She does not heed thee, wherefore should she heed,

  She knows Endymion is not far away,

  ’Tis I, ’tis I, whose soul is as the reed

  Which has no message of its own to play,

  So pipes another’s bidding, it is I,

  Drifting with every wind on the wide sea of misery.

  Ah! the brown bird has ceased: one exquisite trill

  About the sombre woodland seems to cling

  Dying in music, else the air is still,

  So still that one might hear the bat’s small wing

  Wander and wheel above the pines, or tell

  Each tiny dew-drop dripping from the bluebell’s brimming cell.

  And far away across the lengthening wold,

  Across the willowy flats and thickets brown,

  Magdalen’s tall tower tipped with tremulous gold

  Marks the long High Street of the little town,

  And warns me to return; I must not wait,

  Hark! ’tis the curfew booming from the bell at Christ Church gate.

  Wind Flowers

  Impression du Matin

  The Thames nocturne of blue and gold

  Changed to a Harmony in grey:

  A barge with ochre-coloured hay

  Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold

  The yellow fog came creeping down

  The bridges, till the houses’ walls

  Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s

  Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.

  Then suddenly arose the clang

  Of waking life; the streets were stirred

  With country wagons: and a bird

  Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.

  But one pale woman all alone,

  The daylight kissing her wan hair,

  Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,

  With lips of flame and heart of stone.

  Magdalen Walks

  The little white clouds are racing over the sky,

  And the fields are strewn with the gold of the flower of March,

  The daffodil breaks under foot, and the tasselled larch

  Sways and swings as the thrush goes hurrying by.

  A delicate odour is borne on the wings of the morning breeze,

  The odour of deep wet grass, and of brown new-furrowed earth,

  The birds are singing for joy of the Spring’s glad birth,

  Hopping from branch to branch on the rocking trees.

  And all the woods are alive with the murmur and sound of Spring,

  And the rose-bud breaks into pink on the climbing briar,

  And the crocus-bed is a quivering moon of fire

  Girdled round with the belt of an amethyst ring.

  And the plane to the pine-tree is whispering some tale of love

  Till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green,

  And the gloom of the wych-elm’s hollow is lit with the iris sheen

  Of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove.

  See! the lark starts up from his bed in the meadow there,

  Breaking the gossamer threads and the nets of dew,

  And flashing adown the river, a flame of blue!

  The kingfisher flies like an arrow, and wounds the air.

  Athanasia

  To that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught

  Of all the great things men have saved from Time,

  The withered body of a girl was brought

  Dead ere the world’s glad youth had touched its prime,

  And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid

  In the dim womb of some black pyramid.

  But when they had unloosed the linen band

  Which swathed the Egyptian’s body—lo! was found

  Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand

  A little seed, which sown in English ground

  Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear

  And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.

  With such strange arts this flower did allure

  That all forgotten was the asphodel,

  And the brown bee, the lily’s paramour,

  Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,

  For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,

  But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.

  In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white

  At its own beauty, hung across the stream,

  The purple dragon-fly had no delight

  With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,

  Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss,

  Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.

  For love of it the passionate nightingale

  Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king,

  And the pale dove no longer cared to sail

  Through the wet woods at time of blossoming,

  But round this flower of Egypt sought to float,

  With silvered wing and amethystine throat.

  While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue

  A cooling wind crept from the land of snows,

  And the warm south with tender tears of dew

  Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose

  Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky

  On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.

  But when o’er wastes of lily-haunted field

  The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune,

  And broad and glittering like an argent shield

  High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,

  Did no strange dream or evil memory make

  Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?

  Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years

  Seemed but the lingering of a summer’s day,

  It never knew the tide of cankering fears

  Which turn a boy’s gold hair to withered grey,

  The dread desire of death it never knew,

  Or how all folk that they were born must rue.

  For we to death with pipe and dancing go,

  Nor would we pass the ivory gate again,

  As some sad river wearied of its flow

  Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men,

  Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!

  And counts it gain to die so gloriously.

  We mar our lordly strength in barren strife

  With the world’s legions led by clamorous care,

  It never feels decay but gathers life

  From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,

  We live beneath Time’s wasting sovereignty,

  It is the child of all eternity.

  Serenade

  (For Music)

  The western wind is blowing fair

  Across the dark Aegean sea,

  And at the secret marble stair

  My Tyrian galley waits for thee.

  Come down! the purple sail is spread,

  The watchman sleeps within the town,

  O leave thy lily-flowered bed,

  O Lady mine come down, come down!

  She will not come, I know her well,

  Of lover’s vows she hath no care,

  And little good a man can tell

  Of one so cruel and so fair.

  True love is but a woman’s toy,

  They never know the lover’s pain,

  And I who loved as loves a boy

  Must love in vain, must love in vain.

  O noble pilot, tell me true,

  Is that the sheen of golden hair?

  Or is it but the tangled dew

  That binds the passion-flowers there?

  Good sailor come and tell me now

  Is that my Lady’s lily hand?

  Or is it but the gleaming prow,

  Or is it but the silver sand?

  No! no! ’tis not the tangled dew,

  ’Tis not the silver-fretted sand,

  It is my own dear Lady true

  With golden hair and lily hand!

  O noble pilot, steer for Troy,

  Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,

  This is the Queen of life and joy

  Whom we must bear from Grecian shore!

  The waning sky grows faint and blue,

  It wants an hour still of day,

  Aboard! aboard! my gallant crew,

  O Lady mine, away! away!

  O noble pilot, steer for Troy,

  Good sailor, ply the labouring oar,

  O loved as only loves a boy!

  O loved for ever evermore!

  Endymion

  (For Music)

  The apple trees are hung with gold,

  And birds are loud in Arcady,

  The sheep lie bleating in the fold,

  The wild goat runs across the wold,

  But yesterday his love he told,

  I know he will come back to me.

  O rising moon! O Lady moon!

  Be you my lover’s sentinel,

  You cannot choose but know him well,

  For he is shod with purple shoon,

  You cannot choose but know my love,

  For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,

  And he is soft as any dove,

  And brown and curly is his hair.

  The turtle now has ceased to call

  Upon her crimson-footed groom,

  The grey wolf prowls about the stall,

  The lily’s singing seneschal

  Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all

  The violet hills are lost in gloom.

  O risen moon! O holy moon!

  Stand on the top of Helice,

  And if my own true love you see,

  Ah! if you see the purple shoon,

  The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,

  The goat-skin wrapped about his arm,

  Tell him that I am waiting where

  The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.

  The falling dew is cold and chill,

  And no bird sings in Arcady,

  The little fauns have left the hill,

  Even the tired daffodil

  Has closed its gilded doors, and still

  My lover comes not back to me.

  False moon! False moon! O waning moon!

  Where is my own true lover gone,

  Where are the lips vermilion,

  The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon?

  Why spread that silver pavilion,

  Why wear that veil of drifting mist?

  Ah! thou hast young Endymion,

  Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!

  La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente

  My limbs are wasted with a flame,

  My feet are sore with travelling,

  For, calling on my Lady’s name,

  My lips have now forgot to sing.

  O Linnet in the wild-rose brake

  Strain for my Love thy melody,

  O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,

  My gentle Lady passeth by.

  She is too fair for any man

  To see or hold his heart’s delight,

  Fairer than Queen or courtesan

  Or moonlit water in the night.

  Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,

  (Green leaves upon her golden hair!)

  Green grasses through the yellow sheaves

  Of autumn corn are not more fair.

  Her little lips, more made to kiss

  Than to cry bitterly for pain,

  Are tremulous as brook-water is,

  Or roses after evening rain.

  Her neck is like white melilote

  Flushing for pleasure of the sun,

  The throbbing of the linnet’s throat

  Is not so sweet to look upon.

  As a pomegranate, cut in twain,

  White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,

  Her cheeks are as the fading stain

  Where the peach reddens to the south.

  O twining hands! O delicate

  White body made for love and pain!

  O House of love! O desolate

  Pale flower beaten by the rain!

  Chanson

  A ring of gold and a milk-white dove

  Are goodly gifts for thee,

  And a hempen rope for your own love

  To hang upon a tree.

  For you a House of Ivory,

  (Roses are white in the rose-bower)!

  A narrow bed for me to lie,

  (White, O white, is the hemlock flower)!

  Myrtle and jessamine for you,

  (O the red rose is fair to see)!

  For me the cypress and the rue,

  (Fairest of all is rosemary)!

  For you three lovers of your hand,

  (Green grass where a man lies dead)!

  For me three paces on the sand,

  (Plant lilies at my head)!

  Charmides

  I

  He was a Grecian lad, who coming home

  With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily

  Stood at his galley’s prow, and let the foam

  Blow through his crisp brown curls unconsciously,

  And holding wave and wind in boy’s despite

  Peered from his dripping seat across the wet and stormy night.

  Till with the dawn he saw a burnished spear

  Like a thin thread of gold against the sky,

  And hoisted sail, and strained the creaking gear,

  And bade the pilot head her lustily

  Against the nor’west gale, and all day long

  Held on his way, and marked the rowers’ time with measured song.

  And when the faint Corinthian hills were red

  Dropped anchor in a little sandy bay,

  And with fresh boughs of olive crowned his head,

  And brushed from cheek and throat the hoary spray,

  And washed his limbs with oil, and from the hold

  Brought out his linen tunic and his sandals brazen-soled,

  And a rich robe stained with the fishes’ juice

  Which of some swarthy trader he had bought

  Upon the sunny quay at Syracuse,

  And was with Tyrian broideries inwrought,

  And by the questioning merchants made his way

  Up through the soft and silver woods, and when the labouring day

  Had spun its tangled web of crimson cloud,

  Clomb the high hill, and with swift silent feet

  Crept to the fane unnoticed by the crowd

  Of busy priests, and from some dark retreat

  Watched the young swains his frolic playmates bring

  The firstling of their little flock, and the shy shepherd fling

  The crackling salt upon the flame, or hang

  His studded crook against the temple wall

  To Her who keeps away the ravenous fang

  Of the base wolf from homestead and from stall;

  And then the clear-voiced maidens ’gan to sing,

  And to the altar each man brought some goodly offering,

  A beechen cup brimming with milky foam,

  A fair cloth wrought with cunning imagery

  Of hounds in chase, a waxen honey-comb