|
“‘AS the dawn loves the sunlight I love thee;’ As men that shall be swallowed of the sea Love the sea’s lovely beauty; as the night That wanes before it loves the young sweet light, And dies of loving; as the worn-out noon Loves twilight, and as twilight loves the moon That on its grave a silver seal shall set— We have loved and slain each other, and love yet. Slain; for we live not surely, being in twain: In her I lived, and in me she is slain, Who loved me that I brought her to her doom, Who loved her that her love might be my tomb. As all the streams on earth and all fresh springs And sweetest waters, every brook that sings, Each fountain where the young year dips its wings First, and the first-fledged branches of it wave, Even with one heart’s love seek one bitter grave. From hills that first see bared the morning’s breast And heights the sun last yearns to from the west, All tend but toward the sea, all born most high Strive downward, passing all things joyous by, Seek to it and cast their lives in it and die. So strive all lives for death which all lives win; So sought her soul to my soul, and therein Was poured and perished: O my love, and mine Sought to thee and died of thee and died as thine. As the dawn loves the sunlight that must cease Ere dawn again may rise and pass in peace; Must die that she being dead may live again, To be by his new rising nearly slain. So rolls the great wheel of the great world round, And no change in it and no fault is found, And no true life of perdurable breath, And surely no irrevocable death. Day after day night comes that day may break, And day comes back for night’s reiterate sake. Each into each dies, each of each is born: Day past is night, shall night past not be morn? Out of this moonless and faint-hearted night That love yet lives in, shall there not be light? Light strong as love, that love may live in yet? Alas, but how shall foolish hope forget How all these loving things that kill and die Meet not but for a breath’s space and pass by? Night is kissed once of dawn and dies, and day But touches twilight and is rapt away. So may my love and her love meet once more, And meeting be divided as of yore. Yea, surely as the day-star loves the sun And when he hath risen is utterly undone, So is my love of her and hers of me— And its most sweetness bitter as the sea. Would God yet dawn might see the sun and die!” Three years had looked on earth and passed it by Since Tristram looked on Iseult, when he stood So communing with dreams of evil and good, And let all sad thoughts through his spirit sweep As leaves through air or tears through eyes that weep Or snowflakes through dark weather: and his soul, That had seen all those sightless seasons roll One after one, wave over weary wave, Was in him as a corpse is in its grave. Yet, for his heart was mighty, and his might Through all the world as a great sound and light, The mood was rare upon him; save that here In the low sundawn of the lightening year With all last year’s toil and its triumph done He could not choose but yearn for that set sun Which at this season saw the firstborn kiss That made his lady’s mouth one fire with his. Yet his great heart being greater than his grief Kept all the summer of his strength in leaf And all the rose of his sweet spirit in flower; Still his soul fed upon the sovereign hour That had been or that should be; and once more He looked through drifted sea and drifting shore That crumbled in the wave-breach, and again Spake sad and deep within himself: “What pain Should make a man’s soul wholly break and die, Sapped as weak sand by water? How shall I Be less than all less things are that endure And strive and yield when time is? Nay, full sure All these and we are parts of one same end; And if through fire or water we twain tend To that sure life where both must be made one, If one we be, what matter? Thou, O sun, The face of God, if God thou be not—nay, What but God should I think thee, what should say, Seeing thee rerisen, but very God?—should I, I fool, rebuke thee sovereign in thy sky, The clouds dead round thee and the air alive, The winds that lighten and the waves that strive Toward this shore as to that beneath thy breath, Because in me my thoughts bear all towards death? O sun, that when we are dead wilt rise as bright, Air deepening up toward heaven, and nameless light, And heaven immeasurable, and faint clouds blown Between us and the lowest aerial zone And each least skirt of their imperial state— Forgive us that we held ourselves so great! What should I do to curse you? I indeed Am a thing meaner than this least wild weed That my foot bruises and I know not—yet Would not be mean enough for worms to fret Before their time and mine was. “Ah, and ye Light washing weeds, blind waifs of dull blind sea, Do ye so thirst and hunger and aspire, Are ye so moved with such long strong desire In the ebb and flow of your sad life, and strive Still toward some end ye shall not see alive— But at high noon ye know it by light and heat Some half-hour, till ye feel the fresh tide beat Up round you, and at night’s most bitter noon The ripples leave you naked to the moon? And this dim dusty heather that I tread, These half-born blossoms, born at once and dead, Sere brown as funeral cloths, and purple as pall, What if some life and grief be in them all? “Ay, what of these? but, O strong sun! O sea! I bid not you, divine things! comfort me, I stand not up to match you in your sight Who hath said ye have mercy toward us, ye who have might? And though ye had mercy, I think I would not pray That ye should change your counsel or your way To make our life less bitter: if such power Be given the stars on one deciduous hour, And such might be in planets to destroy Grief and rebuild, and break and build up joy, What man would stretch forth hand on them to make Fate mutable, God foolish, for his sake? For if in life or death be aught of trust, And if some unseen just God or unjust Put soul into the body of natural things And in time’s pauseless feet and worldwide wings Some spirit of impulse and some sense of will That steers them through the seas of good and ill To some incognizable and actual end, Be it just or unjust, foe to man or friend, How should we make the stable spirit to swerve, How teach the strong soul of the world to serve, The imperious will in time and sense in space That gives man life turn back to give man place— The conscious law lose conscience of its way, The rule and reason fail from night and day, The streams flow back toward whence the springs began, That less of thirst might sear the lips of man? Let that which is be, and sure strengths stand sure, And evil or good and death or life endure, Not alterable and rootless, but indeed A very stem born of a very seed That brings forth fruit in season: how should this Die that was sown, and that not be which is, And the old fruit change that came of the ancient root, And he that planted bid it not bear fruit, And he that watered smite his vine with drouth Because its grapes are bitter in our mouth, And he that kindled quench the sun with night Because its beams are fire against our sight, And he that tuned untune the sounding spheres Because their song is thunder in our ears? How should the skies change and the stars, and time Break the large concord of the years that chime, Answering, as wave to wave beneath the moon That draws them shoreward, mar the whole tide’s tune For the instant foam’s sake on one turning wave— For man’s sake that is grass upon a grave? How should the law that knows not soon or late, For whom no time nor space is—how should fate, That is not good nor evil, wise nor mad, Nor just nor unjust, neither glad nor sad— How should the one thing that hath being, the one That moves not as the stars move or the sun Or any shadow or shape that lives or dies In likeness of dead earth or living skies, But its own darkness and its proper light Clothe it with other names than day or night, And its own soul of strength and spirit of breath Feed it with other powers than life or death— How should it turn from its great way to give Man that must die a clearer space to live? Why should the waters of the sea be cleft, The hills be molten to his right and left, That he from deep to deep might pass dry-shod, Or look between the viewless heights on God? Hath he such eyes as, when the shadows flee, The sun looks out with to salute the sea? Is his hand bounteous as the morning’s hand? Or where the night stands hath he feet to stand? Will the storm cry not when he bids it cease? Is it his voice that saith to the east wind, Peace? Is his breath mightier than the west wind’s breath? Doth his heart know the things of life and death? Can his face bring forth sunshine and give rain, Or his weak will that dies and lives again Make one thing certain or bind one thing fast, That as he willed it shall be at the last? How should the storms of heaven and kindled lights And all the depths of things and topless heights And air and earth and fire and water change Their likeness, and the natural world grow strange, And all the limits of their life undone Lose count of time and conscience of the sun, And that fall under which was fixed above, That man might have a larger hour for love?” So musing with close lips and lifted eyes That smiled with self-contempt to live so wise, With silent heart so hungry now so long, So late grown clear, so miserably made strong, About the wolds a banished man he went, The brown wolds bare and sad as banishment, By wastes of fruitless flowerage, and grey downs That felt the sea-wind shake their wild-flower crowns As though fierce hands would pluck from some grey head The spoils of majesty despised and dead, And fill with crying and comfortless strange sound Their hollow sides and heights of herbless ground. Yet as he went fresh courage on him came, Till dawn rose too within him as a flame; The heart of the ancient hills and his were one; The winds took counsel with him, and the sun Spake comfort; in his ears the shout of birds Was as the sound of clear sweet-spirited words, The noise of streams as laughter from above Of the old wild lands, and as a cry of love Spring’s trumpet-blast blown over moor and lea: The skies were red as love is, and the sea Was as the floor of heaven for love to tread. So went he as with light about his head, And in the joyous travail of the year Grew April-hearted; since nor grief nor fear Can master so a young man’s blood so long That it shall move not to the mounting song Of that sweet hour when earth replumes her wings And with fair face and heart set heavenward sings As an awakened angel unaware That feels his sleep fall from him, and his hair By some new breath of wind and music stirred, Till like the sole song of one heavenly bird Sounds all the singing of the host of heaven, And all the glories of the sovereign Seven Are as one face of one incorporate light. And as that host of singers in God’s sight Might draw toward one that slumbered, and arouse The lips requickened and rekindling brows, So seemed the earthly host of all things born In sight of spring and eyeshot of the morn, All births of land or waifs of wind and sea, To draw toward him that sorrowed, and set free From presage and remembrance of all pains The life that leapt and lightened in his veins. So with no sense abashed nor sunless look, But with exalted eyes and heart, he took His part of sun or storm-wind, and was glad, For all things lost, of these good things he had. And the spring loved him surely, being from birth One made out of the better part of earth, A man born as at sunrise; one that saw Not without reverence and sweet sense of awe But wholly without fear of fitful breath The face of life watched by the face of death; And living took his fill of rest and strife, Of love and change, and fruit and seed of life, And when his time to live in light was done With unbent head would pass out of the sun: A spirit as morning, fair and clear and strong, Whose thought and work were as one harp and song Heard through the world as in a strange king’s hall Some great guest’s voice that sings of festival. So seemed all things to love him, and his heart In all their joy of life to take such part, That with the live earth and the living sea He was as one that communed mutually With naked heart to heart of friend to friend: And the star deepening at the sunset’s end, And the moon fallen before the gate of day As one sore wearied with vain length of way, And the winds wandering, and the streams and skies, As faces of his fellows in his eyes. Nor lacked there love where he was evermore Of man and woman, friend of sea or shore, Not measurable with weight of graven gold, Free as the sun’s gift of the world to hold Given each day back to man’s reconquering sight That loses but its lordship for a night. And now that after many a season spent In barren ways and works of banishment, Toil of strange fights and many a fruitless field, Ventures of quest and vigils under shield, He came back to the strait of sundering sea That parts green Cornwall from grey Brittany, Where dwelt the high king’s daughter of the lands, Iseult, named alway from her fair white hands, She looked on him and loved him; but being young Made shamefastness a seal upon her tongue, And on her heart, that none might hear its cry, Set the sweet signet of humility. Yet when he came a stranger in her sight, A banished man and weary, no such knight As when the Swallow dipped her bows in foam Steered singing that imperial Iseult home, This maiden with her sinless sixteen years Full of sweet thoughts and hopes that played at fears Cast her eyes on him but in courteous wise, And lo, the man’s face burned upon her eyes As though she had turned them on the naked sun: And through her limbs she felt sweet passion run As fire that flowed down from her face, and beat Soft through stirred veins on even to her hands and feet As all her body were one heart on flame, Athrob with love and wonder and sweet shame. And when he spake there sounded in her ears As ’twere a song out of the graves of years Heard, and again forgotten, and again Remembered with a rapturous pulse of pain. But as the maiden mountain snow sublime Takes the first sense of April’s trembling time Soft on a brow that burns not though it blush To feel the sunrise hardly half aflush, So took her soul the sense of change, nor thought That more than maiden love was more than nought. Her eyes went hardly after him, her cheek Grew scarce a goodlier flower to hear him speak, Her bright mouth no more trembled than a rose May for the least wind’s breathless sake that blows Too soft to sue save for a sister’s kiss, And if she sighed in sleep she knew not this. Yet in her heart hovered the thoughts of things Past, that with lighter or with heavier wings Beat round about her memory, till it burned With grief that brightened and with hope that yearned, Seeing him so great and sad, nor knowing what fate Had bowed and crowned a head so sad and great. Nor might she guess but little, first or last, Though all her heart so hung upon his past, Of what so bowed him for what sorrow’s sake: For scarce of aught at any time he spake That from his own land oversea had sent His lordly life to barren banishment. Yet still or soft or keen remembrance clung Close round her of the least word from his tongue That fell by chance of courtesy, to greet With grace of tender thanks her pity, sweet As running streams to men’s way-wearied feet. And when between strange words her name would fall, Suddenly straightway to that lure’s recall Back would his heart bound as the falconer’s bird, And tremble and bow down before the word. “Iseult”—and all the cloudlike world grew flame, And all his heart flashed lightning at her name; “Iseult”—and all the wan waste weary skies Shone as his queen’s own love-enkindled eyes. And seeing the bright blood in his face leap up As red wine mantling in a royal cup To hear the sudden sweetness of the sound Ring, but ere well his heart had time to bound His cheek would change, and grief bow down his head, “Haply,” the girl’s heart, though she spake not, said, “This name of mine was worn of one long dead, Some sister that he loved:” and therewithal Would pity bring her heart more deep in thrall. But once, when winds about the world made mirth, And March held revel hard on April’s birth Till air and sea were jubilant as earth, Delight and doubt in sense and soul began, And yearning of the maiden toward the man, Harping on high before her: for his word Was fire that kindled in her heart that heard, And alway through the rhymes reverberate came The virginal soft burden of her name. And ere the full song failed upon her ear Joy strove within her till it cast out fear, And all her heart was as his harp, and rang Swift music, made of hope whose birthnote sprang Bright in the blood that kindled as he sang.
There ceased his voice yearning upon the word, |
Back | Words Home | Algernon Charles Swinburne Home | Site Info. | Feedback