Selected Poems (Penguin Classics) (17 page)

I

I leaned on the turf,

I looked at a rock

Left dry by the surf;

For the turf, to call it grass were to mock:

Dead to the roots, so deep was done

The work of the summer sun.

II

And the rock lay flat

As an anvil’s face:

[130] No iron like that!

Baked dry; of a weed, of a shell, no trace:

Sunshine outside, but ice at the core,

Death’s altar by the lone shore.

III

On the turf, sprang gay

With his films of blue,

No cricket, I’ll say,

But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too,

The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight,

Real fairy, with wings all right.

IV

[140] On the rock, they scorch

Like a drop of fire

From a brandished torch,

Fall two red fans of a butterfly:

No turf, no rock: in their ugly stead,

See, wonderful blue and red!

V

Is it not so

With the minds of men?

The level and low,

The burnt and bare, in themselves; but then

[150] With such a blue and red grace, not theirs, –

Love settling unawares!

VI Reading a Book, Under the Cliff

I

‘Still ailing, Wind? Wilt be appeased or no?

Which needs the other’s office, thou or I?

Dost want to be disburdened of a woe,

And can, in truth, my voice untie

Its links, and let it go?

II

‘Art thou a dumb wronged thing that would be righted,

Entrusting thus thy cause to me? Forbear!

No tongue can mend such pleadings; faith, requited

[160] With falsehood, – love, at last aware

Of scorn, – hopes, early blighted, –

III

‘We have them; but I know not any tone

So fit as thine to falter forth a sorrow:

Does think men would go mad without a moan,

If they knew any way to borrow

A pathos like thy own?

IV

‘Which sigh wouldst mock, of all the sighs? The one

So long escaping from lips starved and blue,

That lasts while on her pallet-bed the nun

[170] Stretches her length; her foot comes through

The straw she shivers on;

V

‘You had not thought she was so tall: and spent,

Her shrunk lids open, her lean fingers shut

Close, close, their sharp and livid nails indent

The clammy palm; then all is mute:

That way, the spirit went.

VI

‘Or wouldst thou rather that I understand

Thy will to help me? – like the dog I found

Once, pacing sad this solitary strand,

[180] Who would not take my food, poor hound,

But whined and licked my hand.’

VII

All this, and more, comes from some young man’s pride

Of power to see, – in failure and mistake,

Relinquishment, disgrace, on every side, –

Merely examples for his sake,

Helps to his path untried:

VIII

Instances he must – simply recognize?

Oh, more than so! – must, with a learner’s zeal,

Make doubly prominent, twice emphasize,

[190] By added touches that reveal

The god in babe’s disguise.

IX

Oh, he knows what defeat means, and the rest!

Himself the undefeated that shall be:

Failure, disgrace, he flings them you to test, –

His triumph, in eternity

Too plainly manifest!

X

Whence, judge if he learn forthwith what the wind

Means in its moaning – by the happy prompt

Instinctive way of youth, I mean; for kind

[200] Calm years, exacting their accompt

Of pain, mature the mind:

XI

And some midsummer morning, at the lull

Just about daybreak, as he looks across

A sparkling foreign country, wonderful

To the sea’s edge for gloom and gloss,

Next minute must annul, –

XII

Then, when the wind begins among the vines,

So low, so low, what shall it say but this?

‘Here is the change beginning, here the lines

[210] Circumscribe beauty, set to bliss

The limit time assigns.’

XIII

Nothing can be as it has been before;

Better, so call it, only not the same.

To draw one beauty into our hearts’ core,

And keep it changeless! such our claim;

So answered, – Never more!

XIV

Simple? Why this is the old woe o’ the world;

Tune, to whose rise and fall we live and die.

Rise with it, then! Rejoice that man is hurled

[220] From change to change unceasingly,

His soul’s wings never furled!

XV

That’s a new question; still replies the fact,

Nothing endures: the wind moans, saying so;

We moan in acquiescence: there’s life’s pact,

Perhaps probation – do
I
know?

God does: endure his act!

XVI

Only, for man, how bitter not to grave

On his soul’s hands’ palms one fair good wise thing

Just as he grasped it! For himself, death’s wave;

[230] While time first washes – ah, the sting! –

O’er all he’d sink to save.

VII Among the Rocks

I

Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth,

This autumn morning! How he sets his bones

To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet

For the ripple to run over in its mirth;

Listening the while, where on the heap of stones

The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.

II

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;

Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows.

[240] If you loved only what were worth your love,

Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:

Make the low nature better by your throes!

Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!

VIII Beside the Drawing-Board

I

‘As like as a Hand to another Hand!’

Whoever said that foolish thing,

Could not have studied to understand

The counsels of God in fashioning,

Out of the infinite love of his heart,

This Hand, whose beauty I praise, apart

[250] From the world of wonder left to praise,

If I tried to learn the other ways

Of love in its skill, or love in its power.

‘As like as a Hand to another Hand’:

Who said that, never took his stand,

Found and followed, like me, an hour,

The beauty in this, – how free, how fine

To fear, almost, – of the limit-line!

As I looked at this, and learned and drew,

Drew and learned, and looked again,

[260] While fast the happy minutes flew,

Its beauty mounted into my brain,

And a fancy seized me; I was fain

To efface my work, begin anew,

Kiss what before I only drew;

Ay, laying the red chalk ’twixt my lips,

With soul to help if the mere lips failed,

I kissed all right where the drawing ailed,

Kissed fast the grace that somehow slips

Still from one’s soul-less finger-tips.

II

[270] ’Tis a clay cast, the perfect thing,

From Hand live once, dead long ago:

Princess-like it wears the ring

To fancy’s eye, by which we know

That here at length a master found

His match, a proud lone soul its mate,

As soaring genius sank to ground,

And pencil could not emulate

The beauty in this, – how free, how fine

To fear almost! – of the limit-line.

[280] Long ago the god, like me

The worm, learned, each in our degree:

Looked and loved, learned and drew,

Drew and learned and loved again,

While fast the happy minutes flew,

Till beauty mounted into his brain

And on the finger which outvied

His art he placed the ring that’s there,

Still by fancy’s eye descried,

In token of a marriage rare:

[290] For him on earth, his art’s despair,

For him in heaven, his soul’s fit bride.

III

Little girl with the poor coarse hand

I turned from to a cold clay cast –

I have my lesson, understand

The worth of flesh and blood at last.

Nothing but beauty in a Hand?

Because he could not change the hue,

Mend the lines and make them true

To this which met his soul’s demand, –

[300] Would Da Vinci turn from you?

I hear him laugh my woes to scorn –

‘The fool forsooth is all forlorn

Because the beauty, she thinks best,

Lived long ago or was never born, –

Because no beauty bears the test

In this rough peasant Hand! Confessed!

“Art is null and study void!”

So sayest thou? So said not I,

Who threw the faulty pencil by,

[310] And years instead of hours employed,

Learning the veritable use

Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath

Lines and hue of the outer sheath,

If haply I might reproduce

One motive of the powers profuse,

Flesh and bone and nerve that make

The poorest coarsest human hand

An object worthy to be scanned

A whole life long for their sole sake.

[320] Shall earth and the cramped moment-space

Yield the heavenly crowning grace?

Now the parts and then the whole!

Who art thou, with stinted soul

And stunted body, thus to cry

“I love, – shall that be life’s strait dole?

I must live beloved or die!”

This peasant hand that spins the wool

And bakes the bread, why lives it on,

Poor and coarse with beauty gone, –

[330] What use survives the beauty?’ Fool!

Go, little girl with the poor coarse hand!

I have my lesson, shall understand.

IX On Deck

I

There is nothing to remember in me,

Nothing I ever said with a grace,

Nothing I did that you care to see,

Nothing I was that deserves a place

In your mind, now I leave you, set you free.

II

Conceded! In turn, concede to me,

Such things have been as a mutual flame.

[340] Your soul’s locked fast; but, love for a key,

You might let it loose, till I grew the same

In your eyes, as in mine you stand: strange plea!

III

For then, then, what would it matter to me

That I was the harsh ill-favoured one?

We both should be like as pea and pea;

It was ever so since the world begun:

So, let me proceed with my reverie.

IV

How strange it were if you had all me,

As I have all you in my heart and brain,

[350] You, whose least word brought gloom or glee,

Who never lifted the hand in vain –

Will hold mine yet, from over the sea!

V

Strange, if a face, when you thought of me,

Rose like your own face present now,

With eyes as dear in their due degree,

Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow,

Till you saw yourself, while you cried ‘’Tis She!’

VI

Well, you may, you must, set down to me

Love that was life, life that was love;

[360] A tenure of breath at your lips’ decree,

A passion to stand as your thoughts approve,

A rapture to fall where your foot might be.

VII

But did one touch of such love for me

Come in a word or a look of yours,

Whose words and looks will, circling, flee

Round me and round while life endures, –

Could I fancy ‘As I feel, thus feels he’;

VIII

Why, fade you might to a thing like me,

And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair,

[370] Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree, –

You might turn myself! – should I know or care

When I should be dead of joy, James Lee?

Gold Hair:

A Story of Pornic

I

Oh, the beautiful girl, too white,