Songs & Sonnets

Love Beatified.

Love, slain by us and buried yesterday, Rose up again, nor in his grave would stay.

On his earth-stainèd brow and sightless eyes Still shone the splendours of our Paradise.

Hushed was each dissonance, every fault made clean, And joys alone I saw, that might have been.

It never seemed our Love could shew so fair As that dead Presence, shrined in glory there.

I would not have our Love to live again, And blend each pleasure with his greater pain.--

Oh better far this blessèd death, and rest! Dead Love I clasp, I cherish to my breast And ever shall, for this I know is best!

Morning, Noon and Night.

I love thee when the gates of eastern light Are opened by the Morning-star, aflame; I love thee when the rose-red heavens proclaim The coming of their lord, to mortal sight, And cloudless, when from his imperial height He looks in glory down. I breathe thy name With thoughts of love, when drowsy Noon the same Poised, equal distance holds, twixt dawn and night.

I love thee when the West begins to glow, And when the restless winds lie still in heaven; I love thee when the deep’ning shadows fall, As comes with Tyrian dye, soft, purple even; But when, from out the waters, rises slow The noiseless Night, I love thee best of all.

Dante.

Thou’rt but a pensive, dreaming Boy, when first To thy sad eyne the sight of Love appears With blessèd Beatrice. Nine circling years Name thee the wounded Lover, whose sweet thirst Is never sated, nor whose fever less. At Campaldino thou’rt the mailèd Knight; Savage to spur thy City on toward right Thou’rt driven, its scape-goat, to the wilderness.

There, in the stranger’s house whose stairs are pain To mount, whose bread is bitter to thy mouth, Dawns thy Great Vision, mid thy soul’s last drouth; And, past Hell’s flame and Purgatory’s round, Greets thee thy love most gentle, once again, Thou frowning Florentine with laurels crowned!

Love’s Blindness.

“O Love, my Love, thou canst not know how sweet, How dear thou art!”--“Naught would I know, save this That thou wilt ever yearn to share my kiss! So being, I reck not whether years be fleet Or endless!”--“But thou canst not see thy face As others see thee! Thy deep eyes that greet Their lucent-mirrored glimmerings, melt and meet In glory there, to blind themselves a space!”

“Hush, O my heart! Thy vain hyperbole Means naught; but take in both thy hands and turn To thee this face of mine, and kiss my brow, And after that mine eyes which cannot see But only feel thy lips that thrill, and now My mouth, and now--O God! thy kisses burn!”

Hesperides.