Volume Ii Part 174 (2/2)
Then at Love's call I came, bowed down my head, And at His will my lyre grew audible.
Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]
AT THE LAST
Because the shadows deepened verily,-- Because the end of all seemed near, forsooth,-- Her gracious spirit, ever quick to ruth, Had pity on her bond-slave, even on me.
She came in with the twilight noiselessly, Fair as a rose, immaculate as Truth; She leaned above my wrecked and wasted youth; I felt her presence, which I could not see.
”G.o.d keep you, my poor friend,” I heard her say; And then she kissed my dry, hot lips and eyes.
Kiss thou the next kiss, quiet Death, I pray; Be instant on this hour, and so surprise My spirit while the vision seems to stay; Take thou the heart with the heart's Paradise.
Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]
TO ONE WHO WOULD MAKE A CONFESSION
On! leave the past to bury its own dead.
The past is naught to us, the present all.
What need of last year's leaves to strew Love's bed?
What need of ghosts to grace a festival?
I would not, if I could, those days recall, Those days not ours. For us the feast is spread, The lamps are lit, and music plays withal.
Then let us love and leave the rest unsaid.
This island is our home. Around it roar Great gulfs and oceans, channels, straits and seas.
What matter in what wreck we reached the sh.o.r.e, So we both reached it? We can mock at these.
Oh leave the past, if past indeed there be; I would not know it; I would know but thee.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840-1922]
THE PLEASURES OF LOVE
I do not care for kisses. 'Tis a debt We paid for the first privilege of love.
These are the rains of April which have wet Our fallow hearts and forced their germs to move.
Now the green corn has sprouted. Each new day Brings better pleasures, a more dear surprise, The blade, the ear, the harvest--and our way Leads through a region wealthy grown and wise.
We now compare our fortunes. Each his store Displays to kindred eyes of garnered grain, Two happy farmers, learned in love's lore, Who weigh and touch and argue and complain-- Dear endless argument! Yet sometimes we Even as we argue kiss. There! Let it be.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840-1922]
”WERE BUT MY SPIRIT LOOSED UPON THE AIR”
Were but my spirit loosed upon the air,-- By some High Power who could Life's chains unbind, Set free to seek what most it longs to find,-- To no proud Court of Kings would I repair: I would but climb, once more, a narrow stair, When day was wearing late, and dusk was kind; And one should greet me to my failings blind, Content so I but shared his twilight there.
Nay! well I know he waits not as of old,-- I could not find him in the old-time place,-- I must pursue him, made by sorrow bold, Through worlds unknown, in strange celestial race, Whose mystic round no traveller has told, From star to star, until I see his face.
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