REST

SAPPHO

REQUIEM

I shall not see the shadows,
     I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
     Sing on, as if in pain;
And dreaming through the twilight
     That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
     And haply may forget.

ECHO
Come to me in the silence of the night; 
    Come in the speaking silence of a dream; 
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright 
    As sunlight on a stream; 
Come back in tears, 
O memory of hope, love of finished years.

Oh dream how sweet, to sweet, too bitter sweet, 
    Whose waking should have been in Paradise, 
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet; 
    Where thirsting longing eyes 
Watch the slow door 
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live 
    My life again tho' cold in death: 
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give 
    Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: 
Speak low, lean low, 
As long ago, my love, how long ago.

I wish I could remember the first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me;
If bright or dim the season it might be;
Summer or winter for aught I can say.
So, unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to forsee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom, yet, for many a May.

If only I could recollect it! Such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand! - Did one but know!

       Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass, - 
          The finger-points look through like rosy blooms: 
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms 
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. 
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass, 
          Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge 
      Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge. 
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.

       Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly 
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: - 
         So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above. 
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, 
This close-companioned inarticulate hour 
         When twofold silence was the song of love.

A BIRTHDAY

 Two doves upon the selfsame branch,
   Two lilies on a single stem,
 Two butterflies upon one flower :--
   O happy we who look on them.

 Who look upon them hand in hand
   Flushed in the rosy summer light ;
 Who look upon them hand in hand
   And never give a thought to night.

IN AN ARTIST'S STUDIO

One face looks out from all his canvasses,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans;
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
A saint, an angel; - every canvass means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

From 'Other Poems'

JEWELS

An emerald is as green as grass;
  A ruby red as blood;
A sapphire shines as blue as heaven;
  A flint lies in the mud.

A diamond is a brilliant stone,
  To catch the world's desire;
An opal holds a fiery spark;
  But a flint holds fire.

From Sing-Song (1893)

IN PROGRESS

Ten years ago it seemed impossible 
That she could ever grow as calm as this, 
With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss 
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well. 
Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell, 
Silent with long-unbroken silences, 
Centred in self yet not unpleased to please, 
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell. 
Mindful of drudging daily common things, 
Patient at pastime, patient at her work, 
Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly. 
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see 
Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk 
And her eyes lightning and her shoulders wings. 

'In Progress' was written in 1862 and published in 1896

LAST NIGHT

Where were you last night? I watched at the gate;
I went down early, I stayed down late.
Were you snug at home, I should like to know,
Or were you in the coppice wheedling Kate?

She's a fine girl, with a fine clear skin;
Easy to woo, perhaps not hard to win.
Speak up like a man and tell me the truth:
I'm not one to grow downhearted and thin.

If you love her best speak up like a man;
It's not I will stand in the light of your plan:
Some girls might cry and scold you a bit
And say they couldn't bear it; but I can.

Love was pleasant enough, and the days went fast;
Pleasant while it lasted, but it needn't last;
Awhile on the wax and awhile on the wane,
Now dropped away into the past.

Was it pleasant to you? to me it was;
Now clean gone as an image from glass,
As a goodly rainbow that fades away,
As dew that steams upwards from the grass,

As the first spring day, or the last summer day,
As the sunset flush that leaves heaven grey,
As a flame burnt out for lack of oil
Which no pains relight or ever may.

Good luck to Kate and good luck to you,
I guess she'll be kind when you come to woo;
I wish her a pretty face that will last,
I wish her a husband steady and true.

Hate you? not I, my very good friend;
All things begin and all have an end.
But let broken be broken; I put no faith
In quacks who set up to patch and mend.

Just my love and one word to Kate:
Not to let time slip if she means to mate;—
For even such a thing has been known
As to miss the chance while we weigh and wait.

From 'Other Poems'

WILL YOU BE THERE?

Will you be there? my yearning heart has cried:
Ah me, my love, my love, shall I be there,
To sit down in your glory and to share
Your gladness, glowing as a virgin bride?
Or will another dearer, fairer-eyed,
Sit nigher to you in your jubilee;
And mindful one of other will you be
Borne higher and higher on joy's ebbless tide?
— Yea, if I love I will not grudge you this:
I too shall float upon that heavenly sea
And sing my joyful praises without ache;
Your overflow of joy shall gladden me,
My whole heart shall sing praises for your sake
And find its own fulfilment in your bliss.

From 'Other Poems'

UP-HILL

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
     Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
     From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
     A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
     You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
     Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
     They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
     Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
     Yea, beds for all who come.

A DAUGHTER OF EVE

A fool I was to sleep at noon,
     And wake when night is chilly
Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
     A fool to snap my lily.

My garden-plot I have not kept;
     Faded and all-forsaken,
I weep as I have never wept:
Oh it was summer when I slept,
     It's winter now I waken.

Talk what you please of future spring
     And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:
Stripp'd bare of hope and everything,
No more to laugh, no more to sing,
     I sit alone with sorrow.

THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS  (Excerpt)

            "Too late for love, too late for joy, 
              Too late, too late! 
          You loitered on the road too long, 
              You trifled at the gate: 
          The enchanted dove upon her branch 
              Died without a mate. 
          The enchanted princess in her tower 
              Slept, died, behind the grate; 
          Her heart was starving all this while 
              You made it wait. 

            "Ten years ago, five years ago, 
              One year ago, 
          Even then you had arrived in time, 
              Though somewhat slow; 
          Then you had known her living face 
              Which now you cannot know: 
          The frozen fountain would have leaped, 
              The buds gone on to blow, 
          The warm south wind would have awaked 
              To melt the snow. 

            "Is she fair now as she lies? 
              Once she was fair; 
          Meet queen for any kingly king, 
              With gold-dust on her hair. 
          Now these are poppies in her locks, 
              White poppies she must wear; 
          Must wear a veil to shroud her face 
              And the want graven there: 
          Or is the hunger fed at length, 
              Cast off the care? 

            "We never saw her with a smile 
              Or with a frown; 
          Her bed seemed never soft to her, 
              Though tossed of down; 
          She little heeded what she wore, 
              Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; 
          We think her white brows often ached 
              Beneath her crown, 
          Till silvery hairs showed in her locks 
              That used to be so brown. 

            "We never heard her speak in haste; 
              Her tones were sweet, 
          And modulated just so much 
              As it was meet: 
          Her heart sat silent through the noise 
              And concourse of the street. 
          There was no hurry in her hands, 
              No hurry in her feet; 
          There was no bliss drew nigh to her, 
              That she might run to greet. 

            "You should have wept her yesterday, 
              Wasting upon her bed: 
          But wherefore should you weep to-day 
              That she is dead? 
          Lo we who love weep not to-day, 
              But crown her royal head. 
          Let be these poppies that we strew, 
              Your roses are too red: 
          Let be these poppies, not for you 
              Cut down and spread."

SOMEWHERE OR OTHER

Somewhere or other there must surely be
The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet - never yet — ah me!
Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
With just a wall, a hedge, between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
Fallen on a turf grown green.

From "The Prince's Progress and Other Poems" (1866)

THE ROSE

The lily has a smooth stalk,
Will never hurt your hand;
But the rose upon her brier
Is lady of the land.

There's sweetness in an apple tree,
And profit in the corn;
But lady of all beauty
Is a rose upon a thorn.

When with moss and honey
She tips her bending brier,
And half unfolds her glowing heart,
She sets the world on fire.

From 'Sing-Song - A Nursery Rhyme Book' (1872 and 1893)

WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling
The wind is passing thro'.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads
The wind is passing by.

From 'Sing-Song - A Nursery Rhyme Book' (1872 and 1893)

TOUCHING 'NEVER'

Because you never yet have loved me, dear,
Think you you never can nor ever will?
Surely while life remains hope lingers still,
Hope the last blossom of life's dying year.
Because the season and mine age grow sere,
Shall never Spring bring forth her daffodil,
Shall never sweeter Summer feast her fill
Of roses with the nightingales they hear?
If you had loved me, I not loving you,
If you had urged me with the tender plea
Of what our unknown years to come might do
(Eternal years, if Time should count too few),
I would have owned the point you pressed on me,
Was possible, or probable, or true.

From 'A Pageant and Other Poems' (1881)

THE THREAD OF LIFE

HE irresponsive silence of the land, 
The irresponsive sounding of the sea, 
Speak both one message of one sense to me:-- 
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand 
Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band 
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee; 
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free? 
What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand? 
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek, 
And sometimes I remember days of old 
When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek, 
And all the world and I seem'd much less cold, 
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold, 
And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak. 

From 'A Pageant and Other Poems' (1881)

PASSING AND GLASSING

All things that pass
Are woman's looking-glass;
They show her how her bloom must fade,
And she herself be laid
With withered roses in the shade;
With withered roses and the fallen peach,
Unlovely, out of reach
Of summer joy that was.

All things that pass
Are woman's tiring-glass;
The faded lavender is sweet,
Sweet the dead violet
Culled and laid by and cared for yet;
The dried-up violets and dried lavender
Still sweet, may comfort her,
Nor need she cry Alas!

All things that pass
Are wisdom's looking-glass;
Being full of hope and fear, and still
Brimful of good or ill,
According to our work and will;
For there is nothing new beneath the sun;
Our doings have been done,
And that which shall be was.

From 'A Pageant and Other Poems' (1881)

A PRODIGAL SON

Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house,
Which he kindled the night I went away?
I turned once beneath the cedar boughs,
And marked it gleam with a golden ray;
Did he think to light me home some day?

Hungry here with the crunching swine,
Hungry harvest have I to reap;
In a dream I count my Father's kine,
I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep,
I watch his lambs that browse and leap.

There is plenty of bread at home,
His servants have bread enough and to spare;
The purple wine-fat froths with foam,
Oil and spices make sweet the air,
While I perish hungry and bare.

Rich and blessed those servants, rather
Than I who see not my Father's face!
I will arise and go to my Father:—
"Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace,
Grant me. Father, a servant's place."

From 'A Pageant and Other Poems' (1881)

Soeur Louise de la Misericorde (1674)

I have desired, and I have been desired;
But now the days are over of desire,
Now dust and dying embers mock my fire;
Where is the hire for which my life was hired?
Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Longing and love, pangs of a perished pleasure,
Longing and love, a disenkindled fire,
And memory a bottomless gulf of mire,
And love a fount of tears outrunning measure;
Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Now from my heart, love's deathbed, trickles, trickles,
Drop by drop slowly, drop by drop of fire,
The dross of life, of love, of spent desire;
Alas, my rose of life gone all to prickles,—
Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Oh vanity of vanities, desire;
Stunting my hope which might have strained up higher,
Turning my garden plot to barren mire;
Oh death-struck love, oh disenkindled fire,
Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

From 'A Pageant and Other Poems' (1881)

ONE SEA-SIDE GRAVE

Unmindful of the roses,
Unmindful of the thorn,
A reaper tired reposes
Among his gathered corn:
So might I, till the morn!

Cold as the cold Decembers,
Past as the days that set,
While only one remembers
And all the rest forget, —
But one remembers yet.

From 'Poems' (1888, 1890)

There is a Budding Morrow in Midnight

Wintry boughs against a wintry sky;
Yet the sky is partly blue
And the clouds are partly bright: —
Who can tell but sap is mounting high
Out of sight,
Ready to burst through?

Winter is the mother-nurse of Spring,
Lovely for her daughter's sake,
Not unlovely for her own :
For a future buds in everything;
Grown, or blown,
Or about to break.

From 'Poems' (1888 1890)

ROSES ON A BRIER

Pearls from out the bitter sea,
Such is earth's desire
However pure it be.

Neither bud nor brier,
Neither pearl nor brine for me:
Be stilled my long desire;
There shall be no more sea.

Be stilled my passionate heart;
Old earth shall end, new earth shall be:
Be still and earn thy part
Where shall be no more sea.

From 'Verses' (1893)

THE HALF MOON

The half moon shows a face of plaintive sweetness
Ready and poised to wax or wane;
A fire of pale desire in incompleteness,
Tending to pleasure or to pain: —
Lo, while we gaze she rolleth on in fleetness
To perfect loss or perfect gain.

Half bitterness we know, we know half sweetness;
This world is all on wax, on wane:
When shall completeness round time's incompleteness,
Fulfilling joy, fulfilling pain? —
Lo, while we ask, life rolleth on in fleetness
To finished loss or finished gain.

From 'Verses' (1893)

LAST NIGHT

Where were you last night? I watched at the gate;
I went down early, I stayed down late.
Were you snug at home, I should like to know,
Or were you in the coppice wheedling Kate?

She's a fine girl, with a fine clear skin;
Easy to woo, perhaps not hard to win.
Speak up like a man and tell me the truth:
I'm not one to grow downhearted and thin.

If you love her best speak up like a man;
It's not I will stand in the light of your plan:
Some girls might cry and scold you a bit
And say they couldn't bear it; but I can.

Love was pleasant enough, and the days went fast;
Pleasant while it lasted, but it needn't last;
Awhile on the wax and awhile on the wane,
Now dropped away into the past.

Was it pleasant to you? to me it was;
Now clean gone as an image from glass,
As a goodly rainbow that fades away,
As dew that steams upwards from the grass,

As the first spring day, or the last summer day,
As the sunset flush that leaves heaven grey,
As a flame burnt out for lack of oil
Which no pains relight or ever may.

Good luck to Kate and good luck to you,
I guess she'll be kind when you come to woo;
I wish her a pretty face that will last,
I wish her a husband steady and true.

Hate you? not I, my very good friend;
All things begin and all have an end.
But let broken be broken; I put no faith
In quacks who set up to patch and mend.

Just my love and one word to Kate:
Not to let time slip if she means to mate;—
For even such a thing has been known
As to miss the chance while we weigh and wait.

From 'Other Poems'

AN ECHO FROM WILLOWWOOD

"O ye, all ye that walk in Willowwood."  (D.G. Rossetti)

Two gazed into a pool, he gazed and she,
Not hand in hand, yet heart in heart, I think,
Pale and reluctant on the water's brink,
As on the brink of parting which must be.
Each eyed the other's aspect, she and he,
Each felt one hungering heart leap up and sink,
Each tasted bitterness which both must drink,
There on the brink of life's dividing sea.
Lilies upon the surface, deep below
Two wistful faces craving each for each,
Resolute and reluctant without speech: —
A sudden ripple made the faces flow
One moment joined, to vanish out of reach:
So those hearts joined, and ah! were parted so.

From 'Other Poems'

WILL YOU BE THERE?

Will you be there? my yearning heart has cried:
Ah me, my love, my love, shall I be there,
To sit down in your glory and to share
Your gladness, glowing as a virgin bride?
Or will another dearer, fairer-eyed,
Sit nigher to you in your j ubilee;
And mindful one of other will you be
Borne higher and higher on joy's ebbless tide?
— Yea, if I love I will not grudge you this:
I too shall float upon that heavenly sea
And sing my joyful praises without ache;
Your overflow of joy shall gladden me,
My whole heart shall sing praises for your sake
And find its own fulfilment in your bliss.

From 'Other Poems'

REMEMBER

Remember me when I am gone away,
     Gone far away into the silent land;
     When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
     You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
     Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
     And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
     For if the darkness and corruption leave
     A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

December 29, 1894

I WISH I WERE DEAD

I wish I were dead, my foe, 
My friend, I wish I were dead, 
With a stone at my tired feet
With a stone at my head.
 
In the pleasant April days 
Half the world will stir and sing, 
But half the world will slug and rot
For all the sap of Spring.

AFTER DEATH

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
"Poor child, poor child:" and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.

From "Goblin Market and Other Poems"