The best and the worst of us all sink under-- What I held pa.s.sion and thou held'st l.u.s.t-- What name will it find in a few more seasons, When we both dissolve in an equal dust?

If a G.o.d there be, and a G.o.d seems needed To make the beauty of things like thee, He doubtless also, some careless moment, Mixed the forces that fashioned me.

Also He, for His own good reason-- Though I care little how these things are-- Gave me thee, in those few brief midnights, And that one solace He never can mar.

Ah me, the stars of such varying heavens Have watched me, under such alien skies, Lay thy beauty naked before me To soothe and solace my world-worn eyes.

For one good gift to me has been given-- A memory accurate, clear and keen, That holds the vision, perfect for ever In charm and glory, of things once seen.

So I hold thee there, and my fancy wanders To each known beauty and blue-veined place, I know how each separate eyelash trembles, And every shadow that sweeps thy face.

And this is a joy of which none can rob me, This is a pleasure that none can mar-- As sweet as thou wert, in that long past midnight, Even as lovely my memories are.

Ah, unforgotten and only lover, If ever I drift across thy thought, As even a vision unloved, unlovely, May cross the fancy, uncalled, unsought, When the years that pa.s.s thee have shown, in pa.s.sing, That my love, _in its strength at least_, was rare-- Wilt thou not think--ah, hope of the hopeless-- E'en as thou wouldst not, thou wilt not--care!

Early Love

Who says I wrong thee, my half-opened rose?

Little he knows of thee or me, or love.-- I am so tender of thy fragile youth, Yea, in my hours of wildest ecstasy, Keeping close-bitted each careering sense.

Only I give mine eyes unmeasured law To feed them where they will, and _their_ delight Was curbed at first, until thy tender shame Died in the bearing of thy first born joy.

I am not cruel, my half-opened rose, Though in the sunshine of my own desire I have uncurled thy petals to the light And fed the tendrils of thy dawning sense With delicate caresses, till they leave Thee tremulous with the newness of thy joy, Sharing thy lover's fire with innocent flame.

Others will wrong thee, that I well foresee, Being a man, knowing my fellow men, And they who, knowing, would blame my love of thee Contentedly will see thy beauty given, When the world judges thou art ripe to wed,-- To the rough rites of marriage, to the pain And grievous weariness of child-getting,-- This shall be right and licit in their eyes-- But it would break my heart, were I alive.

Yea, this will be; many will doubtless share The rose whose bud has been my one delight, And I shall not be there to shield my flower.

Yet, I have taught thee of the ways of men, Much I have learnt in cities and in courts, Winnowed to suit thy tender brain,--is thine, Thus Life shall find thee, not all unprepared To face its callous, subtle cruelties.

Still,--it will profit little; I discern Thou art of those whose love will prove their curse, --Thou sayest thou lovest me, to thy delight?

Nay, little one, it is not love as yet.

Dear as thou art, and lovely, thou canst not love, Thy later loves shall show the truth of this.

Ay, by some subtle signs I know full well That thou art capable of that great love Whose glory has the light of unknown heavens, And makes hot h.e.l.l for those who harbour it.

Naught I can say could save thee from thyself, Ah, were I half my age! Yet even that, Had been too old for thy sweet thirteenth year.

Still, thou art happy now, and glad thine eyes, When, as the lilac evening gains the sky, I lay thee, 'twixt thine own soft hair and me, Kissing thy senses into soft delight.

Ruffling the petals of my half-closed rose With tender touches, and perpetual care That no wild moment of mine own delight Deep in the flower's heart,--should set the fruit.

Ah, in the days to come, it well may be, When thou shalt see thy beauty stained and torn By the harsh sequel of some future love, Thy thoughts shall stray to thy first lover's grave, And thou shalt murmur, "Ay, but that was love.

They were most wrong who said he did me wrong.

Only I was too young to understand."

Vayu the Wind

Ah, Wind, I have always loved thee Since those far off nights When I lay beneath the vines A prey to strange delights, For among my tresses Thy soft caresses Were sweet as a lover's to me.

Later thou grewest more wanton, or I more shy, And after the bath I drew my garments close, Fearing thy soft persuasion amongst my hair When thou camest fresh with the scent of some ruffled rose.

Ah, Wind, thou hast lain with the Desert, I know her savour well, And the spices wherewith she scents her b.r.e.a.s.t.s-- She who has known such countless lovers Yet rarely borne a city among her sands-- Thou comest as one from a night of love, Thy breath is broken and hard,-- Bringing echoes of lonely things, Vast and cruel, that the soft and golden sands Buried beneath thin ripples so long ago.

Ah, Wind, thou hast given me lovely things, The scent of a thousand flowers, And the heavy perfume of pollen-laden fields, Strange s.n.a.t.c.hes of wild song from the heart of the dark Bazaar That thrilled to my very core, Till I threw the sheet aside and rose to follow,-- But whither, or what?

Also, Wind, thou broughtest the breath of the sea, The sound of its myriad waves.

And in nights when I lay on the lonely sands Stretching mine arms to thee, Thou gavest me something--faint and vast and sweet, Something ineffable, wistful, from far away, Elsewhere--Beyond--

And thou wast kind to me in my times of love, Cooling my lips That my lover wore away, While, wafting the scent from his divided hair, Thou show'dst the stars between Far away, and eclipsed by his burning eyes Even the stars.

And now I almost foresee the place and the hour When I shall open my dying lips to thee And receive a last cool kiss.

Afterwards, Wind, since I have always loved thee,-- Whirl my dust to the scented heart of a moghra flower, _His_ flower, but, ah, thou knowest,-- So often thy kisses have mingled with his and mine.

End of Project Gutenberg etext of Last Poems