`Tonight, tomorrow, nay, nor all the
impending years,
She will not come,' the woman that he waits.
Fond,
fervent heart of life's enamored spring,
So true, so
confident, so passing fair,
That thought of Love as some sweet, tender thing,
And not as war, red tooth and nail laid bare,
How in that hour its
innocence was slain,
How from that hour our
disillusion dates,
When first we
learned thy sense, ironical refrain,
She will not come, the woman that he waits.
Do You Remember Once . . .
I
Do you remember once, in Paris of glad faces,
The night we wandered off under the third moon's rays
And, leaving far behind bright streets and busy places,
Stood where the Seine flowed down between its quiet quais?
The city's voice was hushed; the
placid, lustrous waters
Mirrored the walls across where orange windows burned.
Out of the
starry south provoking rumors brought us
Far promise of the spring already
northward turned.
And breast drew near to breast, and round its soft desire
My arm
uncertain stole and clung there unrepelled.
I thought that nevermore my heart would hover nigher
To the last flower of bliss that Nature's garden held.
There, in your beauty's sweet
abandonment to pleasure,
The mute, half-open lips and tender, wondering eyes,
I saw embodied first smile back on me the treasure
Long sought across the seas and back of summer skies.
Dear face, when courted Death shall claim my limbs and find them
Laid in some desert place, alone or where the tides
Of war's
tumultuous waves on the wet sands behind them
Leave rifts of gasping life when their red flood subsides,
Out of the past's
remote delirious abysses
Shine forth once more as then you shone, --
beloved head,
Laid back in
ecstasy between our blinding kisses,
Transfigured with the bliss of being so coveted.
And my sick arms will part, and though hot fever sear it,
My mouth will curve again with the old, tender flame.
And darkness will come down, still
finding in my spirit
The dream of your brief love, and on my lips your name.
II
You loved me on that
moonlit night long since.
You were my queen and I the
charming prince
Elected from a world of
mortal men.
You loved me once. . . . What pity was it, then,
You loved not Love. . . . Deep in the
emerald west,
Like a returning caravel caressed
By breezes that load all the ambient airs
With clinging
fragrance of the bales it bears
From harbors where the caravans come down,
I see over the roof-tops of the town
The new moon back again, but shall not see
The joy that once it had in store for me,
Nor know again the voice upon the stair,
The little
studio in the candle-glare,
And all that makes in word and touch and glance
The bliss of the first nights of a romance
When will to love and be
beloved casts out
The want to question or the will to doubt.
You loved me once. . . . Under the
western seas
The pale moon settles and the Pleiades.
The firelight sinks; outside the night-winds moan --
The hour advances, and I sleep alone.*
--
* D|/eduke m|en |`a sel|/anna ka|i Plh|/iadec, m|/essai de n|/uktec,
p|/ara d' |'/erxet' |`/wra |'/egw de m|/ona kate|/udw. -- Sappho.
--
III
Farewell, dear heart, enough of vain despairing!
If I have erred I plead but one excuse --
The jewel were a
lesser joy in wearing
That cost a
lesser agony to lose.