Collected Works (Vol. II)

WHITE POPPY 61 seeing it is written (almost literally so) in blood; for I am sure that he was dying of that love for Alice, whose marvellous beauty it was his mission (who may doubt it?) to reveal. For the burning torch of truth may smoke, but it is our one sure light in passion and distress, Zhe sewelled stlence of the stars is, indeed, the light of a serener art; but love is human, and I give nothing for the tawdry gems of style when the breast they would adorn is ‘that of a breathing, living beauty of man’s love, the heart of all the world. Nor let us taint one sympathy with even a shadow of regret. Let us leave him where ‘* Sight nor sound shall war against him more, For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, All waters as the shore." } NoTE.—The sudden and tragic death of the Editor has necessitated the completion of his task by another hand. The introduction was, however, in practically its present form. WHAT LAY BEFORE. WHITE POPPY. AMID the drowsy dream, Lit by some fitful beam Of other light Than the mere sun, supreme On all the glint and gleam ; Shooting through night, Above the water-way Where my poor corpse must stay, I bend and float away From human sight. Unto the floral face, Carven in ancient grace Of Gods or Greeks, The whole sky’s way gives place : Open the walls of space, And silence speaks. 1 Swinburne, ‘‘ Ave atque Vale.”’ See ! I am floating far Beyond space and sun and star, As drifts a nenuphar Down lilied creeks. Beyond the heavens I see The pale embroidery Of some wan child Wasted by earth and sea, Whose kisses were too free, Too swift and wild ; A Maenad’s floating tress Lost in the wilderness Of death’s or my caress, Discrowned, defiled. Clad in pale green and rose, Her thin face flickers, glows, Tempestuous flame. Horrid and harsh she goes, Speaks, trembles, wakes and knows How frail is shame ! Grows vast and cloudy and is The whole mouth’s sobbing kiss, And crushes me with bliss Beyond a name. Then fall I from excess Of bitter ecstasies, Pale ghosts of blood, To worlds where palaces Shine through dim memories Of flower and flood, Shine in pale opal and pearl, Void of bright boy or girl, Desolate halls that furl Their shapes subdued. And wide they sunder, wide They fall into the tide Of fallen things. Me, me, O meek-browed bride, Horrible faces hide And devilish wings.