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Will ye take her to chain her with chains,

who is older than all ye Gods? All ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire

shall ye pass and be past : Ye are Gods, and behold ye shall die, and

the waves be upon you at last. In the darkness of time, in the deeps of

the years, in the changes of things, Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and

the world shall forget you for

kings. Though the feet of thine high priests

tread where thy lords and our

forefathers trod, Though these that were Gods are dead,

and thou being dead art a God, Though before thee the throned Cythe

rean be fallen, and hidden her

head, Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy

dead shall go down to thee dead. Of the maiden thy mother, men sing as a

goddess with grace clad around ; Thou art throned where another was

king; where another was queen

she is crowned. Yea, once we had sight of another : but

now she is queen, say these. Not as thine, not asthine was our mother,

a blossom of flowering seas, Clothed round with the world's desire as

with raiment, and fair as the foam, And fleeter than kindled fire, and a god

dess and mother of Rome. For thine came pale and a maiden, and

sister to sorrow ; but ours, Her deep hair heavily laden with odor

and color of flowers, White rose of the rose-white water, a

silver splendor, a flame, Bent down unto us that besought her,

and earth grew sweet with her For thine came weeping, a slave among

slaves, and rejected; but she Came flushed from the full-flushe'l wave,

and imperial, her foot on the sea, And the wonderful waters knew her, the

winds and the view less ways, And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the

sea-blue stream of the bays. Ye are fallen, our lords by what token?

we wist that ye should not fall. Ye were all so fair that are broken ; and

one more fair than ye all. But I turn to her still, having seen she

shall surely abide in the end ; Goddess and maiden and queen, be near

me now and befriend.

O daughter of earth, of my mother, Ex

crown and blossom of birth. I am also, I also, thy brother; I go as 1

came unto earth. In the night where thine eyes are a

moons are in heaven, the mga

where thou art, Where the silence is more than all tube

where sleep overflows from the

heart, Where the poppies are sweet as the fun!

in our world, and the red rose :

white, And the wind falls faint as it blows with

the fume of the flowers of the

night, And the murmur of spirits that slep e

the shadow of Gods from afar Grows dim in thine ears and deep as it

deep dim soul of a star, In the sweet low light of thy face.

der heavens untrod by the sun, Let my soul with their souls find play,

and forget what is done and us

done. Thou art more than the Gods vir

number the days of our temporal

breath; For these give labor and slumber; bat

thou, Proserpina, death. Therefore now at thy feet I abide for a

season in silence. I know I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep

as they sleep; even so. For the glass of the year is brittle

wherein we gaze for a span; A little soul for a little bears up the

corpse which is man.1 So long I endure, no longer ; and laugt

not again, neither weep. For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep. 18

A MATCH
IF love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,

Green pleasure or gray grief ;
If love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single

Delight our ps would mingle, 1 ψυχάριον εί βασταξον νεκρόν, EPICTETUs.

name.

With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are

And love were like the tune. If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath ; If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death.

A burden without fruit in child

bearing; Between the nightfall and the dawn

threescore, Threescore between the dawn and

evening. The shuddering in thy lips, the shud

dering In thy sad eyelids tremulous like fire, Makes love seem shameful and a

wretched thing. This is the end of every man's desire. The burden of sweet speeches. Nay,

kneel down, Cover thy head, and weep; for verily These market-men that buy thy white

and brown In the last days shall take no thought

for thee. In the last days like earth thy face

shall be, Yea, like sea-marsh made thick with

brine and mire, Sad with sick leavings of the sterile

sea.

If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy, Wed play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow

And laughs of maid and boy ; If you were thrall to sorrow,

Ånd I were page to joy. If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady

And night were bright like day ; If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,

And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain. 1866.

This is the end of every man's desire.

The burden of long living. Thou shalt

fear Waking, and sleeping mourn upon thy

bed ; And say at night, “Would God the day

were here," And say at dawn “Would God the day

were dead." With weary days thou shalt be clothed

and fed, And wear remorse of heart for thine

attire, Pain for thy girdle and sorrow upon

thine head : This is the end of every man's desire.

A BALLAD OF BURDENS

The burden of bright colors. Thou shalt

see

The burden of fair women. Vain delight, And love self-slain in some sweet

shameful way, And sorrowful old age that comes by

night As a thief comes that has no heart by

day, And change that finds fair cheeks and

leaves them gray, And weariness that keeps awake for hire, And grief that says what pleasure used

to say ; This is the end of every man's desire.

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The burden of bought kisses. This is

sore,

The burden of sad sayings. In that day Thou shalt tell all thy days and hours,

and tell Thy times and ways and words of love,

Heed well this rhyme before your

pleasure tire ; For life is sweet, but after life is death. This is the end of every man's desire.

1866.

and say

How one was dear and one desirable, And sweet was life to hear and sweet

to smell, But now with lights reverse the old hours

retire And the last hour is shod with fire from

hell. This is the end of every man's desire. The burden of four seasons. Rain in

spring, White rain and wind among the tender

trees ; A summer of green sorrows gathering,

Rank autumn in a mist of miseries, With sad face set towards the year,

that sees The charred ash drop out of the dropping

pyre, And winter wan with many maladies ; This is the end of every man's desire. The burden of dead faces. Out of sight And out of love, beyond the reach of

hands, Changed in the changing of the dark and

light, They and weep about the barren

lands Where no seed is nor any garner stands, Where in short breaths the doubtful days

respire, And time's turned glass lets through

the sighing sands; This is the end of every man's desire. The burden of much gladness. Life and lust

[light; Forsake thee, and the face of thy deAnd underfoot the heavy hour strews

dust; And overhead strange weathers burn

and bite: And where the red was, lo, the blood

less white, And where truth was, the likeness of a

liar, And where day was, the likeness of

the night; This is the end of every man's desire.

RONDEL KISSING her hair I sat against her feet. Wove and unwove it, wound and found

it sweet Made fast therewith her bands, drew

down her eyes, Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like

dim skies ; With her own tresses bound and found

her fair,

Kissing her hair. Sleep were no sweeter than her face to

me, Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold

sea ; What pain could get between my face

and hers? What new sweet thing would love not

relish worse? Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed

me there, Kissing her hair?

1866.

IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE

LANDOR.

BACK to the flower-town, side by side,

The bright months bring. New-born, the bridegroom and the bride,

Freedom and spring. The sweet land laughs from sea to sea,

Filled full of sun ; All things come back to her, being

free,
All things but one.
In many a tender wheaten plot

Flowers that were dead
Live, and old suns revive ; but not

That holier head.

By this white wandering waste of sea,

Far north, I hear
One face shall never turn to me

As once this year ;

EN VOI

Princes, and ye whom pleasure quick

eneth,

Shall never smile and turn and rest

On mine as there, Nor one most sacred hand be pressed

Upon my hair,

ame as one whose thoughts half lin

ger, lalf run before ; e youngest to the oldest singer Chat England bore. ound him whom I shall not find Cill all grief end, holiest age our mightiest mind, father and friend. t thou, if anything endure, If hope there be, spirit that man's life left pure, Van's death set free, ot with disdain of days that were Look earthward now : t dreams revive the reverend hair, The imperial brow; ome back in sleep, for in the life Where thou art not 'e find none like thee. Time and

strife And the world's lot ove thee no more ; but love at least,

And reverent heart, lay move thee, royal and released

Soul, as thou art.
ind thou, his Florence, to thy trust

Receive and keep,
eep safe his dedicated dust,

His sacred sleep.
0 sliall thy lovers, come from far,

Mix with thy name Is morning-star with evening-star llis faultless fame.

1866. THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE HERE, where the world is quiet,

Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest time and mowing,

A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap :
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbor,

And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labor,

Weak ships and spirits steer ; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither ; But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice,

No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies,

Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes, Save this whereout she crushes

For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number,

In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber

All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated

Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven,

He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven,

Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes,

In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she

stands
Who gathers all things mortal

With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her

From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,

She waits for all men born ;
Forgets the earth her mother,

The life of fruits and corn ;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow

And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither,

The old loves with wearier wings ; And all dead years draw thither,

And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken

Or fields near home?
Or where the fire-flowers blow,
Or where the flowers of snow
Or flowers of foam ?

We are in love's hand to-day

Land me, she says, where love
Shows but one shaft, one dove,

One heart, one hand.
-A shore like that, my dear,
Lies where no man will steer,
No maiden land.
Imitated from Théophile Gautier.

1866.

Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,

Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow

Time stoops to no man's lure ;
And love, grown faint and fretful
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever ;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken,

Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,

Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal ;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.

1866.

SAPPHICS

All the night sleep came not upon my

eyelids, Shed not dew, nor shook nor uncloso a

feather, Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of

iron Stood and beheld me.

Then to me so lying awake a vision Came without sleep over the seas and

touched me, Softly touched mine eyelids and lijn;

and I too, Full of the vision,

Saw the white implacable Aphrodite. Saw the hair unbound, and the feet un.

sandalled Shine as fire of sunset on western waters;

Saw the reluctant

LOVE AT SEA We are in love's land to-day ;

Where shall we go?
Love, shall we start or stay,

Or sail or row ?
There's many a wind and way,
And never a May but May ;
We are in love's hand to-day ;

Where shall we go?
Our landwind is the breath
Of sorrows kissed to death

And joys that were:
Our ballast is a rose ;
Our way lies where God knows
And love knows where.

We are in love's hand to-day

Feet, the straining plumes of the dores

that drew her, Looking always, looking with necks re

verted, Back to Lesbos, back to the hills where

under Shone Mitylene ; Heard the flying feet of the Lores be

hind her Make a sudden thunder upon the waters, As the thunder Aung from the strong

unclosing Wings of a great wind. So the goddess fled from her place, with

awful Sound of feet and thunder of wings

around her; While behind a clamor of singing womeu

Severed the twilight.

Our seamen are fledged Loves,
Our masts are bills of doves,

Our decks fine gold ;
Our ropes are dead maids' hair,
Our stores are love-shafts fair
And manifold.

We are in love's land to-day

Where shall we land you, sweet? On fields of strange men's feet,

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