Changeless, aloft, aloof, mute-moving, dim, In ancient fastnesses of twilight—him Have they not sent this day, the long-foretold, The long-foretold and much-desired, of whom 'Twas whilom written in the rolls of doom How in a dream he should this land behold, And hither come from worldwide wandering, Hither where all the folk should hail him king, Our king foredestined from his mother's womb?

Long time he tarried, but the time is past, And he hath come ye waited for, at last: The long-foretold, the much-desired, hath come. And ye command your minstrels noise abroad With lyre and tongue your joyance and his laud, And, sooth to say, the minstrels are not dumb. And ever in the pauses of our chant, So for exceeding perfect joy ye pant, We hear the beating of your hearts applaud!

III

And she our Queen—ah, who shall tell what hours She bode his coming in her palace-towers, Unmated she in all the land alone? 'Twas yours, O youths and maids, to clasp and kiss; Desiring and desired ye had your bliss: The Queen she sat upon her loveless throne. Sleeping she saw his face, but could not find Its phantom's phantom when she waked, nor wind About her finger one gold hair of his.

Often when evening sobered all the air, No doubt but she would sit and marvel where He tarried, by the bounds of what strange sea; And peradventure look at intervals Forth of the windows of her palace walls, And watch the gloaming darken fount and tree; And think on twilight shores, with dreaming caves Full of the groping of bewildered waves, Full of the murmur of their hollow halls.

As flowers desire the kisses of the rain, She his, and many a year desired in vain: She waits no more who waited long enow. Nor listeth he to wander any more Who went as go the winds from sea to shore, From shore to sea who went as the winds go. The winds do seek a place of rest; the flowers Look for the rain; but in a while the showers Come, and the winds lie down, their wanderings o'er.



ANGELO.

Seven moons, new moons, had eastward set their horns Averted from the sun; seven moons, old moons, Westward their sun-averted horns had set; Since Angelo had brought his young bride home, Lucia, to queen it in his Tuscan halls. And much the folk had marvelled on that day Seeing the bride how young and fair she was, How all unlike the groom; for she had known Twenty and five soft summers woo the world, He twice as many winters take 't by storm. And in those half-an-hundred winters,—ay, And in the summer's blaze, and blush of spring, And pomp of grave and grandiose autumntides,— Full many a wind had beat upon his heart, Of grief and frustrate hope full many a wind, And rains full many, but no rains could damp The fuel that was stored within; which lay Unlighted, waiting for the tinder-touch, Until a chance spark fall'n from Lucia's eyes Kindled the fuel, and the fire was love: Not such as rises blown upon the wind, Goaded to flame by gusts of phantasy, But still, and needing no replenishment, Unquenchable, that would not be put out.

Albeit the lady Lucia's bosom lacked The ore had made her heart a richer mine Than earth's auriferous heart unsunned; from her Love went not out, in whom there was no love. Cold from the first, her breast grew frore, and bit Her kind lord's bosom with its stinging frost. Because he loved the fields and forests, made Few banquetings for highborn winebibbers, Eschewed the city and led no sumptuous life, She, courtly, sneered at his uncourtliness, Deeming his manners of a bygone mode. And for that he was gentle overmuch, And overmuch forbearant, she despised, Mocked, slighted, taunted him, and of her scorn Made a sharp shaft to wound his life at will. She filled her cup with hate and bade him drink, And he returned it brimming o'er with love.

And so seven moons had waxed and waned since these Were wedded. And it chanced, one morn of Spring Lucia bespake her spouse in even more Ungentle wise than was her wont, and he, For the first time, reproved her;—not as one That having from another ta'en ill words Will e'en cry quits and barter words as ill; But liker as a father, whom his child With insolent lips hath wounded, chides the child Less than he knows it had been wise to do, Saying within himself: "The time will come When thou wilt think on thy dead father, how Thou might'st have spoken gentlier unto him One day, when yet thy father was alive: So shall thy heart rebuke thy heart enow:"— Ev'n thus did Angelo reprove his wife.

But though the words from his rough-bearded lips Were like sweet water from the mouth of some Rock-fountain hewn with elemental hands, They fell as water cast i' the fire, to be Consumed with hissing rage. Her wrath, let loose, Blew to and fro, and hither and thither, like A wind that seems to have forgotten whence It came, and whither it was bidden blow. She cursed the kinsfolk who had willed that she Should wed with him; and cursed herself that gave Ear to the utterance of their will; and cursed The day on which their will became her deed: Saying—and this he knew not until now— "Fool, I should ne'er have wedded thee at all, No, neither thee nor any like to thee, Had not my father wellnigh forced me to 't." And he that hearkened, the Lord Angelo, Spake not a word, but bowed his head, and went Forth of his castle to the forest nigh, And roamed all day about the forest, filled With grief, and marvelling at her lack of love.

But that which sorelier bruised his breast than ev'n Lucia's exceeding lack of love for him, Was this new knowledge, that in taking her To wife—in the very act of taking her To wife—himself had crossed the secret will Of her whose will in all things it had been His soul's most perfect bliss to gratify. Wherefore, to make atonement, in some sort, For this one wrong he deemed that he had done The woman—this one crossing of her will— He knelt him down under the brooding shade Of a huge oak, and vowed 'fore heaven a vow: To wit, that Lucia never afterward Should in his hearing utter forth a wish For aught of earthly but himself would see That wish fulfilled, if such fulfilment were An end that mortal man could compass. Then Uprising, he beheld the sinking sun A vast round eye gaze in upon the wood Through leafy lattice of its nether boughs: Whereat he turned him castlewards, and owned A lighter heart than he had borne that day.

Homeward his face no sooner had he set Than through the woods came riding unto him A stranger, of a goodly personage, Young, and right richly habited, who stayed His horse, and greeted Angelo, and said: "I pray you, sir, direct me how to find An hostel, if there be such hereabouts; For I have ridden far, and lost my way Among these woods, and twilight is at hand." Then he that heard replied to him that asked, Saying: "The nearest inn is farther hence Than mine own house; make therefore mine own house Your inn for this one night, and unto such Poor entertainment as my house affords You are most welcome." So the stranger thanked In courtly speeches the Lord Angelo, Gladly accepting hospitalities That were so gladly proffered; and the two Fared on together, host and guest that were To be, until they reached the castle, where Angelo dwelt, and where his fathers lived Before him, lords of land, in olden days.

And entering in, the castle's later lord Led the young signor to the chamber where The lady Lucia sat, who rose to give The stranger courteous welcome. (When she chose, Of looks and lips more gracious none than she.) But soon as she beheld the young man's face, A sudden pallor seized her own, and back She started, wellnigh swooning, but regained Her wonted self as suddenly, declared 'Twas but a momentary sickness went Arrow-like through her, sharp, but therewithal Brief as the breath's one ebb and flow; and which, Passing, had left her painless as before. And truly, from that moment she appeared More brightly beautiful, if Angelo Erred not, than she had looked for many a day.

So in brief while the stranger-guest sat down, With host and hostess, to a table charged With delicate meats, and fragrant fruits, and wine. And when the meal was over, and themselves Were with themselves alone—the serving-men Having withdrawn—a cheerful converse rose Concerning divers matters old and new. And Angelo that evening let his tongue Range more at freedom than he used; for though No man was less to prating given than he, Yet, when he liked his listener, he could make His mouth discourse in such a wise that few Had failed to give delighted audience. For he had learning, and, besides the lore Won from his books, a better wisdom owned— A knowledge of the stuff whence books are made, The human mind and all it feeds upon. And, in his youth a wanderer, he had roamed O'er many countries, not as one who sees With eyes alone, and hearkens but with ears; Rather as who would slake the thirst of the soul By sucking wisdom from the breasts of the world.

Wherefore the hours flew lightly, winged with words; Till Angelo, from telling of his own Young days and early fortunes good and ill, Was with remembrance smitten, as it chanced, Of some old grief 'twas grief to think upon. And so he changed his theme o' the sudden, donned A shadowy mask of laboured pleasantry, And said: "My wife, sir, hath a pretty gift Of singing and of luting: it may be If you should let your tongue turn mendicant— Not for itself but for its needy kin, Your ears—she might be got to give an alms For those twin brethren." Whereupon the guest Unto his hostess turned and smiling said: "That were indeed a golden alms your voice Could well afford, and never know itself The poorer, being a mint of suchlike coin." And she made answer archly: "I have oft Heard flatterers of a woman's singing say Her voice was silvery:—to compare 't with gold Is sure a new conceit. But, sir, you praise My singing, who have not yet heard me sing." And he: "I take it that a woman's speech Is to her singing what a bird's low chirp Is to its singing: and if Philomel Chirp in the hearing of the woodman, he Knows 'tis the nightingale that chirps, and so Expects nought meaner than its sovereign song. Madam, 'tis thus your speaking-voice hath given Earnest of what your singing-voice will be; And therefore I entreat you not to dash The expectations you have raised so high, By your refusal." And she answered him: "Nay, if you think to hear a nightingale, I doubt refusal could not dash them more Than will compliance. But in very truth, The boon you crave so small and worthless is, 'Twere miserly to grudge it. Where's my lute?"

So saying, she bethought her suddenly— Or feigned to have bethought her suddenly— How she had left the lute that afternoon Lying upon an arbour-seat, when she Grew tired of fingering the strings of it— Down in the garden, where she wont to walk, Her lute loquacious to the trees' deaf trunks. And Angelo, right glad to render her Such little graceful offices of love, And gladder yet with hope to hear her sing Who had denied his asking many a time, Awaited not another word, but rose And said, "Myself will bring it," and before She could assent or disapprove, was gone.

Scarce had he left the chamber when behold His wife uprose, and his young stranger-guest Uprose, and in a trice they cast their arms About each other, kissed each other, called Each other dear and love, till Lucia said: "Why cam'st thou not before, my Ugo, whom I loved, who lovedst me, for many a day, For many a paradisal day, ere yet I saw that lean fool with the grizzled beard Who's gone a-questing for his true wife's lute?" And he made answer: "I had come erenow, But that my father, dying, left a load Of cumbrous duties I had needs perform— Dry, peevish, crabbed business at the best, Impertinences indispensable, Accumulated dulness, if you will, Such as I would not irk your ears withal: Howbeit I came at last, and nigh a week Have tarried in the region hereabouts, Unknown—and yearning for one glimpse of you, One word, one kiss from you, if even it were One only and the last; until, to-day, Roaming the neighbouring forest, I espied Your husband, guessed it was your husband, feigned I was a traveller who had lost myself Among the woods, received from him—ah, now You laugh, and truly 'tis a famous jest— A courteous invitation to his house, Deemed it were churlish to refuse, and so— And so am here, your Ugo, with a heart The loyal subject of your sovereign heart, As in old days." Therewith he sat him down, And softly drawing her upon his knee Made him a zone of her lascivious arms.

But thus encinctured hardly had he sat A moment, when, returning, Angelo Stood at the threshold of the room, and held The door half opened, and so standing saw The lovers, and they saw not him; for half The chamber lay in shadow, by no lamp Lighted, or window to admit the moon: And there the entrance was, and Angelo.

And listening to their speech a little space, The fugitive brief moments were to him A pyramid of piled eternities. For while he hearkened, Ugo said: "My love, Answer me this one question, which may seem Idle, yet is not;—how much lov'st thou me?" And she replied: "I love thee just as much As I do hate my husband, and no more." Then he: "But prithee how much hatest thou Thy husband?" And she answered: "Ev'n as much As I love thee. To hate him one whit more Than that, were past the power of Lucia's hate." And Ugo: "If thou lovest me so much, Grant me one gift in token of thy love." Then she: "What would'st thou?" And he answered her: "Even thyself; no poorer gift will I." But Lucia said: "Nay, have I not bestowed My love, which is my soul, my richer self? My poorer self, which is my body, how Can I bestow, when 'tis not in mine own Possession, being his property forsooth, Who holds the ecclesiastic title-deed?... Yet—but I know not ... if I grant this boon, Bethink thee, how wilt carry hence the gift? Quick. For the time is all-too brief to waste." And Ugo spake with hurrying tongue: "Right so: To-morrow, therefore, when the sun hath set, Quit thou the castle, all alone, and haste To yonder tarn that lies amid the trees Haply a furlong westward from your house— The gloomy lakelet fringed with pines—and there Upon the hither margin thou shalt find Me, and two with me, mounted all, and armed, With a fourth steed to bear thee on his back: And thou shalt fly with me, my Lucia, till Thou reach my castle in the mountain'd North, Whose mistress I will make thee, and mine own." Then Lucia said: "But how if Angelo Pursue and overtake us?" Whereupon Ugo replied: "Pursue he may,—o'ertake He shall not, save he saddle him the wind. Besides—to grant the impossible—if he Were to o'ertake us, he could only strive To win you back with argument; wherein My servants, at their master's bidding, could Debate with him on more than equal terms: Cold steel convinces warmest disputants. Or, if to see the bosom marital Impierced, would make your own consorted heart Bleed sympathetic, some more mild—" But she, The beauteous Fury, interrupted him With passionate-pallid lips: "Reproach me not Beforehand—even in jest reproach me not— With imputation of such tenderness For him and his life—when thou knowest how I hate, hate, hate him,—when thou knowest how I wish, and wish, and wish, that he were dead."

Then Angelo bethought him of his vow; And stepping forward stood before the twain; And from his girdle plucked a dagger forth; And spake no word, but pierced his own heart through.



THE QUESTIONER

I asked of heaven and earth and sea, Saying: "O wondrous trinity, Deign to make answer unto me, And tell me truly what ye be." And they made answer: "Verily, The mask before His face are we, Because 'tis writ no man can see His face and live;"—so spake the three. Then I: "O wondrous trinity, A mask is but a mockery— Make answer yet again to me And tell if aught besides are ye." And they made answer: "Verily, The robe around His form are we, That sick and sore mortality May touch its hem and healed be." Then I: "O wondrous trinity, Vouchsafe once more to answer me, And tell me truly, what is He Whose very mask and raiment ye?" But they replied: "Of Time are we, And of Eternity is He. Wait thou, and ask Eternity; Belike his mouth shall answer thee."



THE RIVER

I

As drones a bee with sultry hum When all the world with heat lies dumb, Thou dronest through the drowsed lea, To lose thyself and find the sea.

As fares the soul that threads the gloom Toward an unseen goal of doom, Thou farest forth all witlessly, To lose thyself and find the sea.

II

My soul is such a stream as thou, Lapsing along it heeds not how; In one thing only unlike thee,— Losing itself, it finds no sea.

Albeit I know a day shall come When its dull waters will be dumb; And then this river-soul of Me, Losing itself, shall find the sea.



CHANGED VOICES

Last night the seawind was to me A metaphor of liberty, And every wave along the beach A starlit music seemed to be.

To-day the seawind is to me A fettered soul that would be free, And dumbly striving after speech The tides yearn landward painfully.

To-morrow how shall sound for me The changing voice of wind and sea? What tidings shall be borne of each? What rumour of what mystery?



A SUNSET

Westward a league the city lay, with one Cloud's imminent umbrage o'er it: when behold, The incendiary sun Dropped from the womb o' the vapour, rolled 'Mongst huddled towers and temples, 'twixt them set Infinite ardour of candescent gold, Encompassed minaret And terrace and marmoreal spire With conflagration: roofs enfurnaced, yet Unmolten,—columns and cupolas flanked with fire, Yet standing unconsumed Of the fierce fervency,—and higher Than all, their fringes goldenly illumed, Dishevelled clouds, like massed empurpled smoke From smouldering forges fumed: Till suddenly the bright spell broke With the sun sinking through some palace-floor And vanishing wholly. Then the city woke, Her mighty Fire-Dream o'er, As who from out a sleep is raised Of terrible loveliness, lasting hardly more Than one most monumental moment; dazed He looketh, having come Forth of one world and witless gazed Into another: ev'n so looked, for some Brief while, the city—amazed, immobile, dumb.



A SONG OF THREE SINGERS

I

Wave and wind and willow-tree Speak a speech that no man knoweth; Tree that sigheth, wind that bloweth, Wave that floweth to the sea: Wave and wind and willow-tree.

Peerless perfect poets ye, Singing songs all songs excelling, Fine as crystal music dwelling In a welling fountain free: Peerless perfect poets three!

II

Wave and wind and willow-tree Know not aught of poets' rhyming, Yet they make a silver-chiming Sunward-climbing minstrelsy, Soother than all songs that be.

Blows the wind it knows not why, Flows the wave it knows not whither, And the willow swayeth hither Swayeth thither witlessly, Nothing knowing save to sigh.



LOVE'S ASTROLOGY

I know not if they erred Who thought to see The tale of all the times to be, Star-character'd; I know not, neither care, If fools or knaves they were.

But this I know: last night On me there shone Two stars that made all stars look wan And shamed quite, Wherefrom the soul of me Divined her destiny.



THREE FLOWERS

I made a little song about the rose And sang it for the rose to hear, Nor ever marked until the music's close A lily that was listening near.

The red red rose flushed redder with delight, And like a queen her head she raised. The white white lily blanched a paler white, For anger that she was not praised.

Turning I left the rose unto her pride, The lily to her enviousness, And soon upon the grassy ground espied A daisy all companionless.

Doubtless no flattered flower is this, I deemed; And not so graciously it grew As rose or lily: but methought it seemed More thankful for the sun and dew.

Dear love, my sweet small flower that grew'st among The grass, from all the flowers apart,— Forgive me that I gave the rose my song, Ere thou, the daisy, hadst my heart!



THREE ETERNITIES

Lo, thou and I, my love, And the sad stars above,— Thou and I, I and thou! Ah could we lie as now Ever and aye, my love, Hand within hand, my love, Heart within heart, my dove, Through night and day For ever!

Lo, thou and I, my love, Up in the sky above, Where the sun makes his home And the gods are, my love, One day may wander from Star unto star, my love,— Soul within soul, my love, Yonder afar For ever!

Lo, thou and I, my love, Some time shall lie, my love, Knowing not night from day, Knowing not toil from rest,— Breast unto breast, my love, Even as now for aye: Clay within clay, my love, Clay within clay For ever!



LOVE OUTLOVED

I

Love cometh and love goeth, And he is wise who knoweth Whither and whence love flies: But wise and yet more wise Are they that heed not whence he flies or whither Who hither speeds to-day, to-morrow thither; Like to the wind that as it listeth blows, And man doth hear the sound thereof, but knows Nor whence it comes nor whither yet it goes.

II

O sweet my sometime loved and worshipt one A day thou gavest me That rose full-orbed in starlike happiness And lit our heaven that other stars had none:— Sole as that westering sphere companionless When twilight is begun And the dead sun transfigureth the sea: A day so bright Methought the very shadow, from its light Thrown, were enough to bless (Albeit with but a shadow's benison) The unborn days its dark posterity. Methought our love, though dead, should be Fair as in life, by memory Embalmed, a rose with bloom for aye unblown. But lo the forest is with faded leaves And our two hearts with faded loves bestrown, And in mine ear the weak wind grieves And uttereth moan: "Shed leaves and fallen, fallen loves and shed, And those are dead and these are more than dead; And those have known The springtime, these the lovetime, overthrown, With all fair times and pleasureful that be." And shall not we, O Time, and shall not we Thy strong self see Brought low and vanquished, And made to bow the knee And bow the head To one that is when thou and thine are fled, The silent-eyed austere Eternity?

III

Behold a new song still the lark doth sing Each morning when he riseth from the grass, And no man sigheth for the song that was, The melody that yestermorn did bring. The rose dies and the lily, and no man mourns That nevermore the selfsame flower returns: For well we know a thousand flowers will spring, A thousand birds make music on the wing. Ay me! fair things and sweet are birds and flowers, The scent of lily and rose in gardens still, The babble of beaked mouths that speak no ill: And love is sweeter yet than flower or bird, Or any odor smelled or ditty heard— Love is another and a sweeter thing. But when the music ceaseth in Love's bowers, Who listeneth well shall hear the silence stirred With aftermoan of many a fretful string: For when Love harpeth to the hollow hours, His gladdest notes make saddest echoing.



VANISHINGS

As one whose eyes have watched the stricken day Swoon to its crimson death adown the sea, Turning his face to eastward suddenly Sees a lack-lustre world all chill and gray,— Then, wandering sunless whitherso he may, Feels the first dubious dumb obscurity, And vague foregloomings of the Dark to be, Close like a sadness round his glimmering way; So I, from drifting dreambound on and on About strange isles of utter bliss, in seas Whose waves are unimagined melodies, Rose and beheld the dreamless world anew: Sad were the fields, and dim with splendours gone The strait sky-glimpses fugitive and few.



BEETHOVEN

O Master, if immortals suffer aught Of sadness like to ours, and in like sighs And with like overflow of darkened eyes Disburden them, I know not; but methought, What time to day mine ear the utterance caught Whereby in manifold melodious wise Thy heart's unrestful infelicities Rose like a sea with easeless winds distraught, That thine seemed angel's grieving, as of one Strayed somewhere out of heaven, and uttering Lone moan and alien wail: because he hath Failed to remember the remounting path, And singing, weeping, can but weep and sing Ever, through vasts forgotten of the sun.



GOD-SEEKING

God-seeking thou hast journeyed far and nigh. On dawn-lit mountain-tops thy soul did yearn To hear His trailing garments wander by; And where 'mid thunderous glooms great sunsets burn, Vainly thou sought'st His shadow on sea and sky; Or gazing up, at noontide, could'st discern Only a neutral heaven's indifferent eye And countenance austerely taciturn.

Yet whom thou soughtest I have found at last; Neither where tempest dims the world below Nor where the westering daylight reels aghast In conflagrations of red overthrow: But where this virgin brooklet silvers past, And yellowing either bank the king-cups blow.



SKYFARING

Drifting through vacant spaces vast of sleep, One overtook me like a flying star And whirled me onward in his glistering car. From shade to shade the winged steeds did leap, And clomb the midnight like a mountain-steep; Till that vague world where men and women are, Ev'n as a rushlight down the gulfs afar, Paled and went out, upswallowed of the deep.

Then I to that ethereal charioteer: "O whither through the vastness are we bound? O bear me back to yonder blinded sphere!" Therewith I heard the ends of night resound; And, wakened by ten thousand echoes, found That far-off planet lying all-too near.