Collected Works (Vol. III)

LIBER PRIMUS VEL CARMINUM 149 And round the storm-caught shape hard gusts of wind Blow, and her leaves are torn, a flying throng Of orange and purple and red; the sombre sun Shines darkly in her breast But wakes no joy therein, And all his kisses sharp and keen Bring only now desire of rest, Not their old rapture: the warm violet eyes Melt into sweet hot tears ; subtler the sighs Are interfused of death ; The brave bright looks grow duller, And fear is mingled with love’s ecstasies Again, and all her breath Fails, and the shape and colour Fade, fail, are lost in the sepulchral seas. WINTER. Know ye mychildren? From the old strong breast Not weary yet of life’s grey change, not drawn Into the utter peace of death, the rest Of the dim hour that lingers ere the dawn, Spring these that laugh upon thee. In the snow See forests bare and gaunt, Where wingéd whispers haunt, Lighting the dull sky with a slumberous glow ; Hear the strange sounds of winter chaunt; Feel the keen wisdom of the winter thrill Young hearts with passionate foretaste Of death in some wild waste Of deserts darkening at some wild god’s will, Of frozen steppes awaiting the repose That only death discovers, never sleep. My misery is this That I must wake to childhood gold and rose, And maidenhood, and wifehood, and still keep Bound on Life’s fatal wheel—revolv- ing bliss. O that worn wisdom and the age of sorrow Could learn its bitter lesson, and depart Into some nightfall guiltless of a morrow, Into some cave’s unprofitable heart Beyond this curse of birth! O that dread night Could come and cover all, Even itself to fall To some abyss past resurrection’s might ! For the old whispers of my old life call Accursed hopes, accursed fears, accursed pleasures. Long-suffering of all life! Changed consciousness at strife! No dancer treads the melancholy measures Unchanged for one short tune: no dancer flags, The hateful music luring them to move Weary and desolate ; And as the rhyme revolves and shrills and drags Their limbs insane they smile and call it love, Or, mocking, call it hatred: it is Fate. These grey eyes close to the deceitful dream Of death that will not take the tired for ever, Again, again, revolves the orb; the stream, The dew, the cloud, the ocean, and the river, My magic wand and cup and sword and spell Languish, forgotten fears. The cup is filled with tears ; The sword is red with blood; the pentacle Builded of flesh; the wand its snake- head rears Swift energy : my labour is but lost. I, who thus thought all things to end, Find in the void no friend. I have but conjured up the fiend that most I trusted to abolish: all my toil Goes to give rest to life, and build anew These pinnacles of pain, Cupola upon cupola; the soil To comfort, to avail, to assoil with dew, To build the year again.