Enough of prologues; surely I should say One word, before I go, about the play. Instead of hurrying madly after marriage To some lord's villa in a travelling carriage, Instead of seeking earth's remotest ends
To hide their blushes and avoid their friends, 60 Instead of haunting lonely lanes and brooks With no companions but the doves and rooks, Our Duke and Duchess open wide their Hall, And bid you warmly welcome, one and all,
Who come with hearts of kindness, eyes of light,
To see, and share, their Honeymoon to-night.
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good
PERPLEXED MUSIC
Experience, like a pale musician holds
A dulcimer of patience in his hand Whence harmonies we cannot understand,
Of God's will in His worlds, the strain unfolds
In sad perplexèd minors. Deathly colds Fall on us while we hear and countermand Our sanguine heart back from the fancy-land With nightingales in visionary wolds. We murmur, "Where is any certain tune Of measured music, in such notes as these?". But angels, leaning from the golden seat, Are not so minded: their fine ear hath won The issue of completed cadences;
And, smiling down the stars, they whisper —
What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines, For all the heat o' the day, till it declines, And Death's mild curfew shall from work assoil. God did anoint thee with His odorous oil, To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns All thy tears over, like pure crystallines, For younger fellow-workers of the soil To wear for amulets. So others shall Take patience, labour, to their heart and hand 10 From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer, And God's grace fructify through thee to all. The least flower, with a brimming cup, may stand And share its dew-drop with another near.
True genius, but true woman! dost deny Thy woman's nature with a manly scorn, And break away the gauds and armlets worn By weaker women in captivity?
Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry
Is sobbed in by a woman's voice forlorn: Thy woman's hair, my sister, all unshorn, Floats back dishevelled strength in agony, Disproving thy man's name: and while before The world thou burnest in a poet fire, We see thy woman's heart beat evermore Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher,
Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore, Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire!
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried Oh, each a worthy lover! They "give her time;" for her soul must slip Where the world has set the grooving: She will lie to none with her fair red lip — But love seeks truer loving.
She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb, As her thoughts were beyond recalling; With a glance for one, and a glance for some, From her eyelids rising and falling. Speaks common words with a blushful air; Hears bold words, unreproving:
But her silence says what she never will
And love seeks better loving.
Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar, And drop a smile on the bringer; Then smile as sweetly, when he is far, At the voice of an in-door singer! Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes; Glance lightly, on their removing: And join new vows to old perjuries But dare not call it loving!
Unless you can think, when the song is done, No other is soft in the rhythm;
Unless you can feel, when left by One, That all men else go with him;
Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath, That your beauty itself wants proving; Unless you can swear— -"For life, for death!" Oh, fear to call it loving!
Unless you can muse in a crowd all day, On the absent face that fixed you; Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behooving and unbehooving; Unless you can die when the dream is past Oh, never call it loving!
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for
Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery while I strove, "Guess now who holds thee?"-"Death!" I said. But there,
The silver answer rang: "Not Death, but Love."
The face of all the world is changed, I think. Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul Move still, oh, still, beside me; as they stole Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I who thought to sink Was caught up into love and taught the whole Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink, And praise its sweetness, sweet, with thee anear. The name of country, heaven, are changed away For where thou art or shalt be, there or here; 11 And this this lute and song - loved yesterday. (The singing angels know) are only dear Because thy name moves right in what they say.
When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire At either curvèd point, - What bitter wrong Can the earth do to us, that we should not long Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher, The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay Rather on earth, Belovèd, — where the unfit, 10 Contrarious moods of men recoil away And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.
Beloved, my Beloved, when I think
That thou wast in the world a year ago, What time I sate alone here in the snow And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink No moment at thy voice, but link by link Went counting all my chains as if that so They never could fall off at any blow Struck by thy possible hand, Of life's great cup of wonder. Never to feel thee thrill the day or night With personal act or speech, Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull, Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.
why, thus I drink Wonderful,
My letters all dead paper, mute and white! And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said, he wished to have me in his sight Once, as a friend; this fixed a day in spring To come and touch my hand — a simple thing, Yet I wept for it! this the paper's light Said, "Dear, I love thee"; and I sank and quailed As if God's future thundered on my past: This said, "I am thine”. and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast: And this O Love, thy words have ill availed, If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
Say over again and yet once over again
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it, Remember never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain, Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed!
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise;
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