Leaves

Murmuring by myriads in the shimmering trees.

Lives

Wakening with wonder in the Pyrenees.

Birds

Cheerily chirping in the early day.

Bards

Singing of summer, scything through the hay.

Bees

Shaking the heavy dews from bloom and frond.

Boys

Bursting the surface of the ebony pond.

Flashes

Of swimmers carving through the sparkling cold.

Fleshes

Gleaming with wetness to the morning gold.

A mead

Bordered about with warbling water brooks.

A maid

Laughing the love-laugh with me; proud of looks.

The heat

Throbbing between the upland and the peak.

Her heart

Quivering with passion to my pressèd cheek.

Braiding

Of floating flames across the mountain brow.

Brooding

Of stillness; and a sighing of the bough.

Stirs

Of leaflets in the gloom; soft petal-showers;

Stars

Expanding with the starr’d nocturnal flowers.

Suddenly night crushed out the day and hurled

Her remnants over cloud-peaks, thunder-walled.

Then fell a stillness such as harks appalled

When far-gone dead return upon the world.

There watched I for the Dead; but no ghost woke.

Each one whom Life exiled I named and called.

But they were all too far, or dumbed, or thralled;

And never one fared back to me or spoke.

Then peered the indefinite unshapen dawn

With vacant gloaming, sad as half-lit minds,

The weak-limned hour when sick men’s sighs are drained.

And while I wondered on their being withdrawn,

Gagged by the smothering wing which none unbinds,

I dreaded even a heaven with doors so chained.

In that I loved you, Love, I worshipped you,

In that I worshipped well, I sacrificed

All of most worth. I bound and burnt and slew

Old peaceful lives; frail flowers; firm friends; and Christ.

I slew all falser loves; I slew all true,

That I might nothing love but your truth, Boy.

Fair fame I cast away as bridegrooms do

Their wedding garments in their haste of joy.

But when I fell upon your sandalled feet,

You laughed; you loosed away my lips; you rose.

I heard the singing of your wing’s retreat;

Far-flown, I watched you flush the Olympian snows

Beyond my hoping. Starkly I returned

To stare upon the ash of all I burned.

My shy hand shades a hermitage apart,

O large enough for thee, and thy brief hours.

Life there is sweeter held than in God’s heart,

Stiller than in the heavens of hollow flowers.

The wine is gladder there than in gold bowls.

And Time shall not drain thence, nor trouble spill.

Sources between my fingers feed all souls,

Where thou mayest cool thy lips, and draw thy fill.

Five cushions hath my hand, for reveries;

And one deep pillow for thy brow’s fatigues;

Languor of June all winterlong, and ease

For ever from the vain untravelled leagues.

Thither your years may gather in from storm,

And Love, that sleepeth there, will keep thee warm.

His face was charged with beauty as a cloud

With glimmering lightning. When it shadowed me

I shook, and was uneasy as a tree

That draws the brilliant danger, tremulous, bowed.

So must I tempt that face to loose its lightning.

Great gods, whose beauty is death, will laugh above,

Who made his beauty lovelier than love.

I shall be bright with their unearthly brightening.

And happier were it if my sap consume;

Glorious will shine the opening of my heart;

The land shall freshen that was under gloom;