THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE HERE, where the world is quiet, I am tired of tears and laughter, For men that sow to reap: Here life has death for neighbor, And no such things grow here No growth of moor or coppice, Pale, without name or number, Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken Blind buds that snows have shaken, We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; Time stoops to no man's lure; From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, That no life lives for ever; Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any sound or sight: In an eternal night. LOVE AT SEA WE are in love's land to-day ; Love, shall we start or stay, There's many a wind and way, Our landwind is the breath And joys that were: Our ballast is a rose; Our way lies where God knows 1866. We are in love's hand to-day Our seamen are fledged Loves, Our ropes are dead maids' hair, And manifold. unclosing Wings of a great wind. So the goddess fled from her place, with awful We are in love's land to-day-Sound of feet and thunder of wings Where shall we land you, sweet? around her; While behind a clamor of singing women Severed the twilight. The night shakes them round me in legions, Dawn drives them before her like dreams: Time sheds them like snows on strange regions, Swept shoreward on infinite streams; Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy, Dead fruits of the fugitive years; Some stained as with wine and made bloody, And some as with tears. Some scattered in seven years' traces, As they fell from the boy that was then; Long left among idle green places, Or gathered but now among men; On seas full of wonder and peril, Blown white round the capes of the north; Or in islands where myrtles are sterile O daughters of dreams and of stories Félise and Yolande and Juliette, Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you, When sleep, that is true or that seems, Comes back to me hopeless to kiss you, O daughters of dreams? They are past as a slumber that passes, When their hollows are full of the So the birds that flew singing to meward Recede out of sight. The songs of dead seasons, that wander Light flocks of untameable birds; Some sang to me dreaming in class time And truant in hand as in tongue; For the youngest were born of boy's pastime, The eldest are young. Is there shelter while life in them lingers, Is there hearing for songs that recede, Tunes touched from a harp with men's fingers, Or blown with boy's mouth in a reed! Is there place in the land of your labor, Is there room in your world of delight, Where change has not sorrow for neighbor And day has not night? In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers, Will you spare not a space for them there Made green with the running of rivers In a land of clear colors and stories, Covers The flush of her amorous face, For the song-birds of sorrow, that muffle Their music as clouds do their fire: For the storm-birds of passion, that ruffle Wild wings in a wind of desire; In the stream of the storm as it settles Blown seaward, borne far from the sun, Shaken loose on the darkness like petals Dropped one after one? Though the world of your hands be more gracious And lovelier in lordship of things Clothed round by sweet art with the spacious Warm heaven of her imminent wings, Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting, For the love of old loves and lost times; And receive in your palace of painting Though the seasons of man full of losses |