The shut lips are breathed apart
In a sleepy smile.
LANCELOT
Ah! dear Christ, this thing I see
Is too wonderful for me,
If I think indeed to be
In Thy very grace.
Clear flame shivers all about,
But the bright ark alters not,
Borne upright where angels doubt;
The blessed maiden looketh out
White, with barèd face and throat
Leaned into the dark.
On her hair’s faint light and shade
A large aureole is laid,
All about the tresses weighed.
THE ANGEL
This is what thou wert to find.
Lo, the thin flames blown behind
Tremble in the blowing wind
As loose hair that girls unbind
In a woody place.
LANCELOT
Ah, sweet Lord that art my Lord,
Thy light is sharp as any sword;
My heart is strainèd as a cord
That a child may break.
Evenwise each side her head
So they stand, the blessed maid,
The angels and the ark.
It were strange if I should see
Sweet new things for love of Thee;
For such hope was not to be;
Yet hast Thou had ruth on me
For my sorrow’s sake.
I tremble, but I cannot weep,
I fear so much I am asleep;
Round the faces ranged and steep
A thin splendour seems to creep
Thro’ the night so dear and deep,
Seems to stir as leaves that dip
In a lilied lake.
Ah, sweet Lord that died on rood,
Of old time Thy word hath stood
And we saw it very good;
Yet is this Thy happy blood
I was not to see.
THE ANGEL
Where she standeth in the night
Clasped about with solemn light,
Clothed upon with samite bright.
The blessed maiden very white,
This is all the happy sight
That I may bring for thee.
LANCELOT
Over me the glory smites,
Sharp and level as the lights
Spear-shap’d on solemn winter nights
That strike from shade to shade;
Only all the inner place
(Ah, my Lord, is this Thy grace?)
Shineth as a happy face
In a clear and golden space
That itself hath made.
Is this love that I may win,
Love of mine for all my sin?
The straight flames flicker out and in,
Tho’ they never fade.
But the light of that strange place
(Lord, I thank Thee for Thy grace!)
Thro’ the lights of moving space
Trembles like a living face
Whereon some pain is laid.
THE ANGEL
Turn thine eyes against the light,
Where the spearèd splendours smite
Round the ark, most close and white;
This is given me to-night
For the love of thee.
LANCELOT
All the wonder shown above
(Lord, I praise Thee for Thy love!)
Thro’ the lights that mix and move
Like blown feathers of a dove
Stirreth, strange to see;
And midway the solemn place
(As my soul were full of grace)
Leaning hither, the clear Face
Seemeth to bless me.
THE ANGEL
Points of sharp light star the ground;
Thro’ the wind is blown a sound
As of singing voices round
Over the dark land.
Christ the Lord is fair and crowned,
Whose pure blood, in bitter swound,
Droppèd from the holy wound;
Surely now the gift is found
And ready to thy hand.
LANCELOT
Lo, between me and the light
Grows a shadow on my sight,
A soft shade to left and right,
Branchèd as a tree.
Green the leaves that stir between,
And the buds are lithe and green,
And against it seems to lean
One in stature as the Queen
That I prayed to see.
Ah, what evil thing is this?
For she hath no lips to kiss,
And no brows of balm and bliss
Bended over me.
For between me and the shine
Grows a face that is not mine,
On each curve and tender line
And each tress drawn straight and fine
As it used to be.
THE ANGEL
This is Guenevere the Queen.
LANCELOT
For the face that comes between
Is like one that I have seen
In the days that were.
Nay, this new thing shall not be.
Is it her own face I see
Thro’ the smooth leaves of the tree,
Sad and very fair?
All the wonder that I see
Fades and flutters over me
Till I know not what things be
As I seemed to know.
But I see so fair she is,
I repent me not in this;
And to kiss her but one kiss
I would count it for my bliss
To be troubled so,
For she leans against it straight,
Leans against it all her weight,
All her shapeliness and state;
And the apples golden-great
Shine about her there.
Light creeps round her as she stands,
Round her face and round her hands,
Fainter light than dying brands
When day fills the eastern lands
And the moon is low.
And her eyes in some old dream
Woven thro’ with shade and gleam
Stare against me till I seem
To be hidden in a dream,
To be drowned in a deep stream
Of her dropping hair.
That is Guenevere the Queen.
Now I know not what they mean,
Those close leaves that grow so green,
Those large fruits that burn between,
Each a laugh new lit.
Now I know not what they were,
The light fires that trembled there
Sharp and thin in the soft air,
Nor the faces dumb and fair,
Nor the happy singing near;
But I seem to see her hair
And the light on it.
Day by day and hour by hour
Grew her white face like a flower,
Palest where the day grew lower
On the fiery sea.
Always sate I, watching her,
By her carven gilded chair,
Full of wonder and great fear
If one long lock of her hair
In the soft wind sink or stir,
Fallen to her knee.
All about her face and head
The flat sunset overspread
Like an aureole of red,
Stained as drops from wounds that bled
In some bitter fight.
All the tender shapen head
Dimly blurred with golden red,
And the thin face, as I said,
Drawn and white as snows wind-shed
On the green place of the dead
In a windy night.
Coloured flakes of stormy fire
Clomb the rent clouds high and higher,
And the wind like a great lyre
Sounded vague and loud.
And the sunset lines
that flee
On the flats of fiery sea
Far below us, her and me,
Were as golden red to see
As the heaped hair on her knee
Or as the coloured cloud.
So we sat in love and fear,
And no faces came anear,
And no voices touched our ear
But of angels singing clear
Out of all the sunset drear
Round us and above.
And she listened; and a light
Shivered upward in my sight
Thro’ her set face, sad and white;
Till I hid mine eyes for fright
And for very love.
Drear and void the sunset was
On stained flats of fire and glass
Where she saw the angels pass
That I could not see:
For none eyes but hers might pierce
Thro’ the colours vague and fierce
That a sunset weaves and wears;
Downward slipt the long thin tears
As she turned and sang this verse
That she made for me.
“Eastward under skies that dip
As to touch the water’s lip,
Pass, my ship, with sails that drip
Not with dew, nor with rain.
Thro’ the morning float and pass
From the shores of flower and grass,
Thro’ a space of golden glass
Stained with a blood-red stain.
Evil ship on evil sea,
Bear him back again to me
Till I see what secrets be
Hidden in all this pain.”
Then she spake not, neither stirred,
But I shook for that one word
With the pain of that I heard
That she spake of me.
For the ship that seemed to pass
Thro’ the sea of fiery glass,
That strange ship mine own soul was
And my life the sea.
And the sin that I had done
In the fierce time that was gone
When I slew her knight alone
Face to face with the red sun
Setting in the west.
And my soul began to see
All the ill she had of me
When I bore her to the sea
From her place of rest.
Yet I loved her long and well;
Yea, my tongue would tire to tell
All the love that her befell,
And the slow speech faint and fail
Ere the love was told.
Now she dwelleth by me here,
In my castle builded fair;
But no crown of mine will wear
That I thought to keep for her,
And on her beloved hair
Lay the royal gold.
And her face grows grey and long
And harsh breaths come thro’ her song
And her heart is worn with wrong,
As is plain to see.
Should I die, no help it were
Now men say she is not fair,
For the pain she seems to wear
In grey cheeks and waning hair;
All my love avails not her,
And she loves not me.
Vain was the prayer I prayed alway,
Where in evil case I lay,
That she might love me one day
As the manner is;
Vain the prayer that I have prayed,
That, lying between light and shade,
I that loved her as I said,
I that never kissed a maid,
I might have her kiss.
JOYEUSE GARDE
The sun was heavy; no more shade at all
Than you might cover with a hollow cup
There was in the south chamber; wall by wall,
Slowly the hot noon filled the castle up.
One hand among the rushes, one let play
Where the loose gold began to swerve and droop
From his fair mantle to the floor, she lay;
Her face held up a little, for delight
To feel his eyes upon it, one would say.
Her grave shut lips were glad to be in sight
Of Tristram’s kisses; she had often turned
Against her shifted pillows in the night
To lessen the sore pain wherein they burned
For want of Tristram; her great eyes had grown
Less keen and sudden, and a hunger yearned
Her sick face through, these wretched years agone.
Her eyes said “Tristram” now, but her lips held
The joy too close for any smile or moan
To move them; she was patiently fulfilled
With a slow pleasure that slid everwise
Even into hands and feet, but could not build
The house of its abiding in her eyes,
Nor measure any music by her speech.
Between the sunlight came a noise of flies
To pain sleep from her, thick from peach to peach
Upon the bare wall’s hot red level, close
Among the leaves too high for her to reach.
So she drew in and set her feet, and rose
Saying “Too late to sleep; I pray you speak
To save me from the noises, lest I lose
Some minute of this season; I am weak
And cannot answer if you help me not,
When the shame catches on my brow and cheek.”
For in the speaking all her face grew hot,
And her mouth altered with some pain, I deem
Because her word had stung like a bad thought
That makes us recollect some bitter dream.
She bowed to let him kiss her, and went on:
“All things are changed so, will this day not seem
Most sad and evil when I sit alone
Outside your eyes? will it not vex my prayer
To think of laughter that is twin to moan,
And happy words that make not holier?
Nathless I had good will to say one thing,
Though it seems pleasant in the late warm air
To ride alone and see the last of spring.
I cannot lose you, Tristram; (a weak smile
Moved her lips and went out) men say the king
Hath set keen spies about for many a mile,
Quick hands to get them gold, sharp eyes to see
Where your way swerves across them. This long while
Hath Mark grown older with his hate of me,
And now his hand for lust to smite at us
Plucks the white hairs inside his beard that he
This year made thicker. Seeing this he does
I pray you note that we may meet with him
At riding through the branches growth, and then
Our wine grow bitter at the golden rim
And taste of blood and tears, not sweet to drink
As this new honey wherein juices swim
Of fair red vintage.”
Her voice done, I think
He had no heart to answer; yet some time
The noon outside them seem to throb and sink,
Wrought in the quiet to a rounded rhyme.
Then “certes,” said he, “this were harm to both
If spears grew thick between the beech and lime,
Or amid reeds that let the river south,
Yet so I think you might get help of me.
Had I not heart to smile, when Iseult’s mouth
Kissed Palomydes under a thick tree?
For I remember, as the wind sets low,
How all that peril ended quietly
In a green place where heavy sunflowers blow.”
BALLAD: IT WAS WHEN COCKS BEGAN TO CROW
It was when cocks began to crow
And the dawn lay white and low.
The mother slept upon the bed,
The child slept on her bosom dead.
/> When the floor was grey with light,
She looked into the dawn all white.
A bird sang at the window-sill
And of its song was never still.
As she heard him singing sweet,
Fear crept down her to the feet.
She looked against the morning red,
And knew that the white child was dead.
She looked against the morning bird,
It sang, she spake not any word.
She cursed it in her heart and wept,
And very still the white child slept.
‘O sister, sing me some old word,
For I would not hear the singing bird.’
‘O what is this pain about your face?
And what shall I sing in the dead child’s place?’
‘Fear not here to sing my song,
For the child shall feel no wrong.’
Then the maiden’s singing shrill
All the frore grey dawn did fill.
‘What thing is this? I hear no word
But ever the same song of the bird.
‘Thou dost not well to use me so,
Thy song is very dull and low.’
‘O sister, the song is new and sweet,
It is the dead child singing it.’
The white bird from the sill was gone,
The white face shone in the straight sun.
Ere the sweet new song was done,
On two dead faces came the sun.
Ere the song was ended meet,
The mother’s voice was mixed in it.
Under the drawn threads of the shroud
Came two voices that sang loud.
The girls that carried out the bier
Felt their set hands loosen with fear.
Under the grass for two days long
There sang all day a sweet new song.
In a green place both lie dead,
The child sleeps at the grave’s head.
SECOND LOVE
O what have you done with your brave brown horse.
Tell me for the love of me?
Red beaks are muffled in his corse,
And no more praise shall he have of me.
O what have ye done with your small white bird
That sang so on the hand of me?
It shall not sing ye any word,
It feeds not on the land of me.
O what have ye done with your thin gold ring
That I bade ye keep for me?
I would not keep me anything,
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 156
