Bordeaux, 1917

BOOK V SONNETS

I

Love dwelled with me with music on her lips;
Beauty has quickened me to passion; prayer
Has cried from me before I was aware
When grief was scourging me with scarlet whips. 
The gods gave me to follies false and fair;
Made me the object of immortal quips,
But I am recompensed with comradeships
That gods themselves would be content to share.

The time of play has been, of wisdom, is;
Yet who can say which is the truly wise? 
Enough that I have stayed Love with a kiss,
That Beauty has found welcome in my eyes;
Though the long poplar path leads dark before,
Up to the white inevitable door.

II

Invoking not the worship of the crowd
As Hadrian divulged Antinous
Would I denote Thy sanctity, not thus
Should Love’s deep litany be cried aloud. 
There is a mountain set apart for us
Where I have hid Thy soul as in a cloud,
And there I dedicate as I have vowed
My secret voice,—­all else were impious.

Remote and undiscovered, rest secure
Where I have set Thee up, that I may keep
My faith of God-in-Thee unblent and pure;
That I may be at one with Thee in sleep;
That waking as a mortal, I may leap
Into immortal dreams where love is sure.

III

And yet think not that I desire to seal
Your earthly beauty from the eyes of praise,
The Soul I worship hath its holy-days,
But being God is manifestly real. 
The flesh resplendent in a lover’s gaze
Hath too its triumph; the divine ideal
Is dual and can wonderfully reveal
Itself in dust enriched by subtle ways.

You are no shadow, for in you combine
Earth-music and a spirit’s sanctity,
And both are exquisite, and both are mine... 
For holier men a Beatrice, for me
The joyous sense of your reality,
Not half so saintly,—­but far more divine.

IV

With the young god who out of death creates
The flame of life made manifest in spring,
Let us go forth at day’s awakening,
The first to open wide the garden gates. 
And resting where the blowing seasons sing,
Await the voice of god who consecrates
The pallid hands of the autumnal fates
That beckon from the dusk, dream-harvesting.

When comes the grey god, eager to destroy
Our garnered hoard of wisdom and of joy,
Fear not that phantom, desolate and stark,
For the young god, the all-creating boy,
Will come and find us sleeping in the dark,
And from two deaths, bring forth life’s single spark.

V

O it was gay! the wilderness was floral,
The sea a bath of wine to the laughing swimmer;
Dawn was a flaming fan; dusk was a glimmer
Like undersea where sly dreams haunt the coral. 
The garden sang of fame when the golden shimmer
Of sun glowed on the proud leaves of the laurel,—­
But time and love fought out their ancient quarrel;
The songs are fainter now; the lights are dimmer.