenly mound.
So with mankind: Love, wounded, may be seen,
Felled by his own swift shaft, that poison brings,
Instead of peace or gladness, to his heart.
Filled with the vision of what might have been,
He treasures still the very thought that clings,
Like sable night, though from it he would part.
_O thou, fair one, who never shalt be known,_
_Though ages cover thy frail bones with dust,_
_And time displace the greed of worldly lust;_
_Thou, whose gay spirit to my heart hath shown_
_How great love may become when once full-grown:_
_Thou, who hast been the fullness of my trust_
_In all things born of love’s fierce fire,--and must,_
_Perforce, hold o’er thy head love’s magic crown:_
_Take all I have. I lay it at thy feet._
_Poor though it be, ’tis thine. O ask not why!_
_Within these lines both joy and sorrow greet_
_The lenient friend, who hath not passed them by._
_And may those lovers, who have found love sweet,_
_Judge both our hearts when in the grave we lie._