If at some future day we two should meet,
Stand face to face before the staring crowd,
And pull from Love's dead form the decent shroud
That time has wound about from head to feet—
I scarcely know what words would come to greet
Your presence, if they would be soft or loud,
Would your head be held high or humbly bowed,
And would the moment bitter be or sweet
To me, as you pushed back the long past years,
Would I rejoice, perhaps, at this new pain?
At least 'twould mean that I could live again,
And had not washed away my soul with tears.
I think there might be much that I could bless
In that deliverance out of nothingness.
THE MEETING
To meet almost as strangers, who have been
Such lovers in the past! no glad delight
To thrill our senses, till the wrong seems right,
For very joy—I wonder will your mien
Be happy? it seems years since I have seen
You smiling! I shall take you to the light,
And trace new lines upon your brow, and right
Above them may be some gray hairs, your clean
Strong profile, will it look the very same?
Are your hands wrinkled? Oh! my perfect hands!
Be not less lovely now that passion stands
Aloof, and dare not kiss you into flame—
I could not bear it! Time can never blight
Such marvels, so divinely slim and white.
TO SOME ONE!
Why kinder to the breeze than unto me?
For oft you let him play within your hair,
Blow its soft curls about, and find it fair,
The while he whispers low and tenderly
Into your ear; and yet how cold is he!
And loves you not, but only frolics there;
Sometimes I wish I might be turned to air,
And thus be rid of my humanity,
That finds no favour in your haughty eyes.
Were I a breeze you'd fling your windows wide,
And give me welcome, as I swept aside
The curtain, kissing all pride now denies,
Your lips, your cheeks, your eyes, your throat, your breast,
Until with kissing spent I sank to rest.
OUT AT SEA
The sea was witness of the words you said:
She hushed her every tide that she might hear
Your whispered love, and while you bent so near
My bosom, laying down your weary head
To rest thereon—the corals in their bed
Stirred with emotion, shaken as with fear,
And foam grew paler, passionately drear
As some wan smile, upon a face that's dead.
I took your hand in mine, your living hand!
And pressed it closer, closer in mine own.
A nameless terror shocked me while I scanned
Your ardent face; there rose a stifled moan
To part my lips; I saw the future stand
Before me, and behold! I was alone.
FAITH
Ah! Faith, I'd barter all I own to know
But one brief moment of your magic charm,
Whereby my spirit freed from earthly woe,
Might spread its wings towards immortal calm.
Is there no wisdom but it steals our peace?
No knowledge but it leads us to unrest?
My mind is weary, and would seek release
From thoughts terrestrial; those indeed are blessed
Upon whose hearts all simple holy things
Fall without question, as a drop of dew
Lights on a rose, and, though she gently swings,
Falls not to earth! ah! rose, if I were you,
I would thrice bless your dumbness, since thereby
Your fragrant lips may never question why.
THE SCAR
Upon my life I bear one precious scar:
Each night I kiss it, till anew it bleeds,
And tell each drop of blood, as hallowed beads
Are told by those dear few who faithful are.
To me it seems to beautify, not mar,
My inner self, for from that deep wound leads
A path to gained respect, my secret needs
Quenched by the bleeding of that fountain are.
The fiery contest when that wound was won,
Still burns within my brain, and robs of life,
And terror, every lesser hurt that's done
To heart or spirit; let all harm run rife.
I shall not fear again to look upon
The gleaming edges of Fate's sharpest knife.
COMPARISON
Without what desolation! mist and rain,
And weeping trees, and roses that decay
While still in blossom, till the autumn day
Lies low, and speechless, and benumbed with pain.
An early twilight hides the gentle plain
With mournful dusk, while meadows melt away
Like echoes of those tunes we used to play,
Ere time had turned them to a lost refrain.
But leave the window, turn towards the room,
So soft with firelight on the time-worn beams
A friendly spirit lurks within the gloom
Of dim oak corners, while a host of gleams
Await your fingers on our fancy's loom,
To weave them into happy fireside dreams.
AN INTERLUDE
I
Crush these voluptuous grapes between your teeth,
Your small, strong teeth! and let their purple pain
Be offered in a sacrificial rain
Of sun-warmed essence; while I twine a wreath
Of all their leaves, and place it just beneath
Your high-combed curls, to rest upon the plain
Of your white temples: though the Nymphs disdain
To grace our modern banquet, they bequeath
A sylvan fancy to my wayward dream.
This glint of candles on the silver round
Is yellow moonlight, mirrored in lone stream,
These flowers are springing from the sensuous ground,
And we are Dryads, 'tis a fitting theme
For you to sing; come—thrill the night with sound.
II
The shaded lamps that make the room seem dim
Scarcely revealing pictures on the wall;
Yet one so placed to let a halo fall
Upon your hair; you smile! yes, it's a whim
A Poet's fancy with a moonlit rim
Perhaps—and yet a harmless wish withal.
Don't quarrel with it, just sit there, those tall
White lilies make a background for your slim
Young body. Let the blinds be up, and night
Gaze through the windows with her purple eyes,
Dropping some ardent star from out its height
For very eagerness of glad surprise
At so much beauty, till your song's delight
Shall waft it back into the listening skies!
III
Where shall I find a corner in this room
Almost in darkness? Ah! that deep recess
Of languid cushions, eager to caress
My weary limbs! from out its dreaming gloom
Made holy by the incense of perfume,
All unobserved and happy I'll confess
My senses to those roses, passionless,
And listening in their bowl of silver doom.
Sing, sing, sweet friend, but soft, though eagerly!
With tender pauses in between the notes
Filled up with little sighs, unconsciously—
These rose-dropped petals, they are fairy boats
Our souls may sail on lakes of melody
Adown whose ripples youth eternal floats.
IV
Oh! burning silence! when the very air
Is warm with memories of sounds we love!
You cease to sing, yet from below, above,
Around me, in me, of me, everywhere,
That Music's spirit, tremulously fair
Flutters and flutters, like a wounded dove,
And cannot fly beyond this earthly groove!
Midway it pauses, hanging throbbing there.
I will not speak, lest it should seem profane
In such a presence; idle words of praise
Ye are but mortal sounds, with no refrain
That can endure beyond our passing days,
And so be silent! silent with the pain
Of all deep feeling, that can find no phrase.
V
Kiss me good night, sweet minstrel, on the stairs!
I love your lips, they're neither pale nor red,
But like an after-glow, when day lies dead
Upon the mountains. Do they say soft prayers,
Those languid lips? to God, a God who cares,
And gathers such dear follies thread by thread
As each is woven in your mind, and shed
Like gold spun silk upon His field of tares?
You're silent! let it pass; who knows but you,
So strong in weakness, may compel God's ear
To listen for the smallest drop of dew
That all our thunders would disdain to hear:
And so, Sweet, if you pray, repeat anew
To God, that while you sang I wept a tear!
VI
This morning while I light my cigarette
In this dim study with its endless view
Stretching away to hills whose eyes are blue
With secret thoughts, my thoughts are all regret,
Regret for broken interludes! and yet—
If it were otherwise, who knows but you
Might grow to pall, as things familiar do,
While now it seems worth while to not forget!
And so good-bye, my friend, drift out in smoke,
Vague, and intangible, a fleeting joy
That some stray match of fate in passing woke,
To burn awhile, like this small soothing toy
Between my lips: Time's galling iron yoke
Is not for us, we made and we'll destroy.
CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
The following poems from "'Twixt Earth and Stars," by Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall, have been set to music:
By MR. HUBERT BATH
"A Song." Chappell and Co.
"Italian Spring." Boosey and Co.
"On the Lagoon." Boosey and Co.
By MR. EATHORPE MARTIN
"Shall I Complain?" Metzler and Co.
Transcriber's Notes
Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.