A Lover's Diary, Complete

          She gave me courage when I weakly said,
          “O see how drifting, derelict, am I!
          The tide runs counter, and the wind is high;
          I see no channel through the rocks ahead.

          My arm is impotent; what worth to trim
          The bending sails! Look, I shall quaff a cup
          To Fate, while the wild ocean swallows up
          The shipwrecked youth, the man who lives in him.”

          She said: “But thou hast valour, dear, too much
          For such as this; thou hast grave embassy,
          Given with thy birth; would’st thou thine honour smutch

          With coward failing? Dear son, breast the sea.”
           Firm-purposed from that hour, through wind and wave,
          I brought my message till thou shelter gave.

          When first I saw thee, lady, straightway came
          The thought that somehow, somewhere, destiny,
          Through blinding paths of happiness or blame,
          Would bend my way of life, my soul to thee.

          But then I put it from me: was not I
          A wanderer? To-morrow I should be
          In other lands-beside another sea;
          Nay, you were but a star-gleam in my sky.

          And so I came not in your sight awhile,
          You gave no thought, and I passed not away;
          But like some traveller in a deep defile

          I walked in darkness even through the day:
          Until at last the hands of Circumstance
          Pointed the hour that waked me from my trance.

          I did not will this thing.    I set my face
          Towards duty and my art; I was alone.
          How knew I thou shouldst roll away the stone
          From hopes long buried, by thy tender grace?

          What does it matter that we make resolve?
          The Fates laugh at us as they sit and spin;
          We cannot tell what Good is, or what Sin,
          Or why old faiths in mist of pain dissolve.

          We only can stand watchful in the way,
          Waiting with patient hands on shield and sword,
          Ready to meet disaster in the fray,

          Till Time has struck the letters of one word—
          Word of such high-born worth: triumphant Love,
          Give me thy canopy where’er I rove.

          As one who waiteth for the signet ring
          Of his dear sovereign, that his embassy
          May have clear passport over land and sea,
          And make the subject sacred as his king;

          As waits the warrior for a pontiff’s palm,
          Upraised in blessing o’er his high emprise;
          And bows his mailed forehead prayerful-wise,
          Sinking his turbulency in deep calm:

          So waited I for one seal to be set
          Upon my full commission, for a sign
          That should make impotent man’s “I forget,”

          And make God’s “I remember” more divine:
          Which should command at need the homage of
          The armed squadrons of all loyal love.

          But yestermorn my marshalled hopes were held
          Upon the verge of august pilgrimage;
          To-day I am as birds that leave the cage
          To seek green fastnesses they knew of eld;

          To-day I am as one who hides his face
          Within his golden beaver, and whose hand
          Clenches with pride his tried and conquering brand,
          Ay, as a hunter mounted for the chase.

          For, see: upon my lips I carry now
          A touch that speaks reveille to my soul;
          I have a dispensation large enow

          To enfold the world and circumscribe each pole.
          Slow let me speak it: From her lips and brow
          I took the gifts she only could endow.

          O gifts divine as any ever knew
          The noble spirits of an antique time;
          As any poets fashion in their rhyme,
          Or angels whisper down the shadeless blue!

          The priceless gifts of holy confidence,
          That speak through quivering lips from heart to heart;
          That unto life new energies impart,
          And open up the gates of prescience.

          O dear my love, I unto thee have given
          Pledge that I am thy vassal evermore;
          I stand within the zenith of my Heaven,

          On either hand a starred eternal shore
          I have come nearer to thy greater worth,
          For thou hast raised me from the common earth.

          I can say now, “There was the confluence
          Of all Love’s tributaries; there the sea
          Of Love spread out towards eternity;
          And there my coarser touched her finer sense.

          Poor though I am in my own sight, I know
          That thou hast winnowed, sweet, what best I am;
          Upon my restlessness thy ample calm
          Hath fallen as on frost-bound earth the snow.

          It hideth the harsh furrows that the wheels
          Of heavy trials made in Life’s champaign;
          Upon its pure unfolding sunshine steals,

          And there is promise of the spring again.
          Here make I proclamation of my faith,
          And poise my fealty o’er the head of Death.”

          If Death should come to me to-night, and say:
          “I weigh thy destiny; behold, I give
          One little day with this thy love to live,
          Then, my embrace; or, leave her for alway,

          And thou shalt walk a full array of years;
          Upon thee shall the world’s large honours fall,
          And praises clamorous shall make for all
          Thy strivings rich amends.” If in my ears

          Thou saidst, “I love thee!” I would straightway cry,
          “A thousand years upon this barren earth
          Is death without her: for that day I die,

          And count my life for it of poorest worth.”
           Love’s reckoning is too noble to be told
          By Time’s slow fingers on its sands of gold.

          As in a foreign land one threads his way
          ‘Mid alien scenes, knowing no face he meets;
          And, hearing his name spoken, turns and greets
          With wondering joy a friend of other days;

          As in the pause that comes between the sound
          And recognition, all the finer sense
          Is swathed in a melodious eloquence,
          Which makes his name seem in its sweetness drowned

          So stood I, by an atmosphere beguiled
          Of glad surprise, when first thy lips let fall
          The name I lightly carried when a child,

          That I shall rise to at the judgment call.
          The music of thy nature folded round
          Its barrenness a majesty of sound.

          Since I rose out of child-oblivion
          I have walked in a world of many dreams,
          And noble souls beside the shining streams
          Of fancy have with beckonings led me on.

          Their faces oft, mayhap, I could not see,
          Only their waving hands and noble forms.
          Sometimes there sprang between quick-gathered storms,
          But always they came back again to me.

          Women with smiling eyes and star-spun hair
          Spake gentle things, bade me look back to view
          The deeds of the great souls who climbed the stair

          Immortal, and for whom God’s manna grew:
          Dante, Anacreon, Euripides,
          And all who set rich wine upon the lees.

          Men of brave stature came and placed their hands
          Upon my head, and, lifting shining swords,
          Drew through the air signs mightier than words,
          And vanished in the sun upon the sands.

          Glimpses I caught of faces that have come
          Through crowding ages; whisperings of songs;
          And prayers for the redress of human wrongs
          From voices that upon the earth are dumb.

          They were but shadows, but they lent me joy;
          They gave me reverence for all who pace
          The world with hands raised, evil to destroy,

          Who live but for the honour of their race.
          They taught me to strike at no idol raised,
          Worshipped a space, then left to be dispraised.

          Stedfastness, shall we find it, then, at all?
          Is it that as the winds blow north and south,
          So must be praises from the loud world’s mouth,
          Which on its heroes in their glory fall?

          Because the voice grows stiller, or the arm
          No longer can beat evils back; because
          The shoulders sink beneath new-rising cause,
          And the fine thought has lost its moving charm;

          Because of these shall puny sages shake
          Their heads, and haste to mock the failing one,
          Who in his strength could make the nations quake;

          Prophet like Daniel, King like Solomon!
          In this full time we have seen mockers run
          About the throne of such as Tennyson.

          Who saith thy hand is weak, King Tennyson?
          Who crieth, See, the monarch is grown old,
          His sceptre falls? Oh, carpers rude and bold,
          You who have fed upon the gracious benison

          Scattered unstinted by him, do you now
          Dispraise the sweet-strung harp, grown tremulous
          ‘Neath fingers overworn for all of us?
          You cannot tear the laurels from his brow.

          He lives above your idle vaunts and fears,
          Enthroned where all master souls stand up
          In their high place, and fill the golden cup,

          God-blest for kings, with wine of endless years,
          And greet him one with them. O brotherhood
          Of envious dullards, ye are wroth with good.

          Why, let them rail! God’s full anointed ones
          Have heard the world exclaim, “We know you not.”
           They who by their souls’ travailing have brought
          Us nearer to the wonder of the suns.

          Yet, who can stay the passage of the stars?
          Who can prevail against the thunder-sound?
          The wire that flashes lightning to the ground
          Diverts, but not its potency debars.

          So, men may strike quick stabs at Caesar’s worth,—
          They only make his life an endless force,
          ‘Scaped from its penthouse, flashing through the earth,

          And ‘whelming those who railed about his Gorse.
          Men’s moods disturb not those born truly great:
          They know their end; they can afford to wait.

          And so life passed. I lived from year to year
          With shadows, the strong warders of desire;
          I learned through them to seek the golden fire
          That hides itself in Song’s bright hemisphere.

          Through them I grew full of imaginings,
          I made strange pictures, conjured images
          From my deep longings; wrote the passages
          Of life inwrought with half-glad wonderings.

          For who can know a majesty of peace,
          That wanders, ever waiting for a voice
          To say to him, “Behold, at last surcease

          Of thy unrest has come, therefore, rejoice”?
          Here set I down some dreams that come again,
          Almost forgotten in my higher gain.

          A ship at sea; a port to anchor in;
          Not far a starry light upon the shore.
          The sheeted lightning, like a golden door,
          Swings to and fro to let earth-angels in.

          Most bravely has she sailed o’er every sea,
          Withstood the storm-rack, spurned the sullen reef;
          Cherished her strength; and held her guerdon fief
          To him who saith, “My ship comes back to me!

          Behold, I sent her forth a stately thing,
          To be my messenger to farthest lands,
          To Fortunate Isles, and where the silver sands

          Girdle a summer sea; that she might bring
          My bride, who wist not that I loved her so—
          This is no bitter day for me, I trow!”

          A ship in port; well-crossed the harbour-bar;
          The hawser swung, the grinding helm at rest;
          Hands clasping hands, and eyes with eager zest
          Seeking the loved, returning from afar.

          And he, the master, holding little reck
          Of all, save but the idol of his soul,
          Seeks not his loving ardour to control.
          Mark how he proudly treads the whitened deck!

          “My bride, my bride, my lone soul’s best beloved,
          Come forth, come forth! Where art thou, Isobel?—
          Pallid, and wan! Lord, hath it thus befell

          This is but dust; where has the spirit roved?
          O death-cold bride! for this, then, have I strove?
          O phantom ship, O loveless wraith of Love!”

          A day of sunshine in a land of snow,
          And a soft-curtained room, where ruddy flakes
          Of fame fall free, in liquid light that slakes
          The soft desire of one cold, paleface: lo,

          Close-pressed sweet lips, and eyes of violet,
          That are filled up as with a sudden fear—
          A storm’s prelude upon the expectant mere.
          Yet deep behind what never they forget,

          Who ever see in life’s chance or mischance.
          And he who saw, what could he do but say,
          “Fold up the tents; the camp is struck; away!

          Vain victor who rides not in rest his lance!”
           Beside the hearthstone where the flame-flakes fell,
          There lay the cold keys of the citadel.

          A night wind-swept and bound about with glee
          Of Erebus; all light and cheer within;
          White restless hands that falter, then begin
          To weave a music-voiced fantasy.

          And life, and death, and love, and weariness,
          And unrequital, thrid the maze of sound;
          And one voice saith, “Behold, the lost is found!”
           And saith not any more for joyfulness.

          Out of the night there comes a wanderer,
          Who waits upon the threshold, and is still;
          And listens, and bows down his head, until

          His grief-drawn breath startles the heart of her.
          The victor vanquished, at her feet he fell,
          A prisoner in his conquered citadel.

          Two of one name; they standing where the sun
          Makes shadows in the orchard-bloom of spring;
          She holding in her palm a jewelled ring,
          He speaking on what evil it had done.

          “Raise thy pale face and wondrous eyes to mine;
          Let not thy poor lips quiver in such pain;
          Too young and blindly thou hast drunk the wine
          Crushed from the lees of love. Be strong again.

          Trail back thy golden hair from thy broad brow,
          And raise thy lily neck like some tall tower,
          That recks not any strife nor any hour,

          So it but holds its height, heeding not how.
          The noblest find their way o’er paths of ire
          To the clear summit of God’s full desire.”

          I think in that far time when Gabriel came
          And gave short speech to Mary sweet and wise,
          That when the faint fear faded from her eyes,
          And they were filled up with a sudden flame

          Of joy bewildering and wonderment;
          With reverence the angel in her palm
          Laid one white lily, dewy with the balm
          Of the Lord’s garden; saying: “This is sent

          For thine espousal, thou the undefiled;
          And it shall bloom till all be consummate.”
           Lo, then he passed. She, musing where she sate,

          Felt all her being moved in manner wondrous mild;
          Then, laying ‘gainst her bosom the white flower,
          She bowed her head, and said, “It is God’s dower.”

          Dreams, only dreams. They sprang from loneliness
          Of outer life; from innermost desire
          To reach the soul that now in golden fire
          Of cherished song I pray for and caress.

          I wandered through the world with longing gaze,
          To find her who was my hope’s parallel,
          That to her I might all my gospel tell
          Of changeless love, and bid her make appraise.

          I knew that some day I should look within
          The ever-deepening distance of her eyes;
          For, in my dreams, from veiled Seraphim

          Came one, as if in answer to my cries:
          And passing near me, pointed down the road
          That led me at the last to thy abode.

          Into thy land of sunlight I have come,
          And live within thy presence, as a ray
          Of light lives in the brightness of the day;
          And find in thee my heaven and my home.

          Yet what am I that thou shouldst ope the gate
          Of thy most sweet completeness; and should spend
          Rich values of thy life on me thy friend,
          For which I have no worthy duplicate!

          Nay, lady, I no riches have to give;
          I have no name of honour, or the pride
          Of place, to priv’lege me to sit beside

          Thee in thy kingdom, where thy graces live.
          Wilt thou not one day whisper, “You have climbed
          Beyond your merits; pray you, fall behind”?

          Wish thy friend joy of his journey, but pray in secret
          that he have no joy, for then may he return quickly to thee.
                                                   —Egyptian Proverb.

          Divided by no act of thine or mine,
          Forever parted by a fatal deed,
          A fatal feud. Alas! when fathers bleed,
          The children shall fulfil the wild design.

          A Montague hath killed a Capulet,
          A Capulet hath slain a Montague,—
          Twin graves, twin sorrows, and oh, mad to-do
          Of vengeance! oh, dread entail of regret!

          There lie they in their dark, self-chosen graves,
          And from them cries Hate’s everlasting ghost,—
          “Blood hath been shed, and Love and ye are slaves,

          Time wrecks, and freedom drifts upon life’s coast.”
           Yet not for us the relish of that doom
          Which found a throne upon a Juliet’s tomb.

          We must live on; a deeper tragedy:
          To see, to touch, to know, and to desire;
          To feel in every vein the glorious fire
          Of Eden, and to cry, “Oh, to be free!”

          To cry, “Oh, wipe the gloomy stain away,
          Thou who first raised the sword, Who gave the hilt
          Into the hand of man. This blood they spilt—
          Our fathers—oh, blot out the bitter day!

          Erase the hour from out Thy calendar,
          Turn back the hands upon the clock of Time,
          Oh, Artificer of destroying War—

          Their righteous hate who bore us in our crime!”
           “Upon the children!”—‘Tis the cold reply
          Of Him who makes to those who must not die.

          Yet life is sweet. Thy soul hath breathed along,
          Thine eyes have cast their glory on the earth,
          Thy foot hath touched it, and thine hour of birth
          Didst give a new pulse to the veins of song.

          Better to stand amid the toppling towers
          Of every valiant hope; a Samson’s dream,
          Than the deep indolence of Lethe’s stream,
          The loneliness of slow submerging hours.

          Better, oh, better thus to see the wreck,
          And to have rocked to motion of the spheres;
          Better, oh, better to have trod the deck

          Of hope, and sailed the unmanageable years—
          Ay, better to have paid the price, and known,
          Than never felt this tyrannous Alone!

          Upon the disc of Love’s bright planet fell
          A darkness yestereve, and from your lips
          I heard cold words; then came a swift eclipse
          Of joy at meeting on hope’s it-is-well.

          And if I spoke with sadness and with fear;
          If from your gentle coldness I drew back,
          And felt that I had lost the flowery track
          That led to peace in Love’s sweet atmosphere:

          It was because a woful dread possessed.
          My aching heart—the dread some evil star
          Had crossed the warm affection in your breast,

          Had bade me stand apart from where you are.
          The world seemed breaking on my life; I heard
          The crash of sorrows in that chiding word.

          It is not so, and so for evermore,
          That thou and I must live our lives apart;
          I with a patient smother at my heart,
          And thy hand resting on a closed door?

          What couldst thou ever ask me that I should
          Not bend me to achieve thy high behest?
          What cannot men achieve with lance in rest
          Who carry noble valour in their blood?

          And some nobility of high emprise,
          Lady, couldst thou make possible in me;
          If living ‘neath the pureness of thy eyes,

          I found the key to inner majesty;
          And reaching outward, heart-strong, from thy hand,
          Set here and there a beacon in the land.

          Not by my power alone, but thou and I
          Together thinking, working, loving on
          Achievement-wards, as all brave souls have gone,
          Perchance should find new star-drifts in the sky

          That curves above humanity, and set
          Some new interpretation on life’s page;
          Should serve the strivings of a widening age,
          And fashion wisdom from the social fret.

          Deep did Time’s lances go; thou pluck’st them forth,
          And on my sullen woundings laid the balm
          Of thy life’s sweetness. Oh, let my love be worth

          The keeping. My head beneath thy palm,
          Once more I lift Love’s chalice to thine eyes:
          Not till thou blessest me will I arise.

          Here, making count, at every step I see
          Something in her, like to a hidden thought
          Within my life, that long time I had sought,
          But never found till her soul spoke to me.

          And if she said a thousand times, “I did
          Not call thee, thou cam’st seeking; not my voice
          Was it thou heard’st; thy love was not my choice!”
           I should straightway reply, “That of thee hid,

          Even from thyself, lest it should startle thee,
          Hath called me, made me slave and king in one;
          And when the mists of Time shall rise, and we

          Stand forth, it shall be said, Since Time begun
          Ye two were called as one from that high hill,
          Where the creating Master hath His will.”

          I have beheld a multitude stand still
          In such deep silence that a sudden pain
          Struck through the heart in sharing the tense strain,
          And all the world seemed bounded by one will.

          But when precipitated on the sea
          Of human feeling was the incident
          That caught their wonder; then the skies were rent
          With quivering sound, with passion’s liberty.

          So have I stood before this parting day,
          With chilly fingers pressed upon my breast,
          That my heart burst not fleshen bands away,

          And my sharp cry break through my lady’s rest.
          I have shut burning eyelids on the sight
          Of this dread time that scorches my sad night.

          Have I then found thee but to lose thee, friend?
          But touched thee ere thou vanished from my gaze?
          And when my soul is struggling from the maze
          Of many conflicts, must our converse end?

          Across the empty space that now shall spread
          Between us, shall I never go to thee?
          Or thou, beloved, never come to me,
          Save but to whisper prayers above the dead?

          Ah, cruel thought! Shall not Hope’s convoy bear
          To thee the reinforcements of my love?
          Shall I not on thy white hand drop a tear

          Of crowned joy, one day, where thou dost move
          In thy place regally; even as now
          I place my farewell token on thy brow?

          And now when from the shore goes out the ship
          Wherein is set the treasure that I hold
          Closer than miser all his hidden gold,
          Dearer than wine Zeus carried to his lip;

          My aching heart cries from its pent-up pain,—
          “O Love, O Life, O more than life to me,
          How can I live without the surety
          Of thy sweet presence till we meet again!”

          So like a wounded deer I came to thee,
          The arrow of mischance piercing my side;
          And through thy sorrow-healing ministry

          I rose with strength, like giants in their pride.
          But now—but now—how shall I stand alone,
          Knowing the light, the hope of me is gone?

          O brow, so fronted with a stately calm,
          O full completeness of true womanhood,
          O counsel, pleader for all highest good,
          Thou hast upon my sorrow poured thy balm!

          Poor soldier he who did not raise his sword,
          And, touching with his lips the hilt-cross, swear
          In war or peace the livery to wear
          Of one that blessed him with her queenly word.

          Most base crusader, who at night and morn
          Crying Dahin, thought not of her again
          From whose sweet power was his knighthood born,

          For whom he quells the valiant Saracen.
          Shall I not, then, in the tumultuous place
          Of my life’s warfare ever seek thy face?

          Here count I over all the gentle deeds
          Which thou hast done; here summon I thy words,
          Sweeter to me than sweetest song of birds;
          That came like grace immortal to my needs.

          Love’s usury has reckoned such a sum
          Of my indebtedness, that I can make
          No lien large enough to overtake
          Its value—and before it I am dumb!

          Yet, O my gracious, most kind creditor,
          I would not owe to thee one item less
          We cannot give the sun requital for

          Its liberal light; our office is to bless.
          If blessings could be compassed by my prayer,
          High heaven should set star-gems in thy hair.

          Last night I saw the warm white Southern moon
          Sail upward through a smoky amber sea;
          Orion stood in silver majesty
          Where the gold-girdled sun takes rest at noon.

          I slept; I dreamed. Against a sunset sky
          I saw thee stand all garmented in white;
          With hand stretched to me, and there in thy sight
          I went to meet thee; but I heard thee cry:

          “We stand apart as sun from shining sun;
          Thou hast thy place; there rolleth far and near
          A sea between; until life’s all be done

          Thou canst not come, nor I go to thee, dear.”
           Methought I bowed my head to thy decree,
          And donned the mantle of my misery.

          ‘Tis morning now, and dreams and fears are gone,
          And sleep has calmed the fever in my veins,
          And I am strong to drink the cup that drains
          The last drop through my lips, and make no moan.

          Strength I have borrowed from the outward show
          Of spiritual puissance thou dost wear.
          Shall I not thy high domination share
          Over the shock of feeling? Shall I grow

          More fearful than the soldier, when between
          The smoke of hostile cannon lies his way;
          To carry far the colours of his queen,

          While her bright eyes behold him in the fray?
          Here do I smile between the warring hosts
          Of sad farewells; and reek not what it costs.

          And O most noble, and yet once again
          Most noble spirit, if I ever did
          Aught that thy goodness frowns on, be it hid
          Forever, and deep-buried. Let the rain

          Of coming springs fall on the quiet grave.
          Perchance some violets will grow to tell
          That I, when uttering this last farewell,
          Built up a sacrificial architrave;

          That I, who worship thee, have love so great,
          To live in the horizon thou may’st set;
          To stand but in the shadow of the gate,

          Faithful, when coward promptings cry, “Forget.”
           Ah, lady, when I gave my heart to thee,
          It passed into thy lifelong regency.

          Shine on, O sun! Sing on, O birds of song!
          And in her light my heart fashions a tune
          Not wholly sad, most like a tender rune
          Sung by some knight in days gone overlong,

          When he with minstrel eyes in Syrian grove
          Looked out towards his England, and then drew
          From a sweet instrument a sound that grew
          From twilight unto morning of his love.

          Go, then, beloved, bearing as you go
          These songs that have more sunlight far than cloud;
          More summer flowers than dead leaves ‘neath the snow;

          That tell of hopes from which you raised the shroud.
          My lady, bright benignant star, shine on—

          I lift to thee my low Trisagion!

A Lover's Diary, Complete

About This Book

MOTHER

WHEN FIRST I SAW THEE

THE FATES LAUGH

AS ONE WHO WAITETH

THE SEALING

THE PLEDGE

LOVE’S TRIBUTARIES

THE CHOICE

RECOGNITION

THE WAY OF DREAMS

THE ACCOLADE

FALLEN IDOLS

TENNYSON

THE ANOINTED ONES

DREAMS

THE BRIDE

THE WRAITH

SURRENDER

THE CITADEL

MALFEASANCE

ANNUNCIATION

VANISHED DREAMS

INTO THY LAND

DIVIDED

WE MUST LIVE ON

YET LIFE IS SWEET

LOST FOOTSTEPS

THE CLOSED DOOR

THE CHALICE

MIO DESTINO

I HAVE BEHELD

TOO SOON AWAY

THE TREASURE

DAHIN

LOVE’S USURY

THE DECREE

‘TIS MORNING NOW

SACRIFICE

SHINE ON