Poems, with The Ballad of Reading Gaol

FLOWER OF LOVE

ΓΛΥΚΥΠΙΚΡΟΣ ΕΡΩΣ

 
Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
   was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
   yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.
 
 
From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
   struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
   with some Hydra-headed wrong.
 
 
Had my lips been smitten into music by the
   kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
   that verdant and enamelled mead.
 
 
I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
   the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
   as they opened to the Florentine.
 
 
And the mighty nations would have crowned
   me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
   on the threshold of the House of Fame.
 
 
I had sat within that marble circle where the
   oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
   lyre’s strings are ever strung.
 
 
Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
   the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
   clasped the hand of noble love in mine.
 
 
And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush
   the burnished bosom of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
   have read the story of our love.
 
 
Would have read the legend of my passion,
   known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
   we two are fated now to part.
 
 
For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
   the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
   petals of the rose of youth.
 
 
Yet I am not sorry that I loved you – ah! what
   else had I a boy to do, —
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
   silent-footed years pursue.
 
 
Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
   when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
   the silent pilot comes at last.
 
 
And within the grave there is no pleasure, for
   the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of
   Passion bears no fruit.
 
 
Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God’s
   own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheræan rising like an
   argent lily from the sea.
 
 
I have made my choice, have lived my poems,
   and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better
   than the poet’s crown of bays.
 

UNCOLLECTED POEMS

FROM SPRING DAYS TO WINTER

(FOR MUSIC)

 
In the glad springtime when leaves were green,
   O merrily the throstle sings!
I sought, amid the tangled sheen,
Love whom mine eyes had never seen,
   O the glad dove has golden wings!
 
 
Between the blossoms red and white,
   O merrily the throstle sings!
My love first came into my sight,
O perfect vision of delight,
   O the glad dove has golden wings!
 
 
The yellow apples glowed like fire,
   O merrily the throstle sings!
O Love too great for lip or lyre,
Blown rose of love and of desire,
   O the glad dove has golden wings!
 
 
But now with snow the tree is grey,
   Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!
My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,
See at her silent feet I lay
   A dove with broken wings!
   Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain —
Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!
 

TRISTITÆ

Αἴλινον, αἴλινον εἰπέ, τὸ δ’ εὖ νικάτω

 
O well for him who lives at ease
   With garnered gold in wide domain,
   Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,
The crashing down of forest trees.
 
 
O well for him who ne’er hath known
   The travail of the hungry years,
   A father grey with grief and tears,
A mother weeping all alone.
 
 
But well for him whose foot hath trod
   The weary road of toil and strife,
   Yet from the sorrows of his life.
Builds ladders to be nearer God.
 

THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE

 
.. ἀναyκαίως δ’ ἔχει
Βίον θερίζειν ὥστε κάρπιμον στάχυν,
καὶ τὸν yὲν εἶναι τὸν δὲ yή.
 
 
Thou knowest all; I seek in vain
   What lands to till or sow with seed —
   The land is black with briar and weed,
Nor cares for falling tears or rain.
 
 
Thou knowest all; I sit and wait
   With blinded eyes and hands that fail,
   Till the last lifting of the veil
And the first opening of the gate.
 
 
Thou knowest all; I cannot see.
   I trust I shall not live in vain,
   I know that we shall meet again
In some divine eternity.
 

IMPRESSIONS

I
LE JARDIN

 
The lily’s withered chalice falls
   Around its rod of dusty gold,
   And from the beech-trees on the wold
The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
 
 
The gaudy leonine sunflower
   Hangs black and barren on its stalk,
   And down the windy garden walk
The dead leaves scatter, – hour by hour.
 
 
Pale privet-petals white as milk
   Are blown into a snowy mass:
   The roses lie upon the grass
Like little shreds of crimson silk.
 

II
LA MER

 
A white mist drifts across the shrouds,
   A wild moon in this wintry sky
   Gleams like an angry lion’s eye
Out of a mane of tawny clouds.
 
 
The muffled steersman at the wheel
   Is but a shadow in the gloom; —
   And in the throbbing engine-room
Leap the long rods of polished steel.
 
 
The shattered storm has left its trace
   Upon this huge and heaving dome,
   For the thin threads of yellow foam
Float on the waves like ravelled lace.
 

UNDER THE BALCONY

 
O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!
   O moon with the brows of gold!
Rise up, rise up, from the odorous south!
      And light for my love her way,
      Lest her little feet should stray
   On the windy hill and the wold!
O beautiful star with the crimson mouth!
   O moon with the brows of gold!
 
 
O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!
   O ship with the wet, white sail!
Put in, put in, to the port to me!
      For my love and I would go
      To the land where the daffodils blow
   In the heart of a violet dale!
O ship that shakes on the desolate sea!
   O ship with the wet, white sail!
 
 
O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!
   O bird that sits on the spray!
Sing on, sing on, from your soft brown throat!
      And my love in her little bed
      Will listen, and lift her head
   From the pillow, and come my way!
O rapturous bird with the low, sweet note!
   O bird that sits on the spray!
 
 
O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!
   O blossom with lips of snow!
Come down, come down, for my love to wear!
      You will die on her head in a crown,
      You will die in a fold of her gown,
   To her little light heart you will go!
O blossom that hangs in the tremulous air!
   O blossom with lips of snow!
 

THE HARLOT’S HOUSE

 
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.
 
 
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The ‘Treues Liebes Herz’ of Strauss.
 
 
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
 
 
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
 
 
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,
 
 
Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
 
 
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
 
 
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
 
 
Then, turning to my love, I said,
‘The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.’
 
 
But she – she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
 
 
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
 
 
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
 

LE JARDIN DES TUILERIES

 
This winter air is keen and cold,
   And keen and cold this winter sun,
   But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
 
 
Sometimes about the painted kiosk
   The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
   Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
 
 
And sometimes, while the old nurse cons
   Her book, they steal across the square,
   And launch their paper navies where
Huge Triton writhes in greenish bronze.
 
 
And now in mimic flight they flee,
   And now they rush, a boisterous band —
   And, tiny hand on tiny hand,
Climb up the black and leafless tree.
 
 
Ah! cruel tree! if I were you,
   And children climbed me, for their sake
   Though it be winter I would break
Into spring blossoms white and blue!
 

ON THE SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS’ LOVE LETTERS

 
These are the letters which Endymion wrote
   To one he loved in secret, and apart.
   And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
   The merchant’s price.  I think they love not art
   Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.
 
 
Is it not said that many years ago,
   In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
   With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw
   Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?
 

THE NEW REMORSE

 
The sin was mine; I did not understand.
   So now is music prisoned in her cave,
   Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
   Hath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,
   That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.
 
 
But who is this who cometh by the shore?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder!)  Who is this
   Who cometh in dyed garments from the South?
It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
   The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,
And I shall weep and worship, as before.
 

FANTAISIES DÉCORATIVES

I
LE PANNEAU

 
Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade
   There stands a little ivory girl,
   Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl
With pale green nails of polished jade.
 
 
The red leaves fall upon the mould,
   The white leaves flutter, one by one,
   Down to a blue bowl where the sun,
Like a great dragon, writhes in gold.
 
 
The white leaves float upon the air,
   The red leaves flutter idly down,
   Some fall upon her yellow gown,
And some upon her raven hair.
 
 
She takes an amber lute and sings,
   And as she sings a silver crane
   Begins his scarlet neck to strain,
And flap his burnished metal wings.
 
 
She takes a lute of amber bright,
   And from the thicket where he lies
   Her lover, with his almond eyes,
Watches her movements in delight.
 
 
And now she gives a cry of fear,
   And tiny tears begin to start:
   A thorn has wounded with its dart
The pink-veined sea-shell of her ear.
 
 
And now she laughs a merry note:
   There has fallen a petal of the rose
   Just where the yellow satin shows
The blue-veined flower of her throat.
 
 
With pale green nails of polished jade,
   Pulling the leaves of pink and pearl,
   There stands a little ivory girl
Under the rose-tree’s dancing shade.
 

II
LES BALLONS

 
Against these turbid turquoise skies
   The light and luminous balloons
   Dip and drift like satin moons,
Drift like silken butterflies;
 
 
Reel with every windy gust,
   Rise and reel like dancing girls,
   Float like strange transparent pearls,
Fall and float like silver dust.
 
 
Now to the low leaves they cling,
   Each with coy fantastic pose,
   Each a petal of a rose
Straining at a gossamer string.
 
 
Then to the tall trees they climb,
   Like thin globes of amethyst,
   Wandering opals keeping tryst
With the rubies of the lime.
 

CANZONET

 
   I have no store
Of gryphon-guarded gold;
   Now, as before,
Bare is the shepherd’s fold.
   Rubies nor pearls
Have I to gem thy throat;
   Yet woodland girls
Have loved the shepherd’s note.
 
 
   Then pluck a reed
And bid me sing to thee,
   For I would feed
Thine ears with melody,
   Who art more fair
Than fairest fleur-de-lys,
   More sweet and rare
Than sweetest ambergris.
 
 
   What dost thou fear?
Young Hyacinth is slain,
   Pan is not here,
And will not come again.
   No hornèd Faun
Treads down the yellow leas,
   No God at dawn
Steals through the olive trees.
 
 
   Hylas is dead,
Nor will he e’er divine
   Those little red
Rose-petalled lips of thine.
   On the high hill
No ivory dryads play,
   Silver and still
Sinks the sad autumn day.
 

SYMPHONY IN YELLOW

 
An omnibus across the bridge
   Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
   And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.
 
 
Big barges full of yellow hay
   Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
   And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.
 
 
The yellow leaves begin to fade
   And flutter from the Temple elms,
   And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
 

IN THE FOREST

 
Out of the mid-wood’s twilight
   Into the meadow’s dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
   Flashes my Faun!
 
 
He skips through the copses singing,
   And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
   Shadow or song!
 
 
O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
   O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
   I track him in vain!
 

TO MY WIFE

WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS

 
I can write no stately proem
   As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
   I would dare to say.
 
 
For if of these fallen petals
   One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
   On your hair.
 
 
And when wind and winter harden
   All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
   You will understand.
 

WITH A COPY OF ‘A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES’

 
Go, little book,
To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,
Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:
And bid him look
Into thy pages: it may hap that he
May find that golden maidens dance through thee.
 

ROSES AND RUE

(To L. L.)

 
Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
   Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love’s song,
   We are parted too long.
 
 
Could the passionate past that is fled
   Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
   Were it worth the pain!
 
 
I remember we used to meet
   By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
   With the air of a bird;
 
 
And your voice had a quaver in it,
   Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird’s throat
   With its last big note;
 
 
And your eyes, they were green and grey
   Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
   When I stooped and kissed;
 
 
And your mouth, it would never smile
   For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
   Five minutes after.
 
 
You were always afraid of a shower,
   Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
   When the rain began.
 
 
I remember I never could catch you,
   For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
   Little wings to your feet.
 
 
I remember your hair – did I tie it?
   For it always ran riot —
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
   These things are old.
 
 
I remember so well the room,
   And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
   In the warm June rain;
 
 
And the colour of your gown,
   It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
   From your shoulders rose.
 
 
And the handkerchief of French lace
   Which you held to your face —
Had a small tear left a stain?
   Or was it the rain?
 
 
On your hand as it waved adieu
   There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
   Was a petulant cry,
 
 
‘You have only wasted your life.’
   (Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
   It was all too late.
 
 
Could we live it over again,
   Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
   Call back its dead!
 
 
Well, if my heart must break,
   Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
   Poets’ hearts break so.
 
 
But strange that I was not told
   That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
   God’s heaven and hell.
 

DÉSESPOIR

 
The seasons send their ruin as they go,
For in the spring the narciss shows its head
Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,
And in the autumn purple violets blow,
And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;
Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again
And this grey land grow green with summer rain
And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.
 
 
But what of life whose bitter hungry sea
Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night
Covers the days which never more return?
Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn
We lose too soon, and only find delight
In withered husks of some dead memory.
 

PAN

DOUBLE VILLANELLE

I

 
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee?
 
 
No more the shepherd lads in glee
Throw apples at thy wattled fold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
 
 
Nor through the laurels can one see
Thy soft brown limbs, thy beard of gold,
And what remains to us of thee?
 
 
And dull and dead our Thames would be,
For here the winds are chill and cold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
 
 
Then keep the tomb of Helice,
Thine olive-woods, thy vine-clad wold,
And what remains to us of thee?
 
 
Though many an unsung elegy
Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,
O goat-foot God of Arcady!
Ah, what remains to us of thee?
 

II

 
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,
Thy satyrs and their wanton play,
This modern world hath need of thee.
 
 
No nymph or Faun indeed have we,
For Faun and nymph are old and grey,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
 
 
This is the land where liberty
Lit grave-browed Milton on his way,
This modern world hath need of thee!
 
 
A land of ancient chivalry
Where gentle Sidney saw the day,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
 
 
This fierce sea-lion of the sea,
This England lacks some stronger lay,
This modern world hath need of thee!
 
 
Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady!
This modern world hath need of thee!
 

THE SPHINX

TO

MARCEL SCHWOB

IN FRIENDSHIP

AND

IN ADMIRATION

 
In a dim corner of my room for longer than my fancy thinks
A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me through the shifting gloom.
 
 
Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she does not stir
For silver moons are naught to her and naught to her the suns that reel.
 
 
Red follows grey across the air, the waves of moonlight ebb and flow
But with the Dawn she does not go and in the night-time she is there.
 
 
Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and all the while this curious cat
Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of satin rimmed with gold.
 
 
Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the tawny throat of her
Flutters the soft and silky fur or ripples to her pointed ears.
 
 
Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent, so statuesque!
Come forth you exquisite grotesque! half woman and half animal!
 
 
Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx! and put your head upon my knee!
And let me stroke your throat and see your body spotted like the Lynx!
 
 
And let me touch those curving claws of yellow ivory and grasp
The tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round your heavy velvet paws!
 
 
A thousand weary centuries are thine while I have hardly seen
Some twenty summers cast their green for Autumn’s gaudy liveries.
 
 
But you can read the Hieroglyphs on the great sandstone obelisks,
And you have talked with Basilisks, and you have looked on Hippogriffs.
 
 
O tell me, were you standing by when Isis to Osiris knelt?
And did you watch the Egyptian melt her union for Antony
 
 
And drink the jewel-drunken wine and bend her head in mimic awe
To see the huge proconsul draw the salted tunny from the brine?
 
 
And did you mark the Cyprian kiss white Adon on his catafalque?
And did you follow Amenalk, the God of Heliopolis?
 
 
And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear the moon-horned Io weep?
And know the painted kings who sleep beneath the wedge-shaped Pyramid?
 
 
Lift up your large black satin eyes which are like cushions where one sinks!
Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me all your memories!
 
 
Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered with the Holy Child,
And how you led them through the wild, and how they slept beneath your shade.
 
 
Sing to me of that odorous green eve when crouching by the marge
You heard from Adrian’s gilded barge the laughter of Antinous
 
 
And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and watched with hot and hungry stare
The ivory body of that rare young slave with his pomegranate mouth!
 
 
Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the twi-formed bull was stalled!
Sing to me of the night you crawled across the temple’s granite plinth
 
 
When through the purple corridors the screaming scarlet Ibis flew
In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the moaning Mandragores,
 
 
And the great torpid crocodile within the tank shed slimy tears,
And tare the jewels from his ears and staggered back into the Nile,
 
 
And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms as in your claws you seized their snake
And crept away with it to slake your passion by the shuddering palms.
 
 
Who were your lovers? who were they who wrestled for you in the dust?
Which was the vessel of your Lust?  What Leman had you, every day?
 
 
Did giant Lizards come and crouch before you on the reedy banks?
Did Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on you in your trampled couch?
 
 
Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward you in the mist?
Did gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with passion as you passed them by?
 
 
And from the brick-built Lycian tomb what horrible Chimera came
With fearful heads and fearful flame to breed new wonders from your womb?
 
 
Or had you shameful secret quests and did you harry to your home
Some Nereid coiled in amber foam with curious rock crystal breasts?
 
 
Or did you treading through the froth call to the brown Sidonian
For tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or Behemoth?
 
 
Or did you when the sun was set climb up the cactus-covered slope
To meet your swarthy Ethiop whose body was of polished jet?
 
 
Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped down the grey Nilotic flats
At twilight and the flickering bats flew round the temple’s triple glyphs
 
 
Steal to the border of the bar and swim across the silent lake
And slink into the vault and make the Pyramid your lúpanar
 
 
Till from each black sarcophagus rose up the painted swathèd dead?
Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-horned Tragelaphos?
 
 
Or did you love the god of flies who plagued the Hebrews and was splashed
With wine unto the waist? or Pasht, who had green beryls for her eyes?
 
 
Or that young god, the Tyrian, who was more amorous than the dove
Of Ashtaroth? or did you love the god of the Assyrian
 
 
Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, rose high above his hawk-faced head,
Painted with silver and with red and ribbed with rods of Oreichalch?
 
 
Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and lay before your feet
Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured nenuphar?
 
 
How subtle-secret is your smile!  Did you love none then?  Nay, I know
Great Ammon was your bedfellow!  He lay with you beside the Nile!
 
 
The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when they saw him come
Odorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared with spikenard and with thyme.
 
 
He came along the river bank like some tall galley argent-sailed,
He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty, and the waters sank.
 
 
He strode across the desert sand: he reached the valley where you lay:
He waited till the dawn of day: then touched your black breasts with his hand.
 
 
You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame: you made the hornèd god your own:
You stood behind him on his throne: you called him by his secret name.
 
 
You whispered monstrous oracles into the caverns of his ears:
With blood of goats and blood of steers you taught him monstrous miracles.
 
 
White Ammon was your bedfellow!  Your chamber was the steaming Nile!
And with your curved archaic smile you watched his passion come and go.
 
 
With Syrian oils his brows were bright: and wide-spread as a tent at noon
His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent the day a larger light.
 
 
His long hair was nine cubits’ span and coloured like that yellow gem
Which hidden in their garment’s hem the merchants bring from Kurdistan.
 
 
His face was as the must that lies upon a vat of new-made wine:
The seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure of his eyes.
 
 
His thick soft throat was white as milk and threaded with thin veins of blue:
And curious pearls like frozen dew were broidered on his flowing silk.
 
 
On pearl and porphyry pedestalled he was too bright to look upon:
For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous ocean-emerald,
 
 
That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of the Colchian caves
Had found beneath the blackening waves and carried to the Colchian witch.
 
 
Before his gilded galiot ran naked vine-wreathed corybants,
And lines of swaying elephants knelt down to draw his chariot,
 
 
And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter as he rode
Down the great granite-paven road between the nodding peacock-fans.
 
 
The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon in their painted ships:
The meanest cup that touched his lips was fashioned from a chrysolite.
 
 
The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich apparel bound with cords:
His train was borne by Memphian lords: young kings were glad to be his guests.
 
 
Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to Ammon’s altar day and night,
Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through Ammon’s carven house – and now
 
 
Foul snake and speckled adder with their young ones crawl from stone to stone
For ruined is the house and prone the great rose-marble monolith!
 
 
Wild ass or trotting jackal comes and couches in the mouldering gates:
Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the fallen fluted drums.
 
 
And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced ape of Horus sits
And gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars of the peristyle
 
 
The god is scattered here and there: deep hidden in the windy sand
I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in impotent despair.
 
 
And many a wandering caravan of stately negroes silken-shawled,
Crossing the desert, halts appalled before the neck that none can span.
 
 
And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his yellow-striped burnous
To gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was thy paladin.
 
 
Go, seek his fragments on the moor and wash them in the evening dew,
And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated paramour!
 
 
Go, seek them where they lie alone and from their broken pieces make
Thy bruisèd bedfellow!  And wake mad passions in the senseless stone!
 
 
Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved your body! oh, be kind,
Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls of linen round his limbs!
 
 
Wind round his head the figured coins! stain with red fruits those pallid lips!
Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple for his barren loins!
 
 
Away to Egypt!  Have no fear.  Only one God has ever died.
Only one God has let His side be wounded by a soldier’s spear.
 
 
But these, thy lovers, are not dead.  Still by the hundred-cubit gate
Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies for thy head.
 
 
Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon strains his lidless eyes
Across the empty land, and cries each yellow morning unto thee.
 
 
And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his black and oozy bed
And till thy coming will not spread his waters on the withering corn.
 
 
Your lovers are not dead, I know.  They will rise up and hear your voice
And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to kiss your mouth!  And so,
 
 
Set wings upon your argosies!  Set horses to your ebon car!
Back to your Nile!  Or if you are grown sick of dead divinities
 
 
Follow some roving lion’s spoor across the copper-coloured plain,
Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid him be your paramour!
 
 
Couch by his side upon the grass and set your white teeth in his throat
And when you hear his dying note lash your long flanks of polished brass
 
 
And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber sides are flecked with black,
And ride upon his gilded back in triumph through the Theban gate,
 
 
And toy with him in amorous jests, and when he turns, and snarls, and gnaws,
O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise him with your agate breasts!
 
 
Why are you tarrying?  Get hence!  I weary of your sullen ways,
I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent magnificence.
 
 
Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light flicker in the lamp,
And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful dews of night and death.
 
 
Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver in some stagnant lake,
Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances to fantastic tunes,
 
 
Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your black throat is like the hole
Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic tapestries.
 
 
Away!  The sulphur-coloured stars are hurrying through the Western gate!
Away!  Or it may be too late to climb their silent silver cars!
 
 
See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled towers, and the rain
Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs with tears the wannish day.
 
 
What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with uncouth gestures and unclean,
Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you to a student’s cell?
 
 
What songless tongueless ghost of sin crept through the curtains of the night,
And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked, and bade you enter in?
 
 
Are there not others more accursed, whiter with leprosies than I?
Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here to slake your thirst?
 
 
Get hence, you loathsome mystery!  Hideous animal, get hence!
You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me what I would not be.
 
 
You make my creed a barren sham, you wake foul dreams of sensual life,
And Atys with his blood-stained knife were better than the thing I am.
 
 
False Sphinx!  False Sphinx!  By reedy Styx old Charon, leaning on his oar,
Waits for my coin.  Go thou before, and leave me to my crucifix,
 
 
Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches the world with wearied eyes,
And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps for every soul in vain.