IF on the tally-board of wasted days
They daily write me for proud idleness,
Let high Hell summons me, and I confess,
No overt act the preferred charge allays.
To-day I thought—what boots it what I thought?
Poppies and gold! Why should I blurt it out?
Or hawk the magic of her name about
Deaf doors and dungeons where no truth is brought?
Who calls me idle? I have thought of her.
Who calls me idle? By God’s truth I’ve seen
The arrowy sunlight in her golden snares.
Let him among you all stand summonser
Who hath done better things! Let whoso hath been
With worthier works concerned, display his wares!
CANZON: THE YEARLY SLAIN
(Written in reply to Manning’s “Korè.”)
“Et huiusmodi stantiae usus est fere in omnibus cantionibus suis
Arnaldus Danielis et nos eum secut, sumus.”
(Dante, De Vulgari Eloquio, II. 10.)
I
AH! red-leafed time hath driven out the rose
And crimson dew is fallen on the leaf
Ere ever yet the cold white wheat be sown
The Moon-flower’s fallen and the branch is bare,
Holding no honey for the starry bees;
The Maiden turns to her dark lord’s demesne.
II
Fairer than Enna’s field when Ceres sows
The stars of hyacinth and puts off grief,
Fairer than petals on May morning blown
Through apple-orchards where the sun hath shed
His brighter petals down to make them fair;
Fairer than these the Poppy-crowned One flees,
And Joy goes weeping in her scarlet train.
III
The faint damp wind that, ere the even, blows
Piling the west with many a tawny sheaf,
Then when the last glad wavering hours are mown
Sigheth and dies because the day is sped;
This wind is like her and the listless air
Wherewith she goeth by beneath the trees,
The trees that mock her with their scarlet stain.
IV
Love that is born of Time and comes and goes!
Love that doth hold all noble hearts in fief!
As red leaves follow where the wind hath flown,
So all men follow Love when Love is dead.
O Fate of Wind! O Wind that cannot spare,
But drivest out the Maid, and pourest lees
Of all thy crimson on the wold again,
V
Korè my heart is, let it stand sans gloze!
Love’s pain is long, and lo, love’s joy is brief!
My heart erst alway sweet is bitter grown;
As crimson ruleth in the good green’s stead,
So grief hath taken all mine old joy’s share
And driven forth my solace and all ease
Where pleasure bows to all-usurping pain.
VI
Crimson the hearth where one last ember glows!
My heart’s new winter hath no such relief,
Nor thought of Spring whose blossom he hath known
Hath turned him back where Spring is banished.
Barren the heart and dead the fires there,
Blow! O ye ashes, where the winds shall please,
But cry, “Love also is the Yearly Slain.”
VII
Be sped, my Canzon, through the bitter air!
To him who speaketh words as fair as these,
Say that I also know the “Yearly Slain.”
KORÈ
From the “Poems of Frederic Manning,” published by John
Murray,
with whose permission we here reprint it.
Yea, she hath passed hereby and blessed the sheaves
And the great garths and stacks and quiet farms,
And all the tawny and the crimson leaves,
Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms
Under the star of dusk through stealing mist
With slow reluctant feet and weary eyes
And eyelids heavy with the coming sleep,
With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs,
She passed as shadows pass amid the sheep
While the earth dreamed and only I was ware
Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.
The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams,
There was no sound amid the sacred boughs
Nor any mournful music in her streams,
Only I saw the shadow on her brows,
Only I knew her for the Yearly Slain
And wept, and weep until she come again.
CANZON: THE SPEAR
[This fashion of stanza is used by Jaufre Rudel in the song
“D’un amor de lonh.”
The measure is to be sung rather than spoken.]
I
’TIS the clear light of love I praise
That steadfast gloweth o’er deep waters,
A clarity that gleams always.
Though man’s soul pass through troubled waters,
Strange ways to him are opened.
To shore the beaten ship is sped
If only love of light give aid.
II
III
Although the clouded storm dismays
Many a heart upon these waters,
The thought of that far golden blaze
Giveth me heart upon the waters,
Thinking thereof my bark is led
To port wherein no storm I dread;
No tempest maketh me afraid.
IV
Yet when within my heart I gaze
Upon my fair beyond the waters,
Meseems my soul within me prays
To pass straightway beyond the waters.
Though I be alway banished
From ways and woods that she doth tread,
One thing there is that doth not fade,
V
Deep in my heart that spear-print stays,
That wound I gat beyond the waters,
Deeper with passage of the days
That pass as swift and bitter waters,
While a dull fire within my head
Moveth itself if word be said
Which hath concern with that far maid.
VI
My love is lovelier than the sprays
Of eglantine above clear waters,
Or whitest lilies that upraise
Their heads in midst of moated waters.
No poppy in the May-glad mead
Would match her quivering lips’ red
If ’gainst her lips it should be laid.
VII
The light within her eyes, which slays
Base thoughts and stilleth troubled waters,
Is like the gold where sunlight plays
Upon the still o’ershadowed waters.
When anger is there minglèd
There comes a keener gleam instead,
Like flame that burns beneath thin jade.
VIII
Know by the words here minglèd
What love hath made my heart his stead,
Glowing like flame beneath thin jade.
CANZON
TO BE SUNG BENEATH A WINDOW
I
II
Man’s love follows many faces,
My love only one face knoweth;
Towards thee only my love floweth,
And outstrips the swift stream’s paces.
Were this love well here displayed,
As flame flameth ’neath thin jade
Love should glow through these my phrases.
III
Though I’ve roamed through many places,
None there is that my heart troweth
Fair as that wherein fair groweth
One whose land here interlaces
Tuneful words, that I’ve essayed.
Let this tune be gently played
Which my voice herward upraises.
IV
If my praise her grace effaces,
Then ’t is not my heart that showeth,
But the skilless tongue that soweth
Words unworthy of her graces.
Tongue, that hath me so betrayed,
Were my heart but here displayed,
Then were sung her fitting praises.
Note. The form and measure are those of Piere Vidal’s
“Ab l’alen tir vas me l’aire.”
The song is fit only to be sung, and is not to be spoken.