Where hath fleeting beauty led?

  To the doorway of the dead.

  Life is over, life was gay:

  We have come the primrose way.

  XII

  TO MRS. WILL. H. LOW

  Even in the bluest noonday of July,

  There could not run the smallest breath of wind

  But all the quarter sounded like a wood;

  And in the chequered silence and above

  The hum of city cabs that sought the Bois,

  Suburban ashes shivered into song.

  A patter and a chatter and a chirp

  And a long dying hiss — it was as though

  Starched old brocaded dames through all the house

  Had trailed a strident skirt, or the whole sky

  Even in a wink had over-brimmed in rain.

  Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talks

  Of the near Autumn, how the smitten ash

  Trembles and augurs floods! O not too long

  In these inconstant latitudes delay,

  O not too late from the unbeloved north

  Trim your escape! For soon shall this low roof

  Resound indeed with rain, soon shall your eyes

  Search the foul garden, search the darkened rooms,

  Nor find one jewel but the blazing log.

  Rue Vernier, Paris.

  XIII

  TO H. F. BROWN

  (WRITTEN DURING A DANGEROUS SICKNESS)

  I sit and wait a pair of oars

  On cis-Elysian river-shores.

  Where the immortal dead have sate,

  ‘Tis mine to sit and meditate;

  To re-ascend life’s rivulet,

  Without remorse, without regret;

  And sing my Alma Genetrix

  Among the willows of the Styx.

  And lo, as my serener soul

  Did these unhappy shores patrol,

  And wait with an attentive ear

  The coming of the gondolier,

  Your fire-surviving roll I took,

  Your spirited and happy book;

  Whereon, despite my frowning fate,

  It did my soul so recreate

  That all my fancies fled away

  On a Venetian holiday.

  Now, thanks to your triumphant care,

  Your pages clear as April air,

  The sails, the bells, the birds, I know,

  And the far-off Friulan snow;

  The land and sea, the sun and shade,

  And the blue even lamp-inlaid.

  For this, for these, for all, O friend,

  For your whole book from end to end —

  For Paron Piero’s mutton-ham —

  I your defaulting debtor am.

  Perchance, reviving, yet may I

  To your sea-paven city hie,

  And in a felze some day yet

  Light at your pipe my cigarette.

  XIV

  TO ANDREW LANG

  Dear Andrew, with the brindled hair,

  Who glory to have thrown in air,

  High over arm, the trembling reed,

  By Ale and Kail, by Till and Tweed:

  An equal craft of hand you show

  The pen to guide, the fly to throw:

  I count you happy-starred; for God,

  When He with inkpot and with rod

  Endowed you, bade your fortune lead

  For ever by the crooks of Tweed,

  For ever by the woods of song

  And lands that to the Muse belong;

  Or if in peopled streets, or in

  The abhorred pedantic sanhedrin,

  It should be yours to wander, still

  Airs of the morn, airs of the hill,

  The plovery Forest and the seas

  That break about the Hebrides,

  Should follow over field and plain

  And find you at the window-pane;

  And you again see hill and peel,

  And the bright springs gush at your heel.

  So went the fiat forth, and so

  Garrulous like a brook you go,

  With sound of happy mirth and sheen

  Of daylight — whether by the green

  You fare that moment, or the grey;

  Whether you dwell in March or May;

  Or whether treat of reels and rods

  Or of the old unhappy gods:

  Still like a brook your page has shone,

  And your ink sings of Helicon.

  XV

  ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI

  (TO R. A. M. S.)

  In ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt;

  There, from of old, thy childhood passed; and there

  High expectation, high delights and deeds,

  Thy fluttering heart with hope and terror moved.

  And thou hast heard of yore the Blatant Beast,

  And Roland’s horn, and that war-scattering shout

  Of all-unarmed Achilles, ægis-crowned.

  And perilous lands thou sawest, sounding shores

  And seas and forests drear, island and dale

  And mountain dark. For thou with Tristram rod’st

  Or Bedevere, in farthest Lyonesse.

  Thou hadst a booth in Samarcand, whereat

  Side-looking Magians trafficked; thence, by night,

  An Afreet snatched thee, and with wings upbore

  Beyond the Aral Mount; or, hoping gain,

  Thou, with a jar of money, didst embark

  For Balsorah by sea. But chiefly thou

  In that clear air took’st life; in Arcady

  The haunted, land of song; and by the wells

  Where most the gods frequent. There Chiron old,

  In the Pelethronian antre, taught thee lore;

  The plants he taught, and by the shining stars

  In forests dim to steer. There hast thou seen

  Immortal Pan dance secret in a glade,

  And, dancing, roll his eyes; these, where they fell,

  Shed glee, and through the congregated oaks

  A flying horror winged; while all the earth

  To the god’s pregnant footing thrilled within.

  Or whiles, beside the sobbing stream, he breathed,

  In his clutched pipe unformed and wizard strains

  Divine yet brutal; which the forest heard,

  And thou, with awe; and far upon the plain

  The unthinking ploughman started and gave ear.

  Now things there are that, upon him who sees,

  A strong vocation lay; and strains there are

  That whoso hears shall hear for evermore.

  For evermore thou hear’st immortal Pan

  And those melodious godheads, ever young

  And ever quiring, on the mountains old.

  What was this earth, child of the gods, to thee?

  Forth from thy dreamland thou, a dreamer, cam’st

  And in thine ears the olden music rang,

  And in thy mind the doings of the dead,

  And those heroic ages long forgot.

  To a so fallen earth, alas! too late,

  Alas! in evil days, thy steps return,

  To list at noon for nightingales, to grow

  A dweller on the beach till Argo come

  That came long since, a lingerer by the pool

  Where that desirèd angel bathes no more.

  As when the Indian to Dakota comes,

  Or farthest Idaho, and where he dwelt,

  He with his clan, a humming city finds;

  Thereon a while, amazed, he stares, and then

  To right and leftward, like a questing dog,

  Seeks first the ancestral altars, then the hearth

  Long cold with rains, and where old terror lodged,

  And where the dead: so thee undying Hope,

  With all her pack, hunts screaming through the years:

  Here, there, thou fleeëst; but nor here nor there

  The pleasant gods abide, the glory dwells.

  That, that was not Apollo, not the god.

  This was not Venus, though she Venus seemed

  A moment. And though fair yon river move,

  She, all the way, from disenchanted fount

  To seas unhallowed runs; the gods forsook

  Long since her trembling rushes; from her plains

  Disconsolate, long since adventure fled;

  And now although the inviting river flows,

  And every poplared cape, and every bend

  Or willowy islet, win upon thy soul

  And to thy hopeful shallop whisper speed;

  Yet hope not thou at all; hope is no more;

  And O, long since the golden groves are dead

  The faëry cities vanished from the land!

  XVI

  TO W.E. HENLEY

  The year runs through her phases; rain and sun,

  Spring-time and summer pass; winter succeeds;

  But one pale season rules the house of death.

  Cold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell disease

  By each lean pallet squats, and pain and sleep

  Toss gaping on the pillows.

  But O thou!

  Uprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow,

  Strains by good thoughts attended, like the spring

  The swallows follow over land and sea.

  Pain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes,

  Dozing despair awakes. The shepherd sees

  His flock come bleating home; the seaman hears

  Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home!

  Youth, love, and roses blossom; the gaunt ward

  Dislimns and disappears, and, opening out,

  Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond

  Of mountains.

  Small the pipe; but O! do thou,

  Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein

  The dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick,

  These dying, sound the triumph over death.

  Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a joy

  Unknown before, in dying; for each knows

  A hero dies with him — though unfulfilled,

  Yet conquering truly — and not dies in vain.

  So is pain cheered, death comforted; the house

  Of sorrow smiles to listen. Once again —

  O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard

  And the deliverer, touch the stops again!

  XVII

  HENRY JAMES

  Who comes to-night? We ope the doors in vain.

  Who comes? My bursting walls, can you contain

  The presences that now together throng

  Your narrow entry, as with flowers and song,

  As with the air of life, the breath of talk?

  Lo, how these fair immaculate women walk

  Behind their jocund maker; and we see

  Slighted De Mauves, and that far different she,

  Gressie, the trivial sphynx; and to our feast

  Daisy and Barb and Chancellor (she not least!)

  With all their silken, all their airy kin,

  Do like unbidden angels enter in.

  But he, attended by these shining names,

  Comes (best of all) himself — our welcome James.

  XVIII

  THE MIRROR SPEAKS

  Where the bells peal far at sea

  Cunning fingers fashioned me.

  There on palace walls I hung

  While that Consuelo sung;

  But I heard, though I listened well,

  Never a note, never a trill,

  Never a beat of the chiming bell.

  There I hung and looked, and there

  In my grey face, faces fair

  Shone from under shining hair.

  Well I saw the poising head,

  But the lips moved and nothing said;

  And when lights were in the hall,

  Silent moved the dancers all.

  So a while I glowed, and then

  Fell on dusty days and men;

  Long I slumbered packed in straw,

  Long I none but dealers saw;

  Till before my silent eye

  One that sees came passing by.

  Now with an outlandish grace,

  To the sparkling fire I face

  In the blue room at Skerryvore;

  Where I wait until the door

  Open, and the Prince of Men,

  Henry James, shall come again.

  XIX

  KATHARINE

  We see you as we see a face

  That trembles in a forest place

  Upon the mirror of a pool

  For ever quiet, clear, and cool;

  And, in the wayward glass, appears

  To hover between smiles and tears,

  Elfin and human, airy and true,

  And backed by the reflected blue.

  XX

  TO F. J. S.

  I read, dear friend, in your dear face

  Your life’s tale told with perfect grace;

  The river of your life I trace

  Up the sun-chequered, devious bed

  To the far-distant fountain-head.

  Not one quick beat of your warm heart,

  Nor thought that came to you apart,

  Pleasure nor pity, love nor pain

  Nor sorrow, has gone by in vain;

  But as some lone, wood-wandering child

  Brings home with him at evening mild

  The thorns and flowers of all the wild,

  From your whole life, O fair and true,

  Your flowers and thorns you bring with you!

  XXI

  REQUIEM

  Under the wide and starry sky,

  Dig the grave and let me lie.

  Glad did I live and gladly die,

  And I laid me down with a will.

  This be the verse you grave for me:

  Here he lies where he longed to be;

  Home is the sailor, home from sea,

  And the hunter home from the hill.

  Hyères, May .

  XXII

  THE CELESTIAL SURGEON

  If I have faltered more or less

  In my great task of happiness;

  If I have moved among my race

  And shown no glorious morning face;

  If beams from happy human eyes

  Have moved me not; if morning skies,

  Books, and my food, and summer rain

  Knocked on my sullen heart in vain: —

  Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take

  And stab my spirit broad awake;

  Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,

  Choose Thou, before that spirit die,

  A piercing pain, a killing sin,

  And to my dead heart run them in!

  XXIII

  OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS

  Out of the sun, out of the blast,

  Out of the world, alone I passed

  Across the moor and through the wood

  To where the monastery stood.

  There neither lute nor breathing fife,

  Nor rumour of the world of life,

  Nor confidences low and dear,

  Shall strike the meditative ear.

  Aloof, unhelpful, and unkind,

  The prisoners of the iron mind,

  Where nothing speaks except the bell,

  The unfraternal brothers dwell.

  Poor passionate men, still clothed afresh

  With agonising folds of flesh;

  Whom the clear eyes solicit still

  To some bold output of the will,

  While fairy Fancy far before

  And musing Memory-Hold-the-door

  Now to heroic death invite

  And now uncurtain fresh delight:

  O, little boots it thus to dwell

  On the remote unneighboured hill!

  O to be up and doing, O

  Unfearing and unshamed to go

  In all the uproar and the press

  About my human business!

  My undissuaded heart I hear

  Whisper courage in my ear.

  With voiceless calls, the ancient earth

  Summons me to a daily birth.

  Thou, O my love, ye, O my friends —

  The gist of life, the end of ends —

  To laugh, to love, to live, to die,

  Ye call me by the ear and eye!

  Forth from the casemate, on the plain

  Where honour has the world to gain,

  Pour forth and bravely do your part,

  O knights of the unshielded heart!

  Forth and for ever forward! — out

  From prudent turret and redoubt,

  And in the mellay charge amain,

  To fall but yet to rise again!

  Captive? ah, still, to honour bright,

  A captive soldier of the right!

  Or free and fighting, good with ill?

  Unconquering but unconquered still!

  And ye, O brethren, what if God,

  When from Heav’n’s top He spies abroad,

  And sees on this tormented stage

  The noble war of mankind rage:

  What if His vivifying eye,

  O monks, should pass your corner by?

  For still the Lord is Lord of might;

  In deeds, in deeds, He takes delight;

  The plough, the spear, the laden barks,

  The field, the founded city, marks;

  He marks the smiler of the streets,

  The singer upon garden seats;

  He sees the climber in the rocks:

  To Him, the shepherd folds his flocks.

  For those He loves that underprop

  With daily virtues Heaven’s top,

  And bear the falling sky with ease,

  Unfrowning caryatides.

  Those He approves that ply the trade,

  That rock the child, that wed the maid,

  That with weak virtues, weaker hands,

  Sow gladness on the peopled lands.

  And still with laughter, song and shout,

  Spin the great wheel of earth about.

  But ye? — O ye who linger still

  Here in your fortress on the hill,

  With placid face, with tranquil breath,

  The unsought volunteers of death,

  Our cheerful General on high

  With careless looks may pass you by.

  XXIV

  Not yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert,

  Where thou with grass, and rivers, and the breeze,