No More Learning

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We sailed to a wonderful Island
In the golden Antipodes,
Where the waves wore an azure mantle,
The winds were ever at rest,
For we'd left the Old World behind us
A thousand leagues to the West.

We came to that wonderful Island;
Girt by a ring of foam
It lay in the sea like a jewel
Under an azure dome.
The cliffs were all gold in the sunlight,
The strand was a floor of gold,
So we knew we'd come to the Island
We'd read of in tales of old.

Was it long we stayed in our Island?
(Dear, I can never say)
I know we walked on the mountains
Which looked far over the bay.
I know that we laughed for pleasure
(Were we wise or a couple of fools? )
As we gazed at the painted fishes
Which swam in the shallow pools.

And night drew over our Island
The purple pall of the skies,
The air was heavy with fragrance
And soft with the breath of sighs,
And voices out of the forest,
Voices out of the sea,
Told the eternal secret. . . .
Told it to you and me.

And the stars came down from the heavens,
And the magical tropic moon,
To dance a measure together
Over the still lagoon;
And the whisper of distant forests,
The noise of the surf in our ears,
Seemed like the song of the ages
Sung by the passing years.

But we said "farewell" to our Island
Which we had discovered alone. . . .
The sand . . . and the palms . . . and the headland. . . .
The westering wind . . . and the sun.
We said "farewell" to our Island
(Oh! hark to the sullen rain! )
. . . And I knew as it fell behind us
We should not see it again.

For only a few may go there
And they but once may go,
With glamour of stars above them
And the swinging seas below.
But I still hear its forests whisper,
The noise of the surf on the shore,
In that far-off wonderful Island
Which I shall see no more.




Fair Filamelle.


Fair Filamelle is my distress
With all her cruel backwardness.
She will not listen to my pain,
But turneth from me in disdain.
That fair Filamelle,
Her disdain is now my hell.
She hath bewitched me with her eyes,
As Circe did the sailor wise,
Or Egypt did the Roman Prince,
Two thousand years agone.
I've little else but weeping since,
My heart is like a stone.

If you like laughter's silver sound
Why have you dealt me such a wound,
If youth and beauty look askance
At glum and heavy countenance,
Why is it coy and cruel,
Adding to my fire more fuel?
Alas! Alas! it has no care,
Free as the birds which flit in air,
Nor heedfulness has any,
Else were its kindness not so rare,
Its victims then so many.

Ah! fair Filamelle, have pity on my moan,
Else must I die alone,
My heart is like a stone.




The Song of Kisses.


I have no skill in Love's soft war,
Nor am I bold to woo
In the same sort that conquerors are
When they are lovers too.
Tho' passion thunders in my brain
Like ocean on a beach,
My tongue is bounden with a chain
And manacled my speech.
Yet, could I let one word go free
To touch your chords with fire,
Become the wind upon the sea
The plectrum of the lyre,
Then, my Althea, should we be
Two lovers without shame,
All things in their epitome,
The Universe our name.
Then should we bow to Love's command
As the waves kiss the shore
And the rain falls upon the land
That it may thirst no more.
Then should we kiss, with time at bay
As in the Ajalon valley,
A score--two score--two hundred--nay
We would not keep the tally--
A hundred thousand in one bout,
Ten myriads ere we slumbered,
And the stars winked and all went out
To find themselves out-numbered.




The Song of Odysseus.


Out of the dark I return--
The abode of the shades;
The words which they said
Were the strengthless words of the Dead,
Meaningless, nothing importing.

Out of the dark I return
And the House of the Dead;
The endless regions of gloom
Deep sepulchred in the womb
Of Earth, the mother of all things.

Out of the dark I return,
From the stream of the Dead;
I slew a goat on the brink
And they pressed around me to drink
Their shadowy twittering legions.

Out of the dark I return,
From the speech of the Dead;
I asked them for counsel and word,
They twittered like bats when they heard
And wailed for the warm blood flowing.

Out of the dark I return;
(Ye are baffled, Oh! Dead);
Lost hopes, lost hearts, lost loves,
Hollow-eyed, hollow-cheeked are your droves,
I drew my sword and ye vanished.

Out of the dark I return
And the dust of desire;
My ears are still filled with the shrieks
Of the pitiful Dead and my cheeks
Still pale with the paleness of Hades.

Out of the dark I return
For the day, for the deed;
And now to Apollo, the slayer,
I stand and utter a prayer
Humbly, first making obeisance.




STORIES IN VERSE.




Adeimantus.


The dream of Adeimantus
Who carved for a Grecian Prince
Statues of perfect marble,
Fairer than all things since,
Wonderful, white, and gracious
Like lotus flowers on a mere,
Or phantoms born of the moonbeam,
Beyond all praise but a tear.
The dream of Adeimantus
(As he lay upon his bed),
Wonderful, white, and gracious,
And this was the word it said.
"Arise! oh! Adeimantus,
The breath of the dawn blows chill,
The stars begin to fade
Ere the first ray strikes the sill.
Arise! oh! Adeimantus
For here is work to your hand,
If the fingers fashion the dream
As the soul can understand. "
He rose from his troubled bed
Ere the dream had faded away,
And he said, "I will fashion the dream
As the potter fashions the clay. "
He said in his great heart's vanity,
"I will fashion a wondrous thing
To stand in a palace of onyx
And blind the eyes of a king. "
He said in the pride of his soul
As the birds began to sing,
"I will surely take no rest
Till I fashion this wondrous thing.
I will swear an oath to eschew
The white wine and the red,
To eat no delicate meats
Nor break the fair, white bread.
I will not walk in the city
But labour here alone
In the dew and the dusk and the flush
Till the vision smiles from the stone. "
Six days he wrought at the marble,
But cunning had left his hand,
And his fingers would not fashion
What his soul could understand.
Six days he fasted and travailed,
Hard was the watch to keep,
So the chisel fell from his fingers
And he sank with a sob to sleep.
But a vision came to his slumber
Beautiful as before,
Floating in with the moonbeam
Gliding over the floor.
It floated in with the moonbeam
And stood beside his bed,
Wonderful, white, and gracious,
And this was the word it said.
"Courage, oh! Adeimantus,
I am the perfect thing
To stand in a shrine of jasper
And blind the eyes of a king.
I am the strange desire,
The glory beyond the dream,
The passion above the song,
The spirit-light of the gleam.
I come to my best beloved,
Not actual, from afar,
Fairer than hope or thought,
More beautiful than a star.
Courage, oh! Adeimantus,
Lay strength and strength to your soul.
You shall fashion surely a part
Tho' you may not grasp the whole. "




Pygmalion.


Once . . . I seem to remember. . . .
Crept in the noonday heat
A boy with a crooked shadow
Which capered along the street.
A boy whose shadow was mocked at
By the children passing along,
Straight and tall and beautiful,
Happy with laughter and song.
So, he envied their beauty. . . .
He who was crooked and brown. . . .
The strong youths of the mountain,
The white girls of the town,
Envied their happy meetings
And the tender words they spoke
In the shadow of the temples,
Under the groves of oak.
And his lonely heart was stricken
That never his lot might be
To walk with a maid who loved him. . . .
So quaint and crooked was he.


II

Thus was my heart once stricken
And I repined for a while,
I but a boy in years,
Who longed for a maiden's smile.
Till once on a day in summer
My soul was touched with a gleam,
And I woke from my morbid fancies
Like one from an evil dream,
And knew that the gods in their wisdom
Had made and set me apart.
Lean, misshapen, and ugly. . . .
No toy for a maiden's heart.
And I felt with a heart awakened
That leapt in a riot of joy,
The heart of a wise man and proud
Not the heart of a moody boy.
Viewing the old things anew
With an inner wonder in each:
The cloud ships driven thro' heaven,
The sea rolling into the beach,
The magic heart of the woodland,
The loves of nymph and faun,
The splendour of starlight nights,
The calm inviolate dawn.


III

Thus was my spirit quickened,
And once on a lucky day
I drew a bird on plaster,
And modelled a horse in clay;
Kneeling under a wall
Where a shadow fell on the street,
Eyes and mind intent
In the midst of the noonday heat.
Eyes and mind intent. . . .
And a stranger passed my way,
. . . The shadow grew and lengthened
As he stopped to watch my play.
He looked at the little horse,
He looked at the winging bird;
And ere I noticed his presence
He touched me and spoke a word:
"Hast thou the mind and will
As thou hast hand and sight. . . ?
Follow me if thou hast
And climb . . . oh! climb to the height. "


IV

So I followed him to his workshop
And stayed there a year and a year
Working under a master
Who praised me and held me dear,
Till at last a day arose
When, taking my hand in his own,
"You have my knowledge," he said,
"And now you must stand alone. "
And tho' I sorrowed to leave him
My heart was ready to sing,
So first in praise of the gods
I made for an offering
(Even as does a shepherd
His rustic altar of sods)
Bright forms larger than human
As mortals dream of the gods.
Then, in my strange world-worship,
The Tritons, Lords of the Sea,
The creatures which haunt the woodland,
Happy and shy and free,
Nymphs and satyrs and fauns
Who worship the great god Pan,
And lastly the mighty heroes
Who fashion the mind of man.


V

Thus thought I and thus wrought I,
And my power grew greater still.
I rose to the heights of passion
And sounded the depths of will,
Reaching out to the farthest
Winnowing down to the last,
Gazing into the future
And diving into the past.
Higher and ever higher
Like an eagle soared my art
And I praised the most high gods
Who made and set me apart.
And Prince and poet and painter
Travelled to touch my hand,
The minds which had toiled and suffered,
The minds which could understand,
Marvelling in my workshop
At the shining forms they saw. . . .
The children of my spirit
Born of a higher law.


VI

But last on a day in summer
(An evil day it seems)
I thought, "I will fashion a woman
As I have seen in dreams.
I, who never loved woman
That breathed and spoke and moved,
Will fashion a noble statue
To show what I could have loved;
A glorious naked figure
Untouched by time or fate,
A symbol of all that might be
And she shall be my mate.
Not mate of my crooked body,
Lean, misshapen and brown,
(No longer I feared my shadow
But walked a prince in the town)
But mate for my glorious spirit
Winging thro' shimmering heights,
On the viewless pinions of fancy
Where none can follow its flights. "
Thus was I moved in spirit
And wrought, a happy slave,
Striving to make the best
Of the gifts the high gods gave,
Fashioning out of the marble,
--And I knew my work was good--
The arms and the breasts and the thighs
And the glory of womanhood.


VII

Lo! the statue is finished.
Look how it stands serene
A woman with tender smile
And proud eyes of a queen!
Lo! the statue is perfect. . . .
Flower and crown of my life. . . .
I who never loved woman
Could take this woman for wife. . . .
Her, my Galatea,
My wonderful milk-white friend,
Work of my hand and brain
Linked to this noble end.


VIII

The statue stands above me,
Flower and crown of my art. . . .
But would that the gods had made me
As others, not set me apart.
For what, in the measure of life,
Is work on a lower plane?
And this the finest, brightest--
Further I cannot attain.
Shall I grind its beauty to fragments
Or shatter its symmetry? --
For I have made it in secret
And none has seen it but me.
My hand would falter and fail--
Oh! . . . I could not forget.
I still should see it in dreams
With a passion of regret.
Or . . . Shall I wait till morning
White-winged over the land,
Ere the fishermen tramp the beach
And drag their boats to the sand;
And find at last . . . oh! at last
A boon denied to me,
Rest in the ever-restless,
The huge, unquiet sea,
That the brain may be freed from toil
Which has toiled to a luckless end
When it touched its highest powers
And shaped my milk-white friend.


IX

For a dream is only a dream,
(My best and my last stands there)
And a stone is only a stone,
Be it carven beyond compare,
And the veriest hind of the field
Who sweats for his hungry brood,
Has a deeper knowledge than I
Of our mortal evil and good.
Oh!
gods, if ever I sought you,
And found you, terrible lords,
Zeus in the rattling thunder,
Ares in din of swords;
And thou, wise grey-eyed lady,
Who lovest the sober mean,
Reason and grave discourses,
A tempered mind and serene,
You have I duly honoured--
Yet one have I kept apart,
(Lean, misshapen, and ugly
No toy for a maiden's heart).
"Oh! foam-begotten and smiling,
Oh, perilous child of the sea--
Forgive--ere too late--and befriend me!
What am I--what is life without thee? "
And his prayer went up like a vapour
To the palace above the snows,
Where the shining gods held revel,
And deathless laughter arose.
But Hupnos swiftly descended
Like a noiseless bird of the night
And brushed his eyes with pinions
Downy and thick and light,
Circled dimly about him,
And brushed his eyes as he prayed
Laying a drowsy mandate,
And the watcher drooped and obeyed.


X

In at the workshop windows
Peacefully stole the dawn;
Tinting the marble figures
Of wood-nymph, goddess and faun,
Broadening in a streamer
Which touched with a rosy glow
The still white form of the statue,
The sleeper kneeling below.
. . . She moved as the red light touched her
And life stirred under her hair,
A little shiver ran over
Her glorious limbs all bare.
Thro' arms and breasts and thighs
The warm blood pulsed and ran:
And she stepped down from the pedestal--
A woman unto a man;
Saying in tender accents
Of low and musical tone:
"Oh! sleeper, wake from thy slumber
No longer art thou alone. . . . "




Alexis.


Who slew Alexis? Some one smote
Right thro' the white and tender throat
(And scarce gave time for fear)
The jewelled doll, who sprang from kings,
With farded cheek and flashing rings,
And left him lying here.

He sat upon a throne, pardye,
The ancient throne of Muscovy,
Smiling a harlot's smile,
And gave--the painted popinjay--
The word which no man might gainsay,
Tossing his curls the while.

And savage warriors, steel on hips,
Muttered between their bearded lips,
And spat upon the floor,
To see a thing so debonnaire
Enthroned upon a conqueror's chair,
And find their King half-whore.

Or in a gallery all aflare,
Approached by some dark palace stair,
He lay in languid mood,
And naked women, mad with wine,
Did cruelty and lust combine
To stir his tainted blood.

So plunged, half woman and half devil,
In many a foul and roaring revel,
By some fierce craving fanned,
Alexis, with the girlish face
And swaying movements full of grace,
The Ruler of this Land.

So, hunted by a mind diseased,
By those fierce orgies unappeased,
He thirsted after new;
And monstrous things he did (they say)
Which never saw the light of day,
Shared by a chosen few.

The rocks were cleft to bring him treasure,
The mothers mourned to give him pleasure,
The whole land writhed in pain,
All night the secret chambers flared,
All night the horrid deeds were dared
Which made him thirst again.

And pampered Turks lived by his side,
With gobbling negroes bloodshot-eyed,
And hags with mouths impure.
And day and night the warders tall
Stood watching on his castle wall
That he might dwell secure.

Strange visions did upon him throng
With shapes confused which held him long,
A riot in his brain.
Unbridled lust, unbounded power
So worked upon him in that hour. . . .
I think he was insane.

And I--who had no God to please,
And nursed him crowing on my knees--
I waited by the stair,
And as he gave a joyous note,
Passed this bright iron thro' his throat
And left him lying there.




The King's Cloak.


There was a King in Norroway
Who loved a famous sport,
He followed it in the sun and snow
With the nobles of his Court.
In all his kingdom mountainous
Was none so swift as he
(For so they said who ate his bread)
At running on the ski.

His black heart swelled with pride
As the acorn swells with the tree,
And from all his kingdom mountainous
He called the men of the ski.
From fir-pricked crag and gloomy gorge
Where the lonely log-huts cling,
And till the King's word bade them cease
They raced before the King.

So raced they down a spear-broad track,
Where never tree did grow,
Between the mountains and the sea
A thousand feet below
Till sundip in a cold pearl sky
And a west of ageless pink
From a withered pine to the King enthroned
With his nobles by the brink.

There ran one with the racers
Straight-fashioned as a sword,
With sail-brown cheek and eyes as deep
As water in a fiord
And till the King's word bade them cease
None passed or touched him near,
He leapt as frightened chamois leap
And ran like a stricken deer.

Dusk threw a hateful shadow
On the King's countenance
"The guerdons of thy skill," cried he,
"Or, boy, thy luck, perchance?
This figured ivory drinking horn!
This turquoise-hilted sword!
But . . . shall I see no marvel
Ere day dips in the fiord? "

"There is not in fair Norroway
My master on the ski
One bolder or more skilful. . . .
A marvel wouldst thou see? "
--Bold and high was the answer--
"'Twas skill not luck, Oh! King,
I am the swiftest. . . . A marvel
Of whom the scalds shall sing. "

"Oh! yonder stand the mountains
And yonder moans the sea
And he who leapt from the topmost crag. . . .
A bold man would he be.
A bold man . . . yea, a marvel
For the grey-haired scalds to hymn. . . . "
Day dying touched his swarthy cheek
With a lurid light and grim,

While he made the gloomy challenge
And round a murmur ran,
But . . . the boy bowed low and answered,
"Oh! King, behold the man
The swiftest and the boldest
In thy kingdom by the sea,
From mountain or . . . from hatred
What man can do, dares he. "

. . . He swept down from the mountain
Like an eaglet on a hare
With bent back and swinging arms
And tossing golden hair. . . .
The King stood by the precipice
(A small sea moaned and broke)
. . . Looked down over the wrinkled sea
And swiftly loosed his cloak.

. . . He came as an arrow is loosened. . . .
As a slinger slings a stone,
Clutched (as the sun shot downwards)
At one on the brink alone. . . .
The King leapt back . . . the King laughed out. . . .
The great cloak floated free. . . .
There came no sound--tho' he listened long--
From the darkened moaning sea.




The Knight and the Witch.


A voice cried over the Hills
"Follow the strange desire.
Oh! follow, follow, follow,
The world is on fire.
Day burns on funeral bed
In flame of sky and sea,
And, black against that red,
Is the tower where dwelleth she
And gazeth, white foot pressed
On bruised heaps of bloom,
O'er the sea which cannot rest
And sounds thro' her room.
Murmurs in her room
Thro' a casement open wide
The sea which is a tomb
For mariners of pride.
Oh! follow, follow, follow,
Come quickly unto her,
Her body is more sweet
Than cassia or myrrh,
She is whiter than the moon,
She is stranger than death,
Stronger than the new moon
Which the waters draweth.
More lovely are her words
More lovely is she
Than the flight of white birds
O'er a halcyon sea.
She took the stars for toys--
Her magic was so strong--
Murmurs of earth and the noise
Of green seas for a song.
She leant down on the sill
And called across the sea.
. . . Oh! follow, follow, follow,
Come quickly unto me. . . . "
A voice cried over the Hills
"Oh! come, I fail, I swoon,
Pale with my love's excess,
Paler than our pale moon.
Oh! come, Oh! come, Oh! come,
Before the days eclipse
We'll meet with brimming eyes
And kiss with quivering lips.
Love-drunken, breast to breast,
With half-closed eyes we'll kiss,
And reel from bliss to pain
From pain again to bliss.
The sea which cannot rest
From its undernote of doom
(We swooning breast on breast)
Shall murmur thro' my room.
Shall murmur all night long
Thro' a casement open wide.
The sea, which is a tomb
For mariners of pride,
With an undernote of doom
Shall murmur evermore
That love is in the room
And Death is at the door,
That Death will bruise to dust
Our flower-drenched passion soon
Darker than darkest night
Colder than our cold moon.
So shall it ebb and flow
Our love like those sea-tides
For a space . . . a little space--
What matter? . . . nought abides. "

A voice cried over the Hills,
"What matter? . . . all things die,
Our quivering love's excess,
Our rose-drenched ecstasy
As glimmering waters drawn
By the magic of the moon,
As the moon itself at dawn
Our love shall vanish soon.
So swift (my love-pale groom)
A white bird wings its flight.
Then find you Death's cold room,
Darker than darkest night;
Then find you that dark door
(And find it all men must)
And love there nevermore
But crumble back to dust,
And kiss there nevermore
In flower-drenched ecstasy;
Too late then to implore,
Too cold to hear a cry. "

And then towards the shelving beach
A cedar shallop drew,
With silver prow shaped like a swan
And sails of rainbow hue.
Swiftly it came with a wake of foam
And lying on its side
Like an arrow's flight towards the Knight,
Tho' none sat there to guide.
And in the shallows by the shore
It came to rest at last,
The cordage slacked and the rainbow sail
Flapped idly on the mast.
And the Swan-prow with the ruby eyes
Opened his silver beak,
And with a musical, magic voice
He thus began to speak.
"Step in, step in, my gallant lad,
Your youth shall be my fare.
For you my mistress opes her door
And combs her wine-dark hair.
She swelled my sail with an eager wind
And drove me to this beach,
She gave strange sight to my ruby eyes
And filled my beak with speech.

"She saw you in the magic glass
The hour that she has might,
As you rode across the purple heath,
Honour and armour bright.
Step in, step in, my lover bold
And come to the West with me
Where the young nymphs play in the wave and lift
Their white arms from the sea;
And the Tritons chase the laughing rout
And swim by the vessel's side,
Blowing on horns confusedly,
Or shouting words of pride.
You hear it now, but the time will come
When you shall hear no more
The ceaseless wash of a dreaming sea,
Its ripples on the shore.
Oh! follow, follow the sinking sun
And the great white Evening Star,
A magic wind shall breathe behind
Our sail, and bear us far. "

He doffed his red-plumed casque of steel,
All flaxen was his hair,
And he was clad from throat to heel
In the armour princes wear,
From throat to heel in silver mail
Like a shining prince in a fairy-tale.

The witch Hegertha o'er him bent,
(Ah! God, her face was fair)
Her breath blew on him like a scent,
She touched him with her hair.
There was no stronger witch than this,
And she gave the Knight her first kiss.
And he was bound to her sword and hand,
To do whatever she might command.

Then up to her full height she drew,
Down poured her hair like wine,
Her pale, proud face looked sadly through
--A moon in a wood of pine--
She breathed a spell in a low, sweet tone
Which none of woman born could disown.
And he was bound to her side till death
By the spell just uttered above her breath.

She drew his soul forth with her eyes,
As a drinker slakes his drouth,
A little smile played sorrowful, wise,
About her rose-red mouth.
She stooped down and called his soul forth,
And left him naught but his body's earth.
And he was bound to her evermore
By the soul he lost and the word he swore.

For evermore and evermore
In the chamber by the sea,
Till death should break the spell-bound door
And end his slavery;
In the chamber strewn with flowers in bloom
With a heavy scent like death,
Echoing ever the song of doom
Which the sad sea moaned beneath.
For evermore and evermore
Till life ceased in his side,
Bound to the room and the rose-strewn floor
And the strange, unholy bride.

And naught could save him now, when once the spell
Had fallen on him, binding limbs and will,
Where he sat listening to the sad sea swell,
Amid the roses which no time could kill.
Naught could restore lost courage to his eyes,
The Knightly ardour that he used to feel,
Or make his heart the seat of high emprise,
Or nerve his hand to grasp the shining steel.
Whether she kept him fast by her enchantment,
Or drove him forth to roam death-pale and weeping,
Naught could remind him what his life's fair grant meant,
Now that his soul was in Hegertha's keeping.




The Dreamer.


This is the dream of the Dreamer
With the grave thought-sunken eyes,
Which he dreamed between sleeping and waking,
Between the night and the making
Of dawn . . . and he dreamed in this wise:

To the gate of the dawn came a chariot
Which four black stallions were drawing,
And a spirit charioteer,
With the burning eyes of a seer,
Held them impatiently pawing.

He mounted the floor of the chariot,
And the Spirit drew together
His reins, his strong grip tight'ning,
And his thong flashed out like a lightning,
And the horses rushed up to aether.

The Dreamer was caught into space
With a pang as of ending or birth,
And lo! clouds builded above him,
And beneath him soundless and moving
The sea of his own little earth.

They clove the walls of the clouds,
And snorted each coal black stallion
Nursed by the Spirit, whose hair
Streamed out like a banner, and bare
In the night was the moon--a medallion

And then an ice-sheathed corpse
With ancient glaciers and snouted
Craters of fires extinct,
Chain on chain of them linked.
And the Lord of the Chariot shouted

And shook out his hissing lash
Over the backs of the four
Till they whirled up faster and faster,
Till the sun became vaster and vaster,
And its flames leapt out with a roar

Of mountains, subsident, resurging,
Innumerable, ceaseless of action,
Years and years into space. . . .
And the Dreamer covered his face,
As he rode, in his stupefaction.

They passed with a dip and a swerve,
As a swallow skims the downs,
Far up into the height,
And the stars looked down from the night
Like the lights of distant towns.

Swift is the lonely thought
Of a sage, a mountain-dweller,
But swifter far was their rush
Thro' the awful cold and the hush
Of the spaces interstellar.