Waikiki

Warm perfumes like a breath from vine and tree

      Drift down the darkness. Plangent, hidden from eyes

      Somewhere an `eukaleli' thrills and cries

And stabs with pain the night's brown savagery.

And dark scents whisper; and dim waves creep to me,

      Gleam like a woman's hair, stretch out, and rise;

      And new stars burn into the ancient skies,

Over the murmurous soft Hawaian sea.

And I recall, lose, grasp, forget again,

      And still remember, a tale I have heard, or known,

An empty tale, of idleness and pain,

      Of two that loved -- - or did not love -- - and one

Whose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly,

A long while since, and by some other sea.

Hauntings

In the grey tumult of these after years

      Oft silence falls; the incessant wranglers part;

And less-than-echoes of remembered tears

      Hush all the loud confusion of the heart;

And a shade, through the toss'd ranks of mirth and crying

      Hungers, and pains, and each dull passionate mood, -- -

Quite lost, and all but all forgot, undying,

      Comes back the ecstasy of your quietude.

So a poor ghost, beside his misty streams,

Is haunted by strange doubts, evasive dreams,

      Hints of a pre-Lethean life, of men,

Stars, rocks, and flesh, things unintelligible,

      And light on waving grass, he knows not when,

And feet that ran, but where, he cannot tell.

Sonnet (Suggested by some of the Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research)

Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun,

      We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread

      Those dusty high-roads of the aimless dead

Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run

Down some close-covered by-way of the air,

      Some low sweet alley between wind and wind,

      Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find

Some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there

Spend in pure converse our eternal day;

      Think each in each, immediately wise;

Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say

      What this tumultuous body now denies;

And feel, who have laid our groping hands away;

      And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

Clouds

Down the blue night the unending columns press

      In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,

      Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow

Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.

Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,

      And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,

      As who would pray good for the world, but know

Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say that the Dead die not, but remain

      Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.

           I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,

In wise majestic melancholy train,

           And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,

      And men, coming and going on the earth.

Mutability

They say there's a high windless world and strange,

      Out of the wash of days and temporal tide,

      Where Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,

`&Aelig;terna corpora', subject to no change.

There the sure suns of these pale shadows move;

      There stand the immortal ensigns of our war;

      Our melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,

And perishing hearts, imperishable Love. . . .

Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;

      Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;

      Love has no habitation but the heart.

Poor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,

      Cling, and are borne into the night apart.

      The laugh dies with the lips, `Love' with the lover.

Other Poems

The Busy Heart

Now that we've done our best and worst, and parted,

      I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.

(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)

      I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;

Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;

      And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;

And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;

      And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;

And evening hush, broken by homing wings;

      And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,

That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,

      Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly,

One after one, like tasting a sweet food.

I have need to busy my heart with quietude.

Love

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,

      Where that comes in that shall not go again;

Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.

      They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,

When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,

      And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying

Of credulous hearts, in heaven -- - such are but taking

      Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying

Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.

      Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,

Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.

      Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,

But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.

All this is love; and all love is but this.

Unfortunate

Heart, you are restless as a paper scrap

      That's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind;

      Saying, "She is most wise, patient and kind.

Between the small hands folded in her lap

Surely a shamed head may bow down at length,

      And find forgiveness where the shadows stir

About her lips, and wisdom in her strength,

      Peace in her peace. Come to her, come to her!" . . .

She will not care. She'll smile to see me come,

      So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.

      She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me,

           And open wide upon that holy air

The gates of peace, and take my tiredness home,

           Kinder than God. But, heart, she will not care.

The Chilterns

Your hands, my dear, adorable,

      Your lips of tenderness

-- Oh, I've loved you faithfully and well,

      Three years, or a bit less.

      It wasn't a success.

Thank God, that's done! and I'll take the road,

      Quit of my youth and you,

The Roman road to Wendover

      By Tring and Lilley Hoo,

      As a free man may do.

For youth goes over, the joys that fly,

      The tears that follow fast;

And the dirtiest things we do must lie

      Forgotten at the last;

      Even Love goes past.

What's left behind I shall not find,

      The splendour and the pain;

The splash of sun, the shouting wind,

      And the brave sting of rain,

      I may not meet again.

But the years, that take the best away,

      Give something in the end;

And a better friend than love have they,

      For none to mar or mend,

      That have themselves to friend.

I shall desire and I shall find

      The best of my desires;

The autumn road, the mellow wind

      That soothes the darkening shires.

      And laughter, and inn-fires.

White mist about the black hedgerows,

      The slumbering Midland plain,

The silence where the clover grows,

      And the dead leaves in the lane,

      Certainly, these remain.

And I shall find some girl perhaps,

      And a better one than you,

With eyes as wise, but kindlier,

      And lips as soft, but true.

      And I daresay she will do.

Home

I came back late and tired last night

      Into my little room,

To the long chair and the firelight

      And comfortable gloom.

But as I entered softly in

      I saw a woman there,

The line of neck and cheek and chin,

      The darkness of her hair,

The form of one I did not know

      Sitting in my chair.

I stood a moment fierce and still,

      Watching her neck and hair.

I made a step to her; and saw

      That there was no one there.

It was some trick of the firelight

      That made me see her there.

It was a chance of shade and light

      And the cushion in the chair.

Oh, all you happy over the earth,

      That night, how could I sleep?

I lay and watched the lonely gloom;

      And watched the moonlight creep

From wall to basin, round the room,

      All night I could not sleep.

The Night Journey

Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;

      The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.

Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,

      Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes

Glares the imperious mystery of the way.

      Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train

Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,

      Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again. . . .

As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,

      Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;

And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,

      Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move

Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;

      And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,

Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,

      Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,

Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,

      Out of the fire, out of the little room. . . .

-- There is an end appointed, O my soul!

      Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom

Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers.

      Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,

Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.

      The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.

And lips and laughter are forgotten things.

      Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on,

The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.

      The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.

Song

All suddenly the wind comes soft,

      And Spring is here again;

And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,

      And my heart with buds of pain.

My heart all Winter lay so numb,

      The earth so dead and frore,

That I never thought the Spring would come,

      Or my heart wake any more.

But Winter's broken and earth has woken,

      And the small birds cry again;

And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,

      And my heart puts forth its pain.

Beauty and Beauty

When Beauty and Beauty meet

      All naked, fair to fair,

The earth is crying-sweet,

      And scattering-bright the air,

Eddying, dizzying, closing round,

      With soft and drunken laughter;

Veiling all that may befall

      After -- - after -- -

Where Beauty and Beauty met,

      Earth's still a-tremble there,

And winds are scented yet,

      And memory-soft the air,

Bosoming, folding glints of light,

      And shreds of shadowy laughter;

Not the tears that fill the years

      After -- - after -- -

The Way That Lovers Use

The way that lovers use is this;

      They bow, catch hands, with never a word,

And their lips meet, and they do kiss,

      -- - So I have heard.

They queerly find some healing so,

      And strange attainment in the touch;

There is a secret lovers know,

      -- - I have read as much.

And theirs no longer joy nor smart,

      Changing or ending, night or day;

But mouth to mouth, and heart on heart,

      -- - So lovers say.

Mary and Gabriel

Young Mary, loitering once her garden way,

Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day,

As wine that blushes water through. And soon,

Out of the gold air of the afternoon,

One knelt before her: hair he had, or fire,

Bound back above his ears with golden wire,

Baring the eager marble of his face.

Not man's nor woman's was the immortal grace

Rounding the limbs beneath that robe of white,

And lighting the proud eyes with changeless light,

Incurious. Calm as his wings, and fair,

That presence filled the garden.

                                          She stood there,

Saying, "What would you, Sir?"

                                          He told his word,

"Blessed art thou of women!" Half she heard,

Hands folded and face bowed, half long had known,

The message of that clear and holy tone,

That fluttered hot sweet sobs about her heart;

Such serene tidings moved such human smart.

Her breath came quick as little flakes of snow.

Her hands crept up her breast. She did but know

It was not hers. She felt a trembling stir

Within her body, a will too strong for her

That held and filled and mastered all. With eyes

Closed, and a thousand soft short broken sighs,

She gave submission; fearful, meek, and glad. . . .

She wished to speak. Under her breasts she had

Such multitudinous burnings, to and fro,

And throbs not understood; she did not know

If they were hurt or joy for her; but only

That she was grown strange to herself, half lonely,

All wonderful, filled full of pains to come

And thoughts she dare not think, swift thoughts and dumb,

Human, and quaint, her own, yet very far,

Divine, dear, terrible, familiar . . .

Her heart was faint for telling; to relate

Her limbs' sweet treachery, her strange high estate,

Over and over, whispering, half revealing,

Weeping; and so find kindness to her healing.

'Twixt tears and laughter, panic hurrying her,

She raised her eyes to that fair messenger.

He knelt unmoved, immortal; with his eyes

Gazing beyond her, calm to the calm skies;

Radiant, untroubled in his wisdom, kind.

His sheaf of lilies stirred not in the wind.

How should she, pitiful with mortality,

Try the wide peace of that felicity

With ripples of her perplexed shaken heart,

And hints of human ecstasy, human smart,

And whispers of the lonely weight she bore,

And how her womb within was hers no more

And at length hers?

                            Being tired, she bowed her head;

And said, "So be it!"

                                          The great wings were spread

Showering glory on the fields, and fire.

The whole air, singing, bore him up, and higher,

Unswerving, unreluctant. Soon he shone

A gold speck in the gold skies; then was gone.

The air was colder, and grey. She stood alone.

The Funeral of Youth: Threnody

The day that youth had died,

There came to his grave-side,

In decent mourning, from the country's ends,

Those scatter'd friends

Who had lived the boon companions of his prime,

And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,

In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse,

The days and nights and dawnings of the time

When youth kept open house,

Nor left untasted

Aught of his high emprise and ventures dear,

No quest of his unshar'd -- -

All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar'd,

Followed their old friend's bier.

Folly went first,

With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers'd;

And after trod the bearers, hat in hand -- -

Laughter, most hoarse, and Captain Pride with tanned

And martial face all grim, and fussy Joy,

Who had to catch a train, and Lust, poor, snivelling boy;

These bore the dear departed.

Behind them, broken-hearted,

Came Grief, so noisy a widow, that all said,

"Had he but wed

Her elder sister Sorrow, in her stead!"

And by her, trying to soothe her all the time,

The fatherless children, Colour, Tune,, and Rhyme

(The sweet lad Rhyme), ran all-uncomprehending.

Then, at the way's sad ending,

Round the raw grave they stay'd. Old Wisdom read,

In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead.

There stood Romance,

The furrowing tears had mark'd her rouged cheek;

Poor old Conceit, his wonder unassuaged;

Dead Innocency's daughter, Ignorance;

And shabby, ill-dress'd Generosity;

And Argument, too full of woe to speak;

Passion, grown portly, something middle-aged;

And Friendship -- - not a minute older, she;

Impatience, ever taking out his watch;

Faith, who was deaf, and had to lean, to catch

Old Wisdom's endless drone.

Beauty was there,

Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone.

Poor maz'd Imagination; Fancy wild;

Ardour, the sunlight on his greying hair;

Contentment, who had known Youth as a child

And never seen him since. And Spring came too,

Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers -- -

She did not stay for long.

And Truth, and Grace, and all the merry crew,

The laughing Winds and Rivers, and lithe Hours;

And Hope, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowing Song; -- -

Yes, with much woe and mourning general,

At dead Youth's funeral,

Even these were met once more together, all,

Who erst the fair and living Youth did know;

All, except only Love. Love had died long ago.