第6章

Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:

In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.

My heart stole back across wide wastes of years To One who wandered by a lonely sea, And sought in vain for any place of rest:

'Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest.

I, only I, must wander wearily, And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.'

Poem: E TenebrisCome down, O Christ, and help me! reach Thy hand, For I am drowning in a stormier sea Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:

The wine of life is spilt upon the sand, My heart is as some famine-murdered land Whence all good things have perished utterly, And well I know my soul in Hell must lie If I this night before God's throne should stand.

'He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase, Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name From morn to noon on Carmel's smitten height.'

Nay, peace, I shall behold, before the night, The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame, The wounded hands, the weary human face.

Poem: Vita NuovaI stood by the unvintageable sea Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray;The long red fires of the dying day Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:

'Alas!' I cried, 'my life is full of pain, And who can garner fruit or golden grain From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!'

My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw, Nathless I threw them as my final cast Into the sea, and waited for the end.

When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw From the black waters of my tortured past The argent splendour of white limbs ascend!

Poem: Madonna MiaA lily-girl, not made for this world's pain, With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears, And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:

Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain, Red underlip drawn in for fear of love, And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove, Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.

Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease, Even to kiss her feet I am not bold, Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe, Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

Poem: The New HelenWhere hast thou been since round the walls of Troy The sons of God fought in that great emprise?

Why dost thou walk our common earth again?

Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy, His purple galley and his Tyrian men And treacherous Aphrodite's mocking eyes?

For surely it was thou, who, like a star Hung in the silver silence of the night, Didst lure the Old World's chivalry and might Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!

Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?

In amorous Sidon was thy temple built Over the light and laughter of the sea Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt, Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry, All through the waste and wearied hours of noon;Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned, And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned From Calpe and the cliffs of Herakles!

No! thou art Helen, and none other one!

It was for thee that young Sarpedon died, And Memnon's manhood was untimely spent;It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried With Thetis' child that evil race to run, In the last year of thy beleaguerment;Ay! even now the glory of thy fame Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel, Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.

Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew, Where never mower rose at break of day But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew, And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand Till summer's red had changed to withered grey?

Didst thou lie there by some Lethaean stream Deep brooding on thine ancient memory, The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry?

Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill With one who is forgotten utterly, That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine;Hidden away that never mightst thou see The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening, But only Love's intolerable pain, Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain, Only the bitterness of child-bearing.

The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of Death Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me, While yet I know the summer of my days;For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise, So bowed am I before thy mystery;So bowed and broken on Love's terrible wheel, That I have lost all hope and heart to sing, Yet care I not what ruin time may bring If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.

Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here, But, like that bird, the servant of the sun, Who flies before the north wind and the night, So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear, Back to the tower of thine old delight, And the red lips of young Euphorion;Nor shall I ever see thy face again, But in this poisonous garden-close must stay, Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain, Till all my loveless life shall pass away.

O Helen! Helen! Helen! yet a while, Yet for a little while, O, tarry here, Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!

For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear, Seeing I know no other god but thee:

No other god save him, before whose feet In nets of gold the tired planets move, The incarnate spirit of spiritual love Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.

Thou wert not born as common women are!

But, girt with silver splendour of the foam, Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise!

And at thy coming some immortal star, Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies, And waked the shepherds on thine island-home.