A Lover's Diary, Complete

      HE that hath pleasant dreams is more fortunate
                than one who hath a cup-bearer.
                                            —Egyptian Proverb.

          So, thou art gone; and I am left to wear
          Thy memory as a golden amulet
          Upon my breast, to sing a chansonnette
          Of winter tones, when summer time is here.

          And yet, my heart arises from the dark,
          Where it fell back in silence when you went
          To seaward, and a sprite malevolent
          Sat laughing in the white sails of thy barque.

          ‘Twas not moth-wings dashing against the flame,
          Burning in love’s areanum; ‘twas a cry
          Struck from soul-crossing chords, that, separate, frame

          Life’s holy calm, or wasting agony.
          But now between the warring strings there grows
          A space of peace, as ‘tween truce-honoured foes.

          Here one by one come back the thousand things
          Which made divinely sweet our intercourse;
          Love summons them here straightway to divorce
          The heart from melancholy wanderings.

          “Here laid she her white hand upon my arm;
          To this place came she with slow-gliding grace;
          Here smiled she up serenely in my face;
          And these sweet notes she sang me for a charm.”

          I treasure up her words, and say them o’er
          With close-shut eyes; with her again I float
          Upon the Loire; I see the gems she wore,

          The ruby shining at her queenly throat;
          I climb with her again the Pyrenees,
          And hear her laughter ringing through the trees.

          I in my childhood never saw the sea
          Save in my dreams.  There it was vast and lone,
          Splendid in power, breaking against the stone
          Walls of the world in thunder symphony.

          From it arose mists growing into mists
          Making a cool white curtain for the sun,
          And melting mornward when the day was done,
          A moving sphere where spirits kept their trysts.

          A ceaseless swinging with the swinging earth,
          A never-tiring ebbing to and fro,
          Trenching eternal fastnesses; a girth

          Round mountains in their everlasting snow.
          It was a vast emotion, fibre-drawn
          From all the elements since the first dawn.

          Then came in further years the virgin sight
          Of the live sea; the sea that marches down,
          With sunny phalanxes and flags of foam,
          To match its puissance with earth’s awful might.

          Far off the purple mist drew into mist,
          As thought melts into endless thought, and round
          The rim of the sheer world was heard a sound,
          Floating through palpitating amethyst.

          And through the varying waste of elements
          There passed a sail, which caught the opposing wind,
          Triumphant, as an army in its tents

          Beholds the foe it, conquering, left behind.
          “And Life,” I said,—“Life is but like the sea;
          And what shall guide us to our destiny?”

          The prescience of dreams struck walls away
          From mortal fact, and mortal fact revealed,
          With myriad voices, potencies concealed
          In the dim birth-place of a coming day.

          Even as a blind man’s fingers wander o’er
          His harpstrings, led by sound to dreams of sound,
          Till in his soul an eloquence profound
          Rises above the petulance and roar

          Of the great globe: as in a rush of song
          From feathered throats, one, in a mighty wood,
          ‘Mid sweet interpositions moves along

          The avenues of some predestined good;
          So I, dream-nurtured, standing by the sea,
          Made levy on the wonders that should be.

          And God is good, I said, and Art is good,
          And labour hath its rich reward of sleep;
          And recompense will come for all who keep
          Dishonour’s ill contagion from the blood.

          And over us there curves the infinite
          Blue heaven as a shield, and at the end
          We shall find One who loveth to befriend
          E’en those who faint for shame within His sight.

          And down the awful passes of the sky
          There comes the voice that circumvents the gale;
          That makes the avalanche to pass us by,

          And saith, “I overcome” to man’s “I fail.”
           “And peradventure now,” said I, “the zest
          Of all existence waits on His behest.”

          But man’s deliverances intervene
          Between the soul’s swift speech and God’s high will;
          That saith to tempests of the thought, “Be still!”
           And in life’s lazaretto maketh clean

          The leprous sense.  Ah, who can find his way
          Among the many altars?   Who can call
          Out perfect peace from any ritual,
          Or shelter find in systems of a day?

          As one sees on some ancient urn, upthrown
          From out a tomb, records that none may read
          With like interpretation, and the stone

          Retains its graven fealty to the dead:
          So, on the great palimpsest men have writ
          Such lines o’ercrossed that none interprets it.

          What marvel that the soul of youth should cry,
          “Man builds his temples ‘tween me and the face
          Of Him whom I would seek; I cannot trace
          His purpose in their shadow, nor descry

          The wisdom absolute?”  What marvel that,
          With yearning impotent, ay, impotent
          Beyond all measure! his full faith was spent,
          And for his soul there rose no Ararat?

          Yet out upon the sun-drawn sensate sea
          Of elemental pain, there came a word
          As if from Him who travelled Galilee,

          As fair as any Zion ever heard.
          The voice of Love spoke; Love, that writes its name
          On Life and Death-and then my lady came.

          As light leaps up from star to star, so mounts
          Faith from one soul unto another; so
          The lower to the higher; till the flow
          Of knowledge rises from creation’s founts;

          Until from human love we come to know
          The august presence of the Love Divine;
          And feel the light unutterable shine
          Upon half-lights that we were wont to show,

          Absorbing them.  ‘Tis Love that beckons us
          From low desires, from restlessness and sin,
          To heights that else we had not reached; and thus

          We find the Heaven we dared not hope to win.
          How clearer seem designs immortal when
          Our lives are fed on Love’s fine regimen

          “It is no matter;”—thus the noble Dane,
          About his heart more ill than one could tell;
          Sad augury, that like a funeral bell
          Against his soul struck solemn notes of pain.

          So ‘gainst the deadly smother he could press
          With calm his lofty manhood; interpose
          Purpose divine, and at the last disclose
          For life’s great shift a regnant readiness.

          To-day I bought some matches in the street
          From one whose eyes had long since lost their sight.
          Trembling with palsy was he to his feet.

          “Father,” I said, “how fare you in the night?”
           “In body ill, but ‘tis no matter, friend,
          Strong is my soul to keep me to the end.”

        DISTRUST not a woman nor a king—it availeth nothing.
                                                  —Egyptian Proverb.

        WHEN thou journeyest into the shadows, take not sweetmeats
          with thee, but a seed of corn and a bottle of tears and wine;
          that thou mayst have a garden in the land whither thou goeat.
                                                  —Egyptian Proverb.

          Once more, once more!  That golden eventide!
          Golden within, without all cold and grey,
          Slowly you came forth from the troubled day,
          Singing my heart—you glided to my side;

          You glided in; the same grave, quiet face,
          The same deep look, the never-ending light
          In your proud eyes, eyes shining through the night,
          That night of absence—distance—from your place.

          Calm words, slow touch of hand, but, oh, the cry,
          The long, long cry of passion and of joy
          Within my heart; the star-burst in the sky—

          The world—our world—which time may not destroy!
          Your world and mine, unutterably sweet:
          Dearest, once more, the old song at thy feet.

          Dearest, once more! This I could tell and tell
          Till life turned drowsy with the ceaseless note;
          Dearest, once more! The words throb in my throat,
          My heart beats to them like a muffled bell.

          Change—Time and Change! O Change and Time, you come
          Not knocking at my door, knowing me gone;
          Here have I dwelt within my heart alone,
          Watching and waiting, while my muse was dumb

          Song was gone from me—sweet, I could not sing,
          Save as men sing upon the lonely hills;
          Under my hand the old chord ceased to ring,

          Hushed by the grinding of the high gods’ mills.
          Dearest, once more. Those mad mills had their way—
          Now is mine hour.   To every man his day.

          How have I toiled, how have I set my face
          Fair to the swords! No man could say I quailed;
          Ne’er did I falter; I dare not to have failed,
          I dare not to have dropped from out the race.

          Good was the fight—good, till a piteous dream
          Crept from some direful covert of despair;
          Showed me your look, that look so true and fair,
          Distant and bleak; for me no more to gleam.

          Then was I driven back upon my soul,
          Then came dark moments; lady, then I drew
          Forth from its place the round unfathomed bowl

          Of sorrow, and from it I quaffed to you;
          Speaking as men speak who have lost
          Their hearts’ last prize—and dare not count the cost.

          But you are here unchanged.  You say not so
          In words, but when you placed your hands in mine;
          But when I saw the same old glory shine
          Within your eyes, I read it; and I know.

          And when those hands ran up along my arm,
          And rested on my shoulder for a space,
          A sacred inquisition in your face,
          To read my heart, how could I doubt that charm,

          That truth ineffable!—I set my soul
          In hazard to a farthing, that you kept
          The faith, with pride unspeakable, the whole

          Course of those years in which communion slept.
          Your soul flamed in your look; you read; I knew
          How little worth was I, how heavenly you.

          I read your truth. You read—What did you read?
          Did you read all, and, reading all, forgive?
          How I—O little dwarf of conscience sieve
          My soul; bare all before her bare indeed!

          And, looking on the remnant and the waste,
          Can you absolve me,—me, the doubter, one
          Who challenged what God spent His genius on,
          His genius and His pride; so fair, so chaste?

          I am ashamed. . . . And when I told my dreams,
          Shaken and humble,—“Dear, there was no cause,”
           Your words; proud, sorrowful, as it beseems

          Such as thou art. There never was a cause
          Why you should honour me. Ashamed am I.
          And you forgive me, bless me, for reply.

          You bless me, then you turn away your head—
          “Never again, dear. I have blessed you so,
          My lips upon your lips; between must flow
          The river—Oh the river!”  Thus you said.

          The river—Oh the river, and the sun;
          Stream that we may not cross, sun that is joy:
          Flow as thou must; shine on in full employ—
          Shine through her eyes thou; let the river run.

          O lady, to your liegeman speak.  You say:
          “Dream no more dreams; yourself be as am I!”
           Your hands clasped to your face, so shutting out the day.

          An instant, then to me, your low good-bye—
          Good-night, good-bye; and then the social reign,
          The lights, the songs, the flowers—and the pain.

          “Oh, hush!” you said; “oh, hush!” The twilight hung
          Between us and the world; but in your face,
          Flooding with warm inner light, the sovereign grace
          Of one who rests the brooding trees among—

          Of one who steps down from a lofty throne,
          Seeking that peace the sceptre cannot call;
          And leaving courtier, page, and seneschal,
          Goes down the lane of sycamores alone;

          And, going, listens to the notes that swell
          From golden throats—stories of ardent days,
          And lovers in fair vales; and homing bell:

          And the sweet theme unbearable, she prays
          The song-bird cease! So, on the tale I dare,
          Your “hush!” your wistful “hush!” broke like prayer.

          “Never,” you said, “never this side the grave,
          And what shall come hereafter, who may know?
          Whether we e’en shall guess the way we go,
          Passing beneath Death’s mystic architrave

          Silence or song, dumb sleep or cheerful hours?”
           O lady, you have questioned, answer too.
          You—you to die—silence and gloom for you:
          Dead song, dead lights, dead graces, and dead flowers?

          It is not so: the foolish trivial end,
          The inconsequent paltry Nothing—gone—gone all;
          The genius of the ageless Something spend

          Itself within this little earthly wall:
          The commonplace conception, that we reap
          Reward of drudge and ploughman—idle sleep!

          You shall live on triumphant, you shall take
          Your place among the peerless, fearless ones;
          And those who loved you here shall tell their sons
          To honour every woman for your sake.

          And those your Peers shall say, “Others are pure,
          Others are noble, others too have vowed,
          And for a vow have suffered; but she bowed
          Her own soul and another’s to endure.

          She smote the being more to her than all,—
          Her own soul and the world,—a truth to hold,
          Faith with the dead; and hung a heavy pall

          ‘Tween her and love and life. The world is old,
          It hath sent here none queenlier.  Of the few,
          The royal few is she, martyred and true.”

          Upon the rack of this tough world I hear,
          As when Cordelia’s glories all dissever-
          “Never—never—never—never—never,—”
           That wild moan of the dispossessed Lear.

          O world, vex not this ghost, yea, let it pass,
          The Spirit of these songs.  The fool hath mocked,
          The fool our woe upon us hath unlocked
          From where the soul holds to our lips the glass,

          To see what breath of life.  O fool, poor fool,
          Well, we have laughed together, you and I.
          O fond insulter, in the healing pool

          Of your deep poignant raillery I lie.
          Let us be grand again, my fool.  The throne
          Is gone; but see, the coronation stone!

          Know you where I, my royal fool, was crowned?
          A rock within the great Egean?  Where
          A strong flood hurrieth on Finistere?
          Where at the Pole our valiant men were drowned?

          Where the soft creamy wash of Indian seas
          Spreads palmward? Where the sunset glides to dawn,
          No night between? Where all the tides are drawn
          To greet their Sun and bathe their Idol’s knees?

          Where was I crowned? Dear fool, upon a stone
          That standeth where Earth’s arches make but one,
          Where all the banners of her soul were flown,

          And trumpeted the legions of the sun.
          The stone is left: ‘tis here against the door
          Of throne and kingdom. . . . Pray you, mock no more.

          A time will come when we again shall rail—
          Not yet, not yet.  The flood comes on apace,
          That deep dividing river, and her face
          Grows dimmer as it widens—pale, so pale.

          Have we not railed and laughed these many days,
          Mummers before the lights?  Dear fool, your hand
          Upon your lips—Oh let us once be grand,
          Grand as we were when treading royal ways.

          Lo, there she moves beyond the river.  Gone—
          Gone is the sun-lo, starlight in her eyes.
          See, how she standeth silent and alone—

          Oh, hush! let us not vex her with our cries.
          Proud as of old, unto my throne I go. . . .
          Cordelia’s gone...... Hush, draw the curtain—so.

          When you and I have played the little hour,
          Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death
          Yield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath,
          The first long breath of freedom; when the flower

          Of Recompense has fluttered to our feet,
          As to an actor’s; and the curtain down,
          We turn to face each other all alone—
          Alone, we two, who never yet did meet,

          Alone, and absolute, and free: oh, then,
          Oh, then, most dear, how shall be told the tale?
          Clasped hands, pressed lips, and so clasped hands again;

          No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail,
          My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan
          Of joy; and then our infinite Alone.