Part 12 (1/2)
_1898-1912._
TO THE G.o.dS OF THE COUNTRY
Sun and Moon, s.h.i.+ne upon me; Make glad my days and clear my nights!
O Earth, whose child I am, Grant me thy patience!
O Heaven, whose heir I may be, Keep quick my hope!
Your steadfastness I need, O Hills; O Rain, thy kindness!
Snow, keep me pure; O Fire, teach me thy pride!
From you, ye Winds, I ask your blitheness!
_1909._
FOURTEEN SONNETS
1896
ALMA SDEGNOSA
Not that dull spleen which serves i' the world for scorn, Is hers I watch from far off, wors.h.i.+pping As in remote Chaldaea the ancient king Adored the star that heralded the morn.
Her proud content she bears as a flag is borne Tincted the hue royal; or as a wing It lifts her soaring, near the daylight spring, Whence, if she lift, our days must pa.s.s forlorn.
The pure deriving of her spirit-state Is so remote from men and their believing, They shrink when she is cold, and estimate That hardness which is but a G.o.d's dismay: As when the Heaven-sent sprite thro' h.e.l.l sped cleaving, Only the gross air checkt him on his way.
THE WINDS' POSSESSION
When winds blow high and leaves begin to fall, And the wan sunlight flits before the blast; When fields are brown and crops are garnered all, And rooks, like mastered s.h.i.+ps, drift wide and fast; Maid Artemis, that feeleth her young blood Leap like a freshet river for the sea, Speedeth abroad with hair blown in a flood To snuff the salt west wind and wanton free.
Then would you know how brave she is, how high Her ancestry, how kindred to the wind, Mark but her flas.h.i.+ng feet, her ravisht eye That takes the boist'rous weather and feels it kind: And hear her eager voice, how tuned it is To Autumn's clarion shrill for Artemis.
ASPETTO REALE
That hour when thou and Grief were first acquainted Thou wrotest, ”Come, for I have lookt on death.”
Piteous I held my indeterminate breath And sought thee out, and saw how he had painted Thine eyes with rings of black; yet never fainted Thy radiant immortality underneath Such stress of dark; but then, as one that saith, ”I know Love liveth,” sat on by death untainted.
O to whom Grief too poignant was and dry To sow in thee a fountain crop of tears!
O youth, O pride, set too remote and high For touch of solace that gives grace to men!
Thy life must be our death, thy hopes our fears: We weep, thou lookest strangely--we know thee then!