Then tell me this, how must I praise you, dear
And desperate doubter of all pleasant things--
Infidel to yourself--who neither clear,
Untroubled truth, nor chequered flatteries,
Nor love's tried tales and trusted sorceries,
Will hear?
In vain the throstle sings,
Roses are red in vain, and sunlight fair:
For all that amorous armoury of words,
Which poets forge themselves from ecstasy,
For all youth's uncontrived _niaiseries_,
Melodious similes of flowers and birds,
For well-found compliment or unfeigned prayer,
You do not care.
You are the last word of a thousand years,
_Fine fleur_ of Europe's slow civility.
All subtlest products of her ceaseless toils,
The middle ages' mystic gaiety,
The gorgeous hubris of Italian dawn,
The slow maturing vintage of its spoils,
What Titian dreamed of, what Velasquez guessed,
Rambouillet played with, Versailles half expressed,
You are the heir to: and to you have gone
Voltaire's thin smiles and Prévost's prettiest tears.
Listen! You are that mystery,
That still life that just lies
Below the surface. Sometimes you'd surmise,
So smooth, so silently, the stream goes by,
That it were dead: but, peering past the brink,
An inch below the glass you catch a wink,
A twist, the thrilling sense of flow.
And there! And there! And see the green weeds
blow
And strain against the strong, subaqueous wind.
So, just beneath that faint, diaphanous snow,
Your skin, it flutters pulsewise: now behind
That bright brown eye stays frozen; now afar
Mocks our dull inquisition that would know
What life is, what you are.
1921.
_ΠΑΝΤΩΝ ΓΛΥΚΥΤΑΤΩΝ ΜΕΤΑΒΟΛΗ._
Frankly, I do not greatly care
Always to be my best;
I like sometimes to take the air,
Sometimes to take a rest.
Sometimes, austere philosopher,
I scan what thought reveals:
At other times I much prefer
Silk stockings and high heels.
And sometimes Beauty moves me much,
And sometimes Pleasure more:
Great Art seems sometimes Double Dutch,
And Amabel a bore.
Is God's clock always just at noon?
Is Heaven always fair?
May angels not adore the moon?
Is there no tea-time there?
Why, then, how blest are we on earth,
Who know an ampler range,
With blondes and browns and grief and mirth
And, above all things, Change.