Wessex Poems and Other Verses

The Temporary The All

(Sapphics)

Change and chancefullness in my flowering youthtime,

Set me sun by sun near to one unchosen;

Wrought us fellowlike, and despite divergence,

Fused us in friendship.

"Cherish him can I while the true one forthcome--

Come the rich fulfiller of my prevision;

Life is roomy yet, and the odds unbounded."

So self-communed I.

'Thwart my wistful way did a damsel saunter,

Fair, albeit unformed to be all-eclipsing;

"Maiden meet," held I, "till arise my forefelt

Wonder of women."

Long a visioned hermitage deep desiring,

Tenements uncouth I was fain to house in:

"Let such lodging be for a breath-while," thought I,

"Soon a more seemly.

"Then high handiwork will I make my life-deed,

Truth and Light outshow; but the ripe time pending,

Intermissive aim at the thing sufficeth."

Thus I. . . . But lo, me!

Mistress, friend, place, aims to be bettered straightway,

Bettered not has Fate or my hand's achievement;

Sole the showance those of my onward earth-track--

Never transcended!

Amabel

I marked her ruined hues,

Her custom-straitened views,

And asked, "Can there indwell

My Amabel?"

I looked upon her gown,

Once rose, now earthen brown;

The change was like the knell

Of Amabel.

Her step's mechanic ways

Had lost the life of May's;

Her laugh, once sweet in swell,

Spoilt Amabel.

I mused: "Who sings the strain

I sang ere warmth did wane?

Who thinks its numbers spell

His Amabel?"--

Knowing that, though Love cease,

Love's race shows no decrease;

All find in dorp or dell

An Amabel.

--I felt that I could creep

To some housetop, and weep

That Time the tyrant fell

Ruled Amabel!

I said (the while I sighed

That love like ours had died)

"Fond things I'll no more tell

To Amabel,

"But leave her to her fate,

And fling across the gate,

'Till the Last Trump, farewell,

O Amabel!'"

Hap

If but some vengeful god would call to me

From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing,

Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,

That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"

Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,

Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;

Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I

Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.

But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,

And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?

--Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,

And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . . .

These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown

Blisses about my pilgramage as pain.

1866.

"In vision I roamed"

To _______

In vision I roamed the flashing Firmament,

So fierce in blazon that the Night waxed wan,

As though with awe at orbs of such ostént;

And as I thought my spirit ranged on and on

In footless traverse through ghast heights of sky,

To the last chambers of the monstrous Dome,

Where stars the brightest here are lost to the eye:

Then, any spot on our own Earth seemed Home!

And the sick grief that you were far away

Grew pleasant thankfulness that you were near,

Who might have been, set on some foreign Sphere,

Less than a Want to me, as day by day

I lived unware, uncaring all that lay

Locked in that Universe taciturn and drear.

1866.

At a Bridal

Nature's Indifference

When you paced forth, to await maternity,

A dream of other offspring held my mind,

Compounded of us twain as Love designed;

Rare forms, that corporate now will never be!

Should I, too, wed as slave to Mode's decree,

And each thus found apart, of false desire,

A stolid line, whom no high aims will fire

As had fired ours could ever have mingled we;

And, grieved that lives so matched should miscompose,

Each mourn to double waste; and question dare

To the Great Dame whence incarnation flows,

Why those high-purposed children never were:

What will she answer? That she does not care

If the race all such sovereign types unknows.

1866.

Postponement

Snow-bound in woodland, a mournful word,

Dropt now and then from the bill of a bird,

Reached me on wind-wafts; and thus I heard,

Wearily waiting:--

"I planned her a nest in a leafless tree,

But the passers eyed and twitted me,

And said: `How reckless a bird is he,

Cheerily mating!'

"Fear-filled, I stayed me till summer-tide,

In lewth of leaves to throne her bride;

But alas! her love for me waned and died,

Wearily waiting.

"Ah, had I been like some I see,

Born to an evergreen nesting-tree,

None had eyed and twitted me,

Cheerily mating!"

1866.

A Confession to a Friend in Trouble

Your troubles shrink not, though I feel them less

Here, far away, than when I tarried near;

I even smile old smiles--with listlesness--

Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.

A thought too strange to house within my brain

Haunting its outer precincts I discern:

--That I will not show zeal again to learn

Your griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain...

It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer

That shapes its lawless figure on the main,

And staunchness tends to banish utterly

The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here;

Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be

Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me!

1866.

Neutral Tones

We stood by a pond that winter day,

And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,

And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;

--They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove

Over tedious riddles of years ago;

And some words played between us to and fro

On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing

Alive enough to have strength to die;

And a grin of bitterness swept thereby

Like an ominous bird a-wing. . . .

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,

And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me

Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,

And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

1867.

She at His Funeral

They bear him to his resting-place--

In slow procession sweeping by;

I follow at a stranger's space;

His kindred they, his sweetheart, I.

Unchanged my gown of garish dye,

Though sable-sad is their attire;

But they stand round with griefless eye,

Whilst my regret consumes like fire!

187-.

Her Initials

Upon a poet's page I wrote

Of old two letters of her name;

Part seemed she of the effulgent thought

Whence that high singer's rapture came.

--When now I turn the leaf the same

Immortal light illumes the lay,

But from the letters of her name

The radiance has waned away!

1869.

Her Dilemma

(In ______ Church)

The two were silent in a sunless church,

Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones,

And wasted carvings passed antique research;

And nothing broke the clock's dull monotones.

Leaning against a wormy poppy-head,

So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand,

--For he was soon to die,--he softly said,

"Tell me you love me!"--holding long her hand.

She would have given a world to breathe "yes" truly,

So much his life seemed hanging on her mind,

And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly

'Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind.

But the sad need thereof, his nearing death,

So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize

A world conditioned thus, or care for breath

Where Nature such dilemmas could devise.

1866.

Revulsion

Though I waste watches framing words to fetter

Some unknown spirit to mine in clasp and kiss,

Out of the night there looms a sense 'twere better

To fail obtaining whom one fails to miss.

For winning love we win the risk of losing,

And losing love is as one's life were riven;

It cuts like contumely and keen ill-using

To cede what was superfluously given.

Let me than never feel the fateful thrilling,

That devastates the love-worn wooer's frame,

The hot ado of fevered hopes, the chilling

That agonizes disappointed aim!

So may I live no junctive law fulfilling,

And my heart's table bear no woman's name.

1866.

She, To Him

I

When you shall see me in the toils of Time,

My lauded beauties carried off from me,

My eyes no longer stars as in their prime,

My name forgot of Maiden Fair and Free;

When in your being, heart concedes to mind,

And judgment, though you scarce its process know,

Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined,

And you are irked that they have withered so:

Remembering mine the loss is, not the blame,

That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill,

Knowing me in my soul the very same--

One who would die to spare you touch of ill!--

Will you not grant to old affection's claim

The hand of friendship down Life's sunless hill?

1866.

She, To Him

II

Perhaps, long hence, when I have passed away,

Some other's feature, accent, thought like mine,

Will carry you back to what I used to say,

And bring some memory of your love's decline.

Then you may pause awhile and think, "Poor jade!"

And yield a sigh to me--as ample due,

Not as the tittle of a debt unpaid

To one who could resign her all to you--

And thus reflecting, you will never see

That your thin thought, in two small words conveyed,

Was no such fleeting phantom-thought to me,

But the Whole Life wherein my part was played;

And you amid its fitful masquerade

A Thought--as I in your life seem to be!

1866.

She, To Him

III

I will be faithful to thee; aye, I will!

And Death shall choose me with a wondering eye

That he did not discern and domicile

One his by right ever since that last Good-bye!

I have no care for friends, or kin, or prime

Of manhood who deal gently with me here;

Amid the happy people of my time

Who work their love's fulfilment, I appear

Numb as a vane that cankers on its point,

True to the wind that kissed ere canker came:

Despised by souls of Now, who would disjoint

The mind from memory, making Life all aim,

My old dexterities in witchery gone,

And nothing left for Love to look upon.

1866.

She, To Him

IV

This love puts all humanity from me;

I can but maledict her, pray her dead,

For giving love and getting love of thee--

Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed!

How much I love I know not, life not known,

Save as one unit I would add love by;

But this I know, my being is but thine own--

Fused from its separateness by ecstasy.

And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her

Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes;

Canst thou then hate me as an envier

Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize?

Believe, me, Lost One, Love is lovelier

The more it shapes its moan in selfish-wise.

1866.