One, whom we see not, is; and one, who is not, we see; Fiddle, we know, is diddle; and diddle, we take it, is dee.

_Algernon Charles Swinburne._

NEPHELIDIA

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that l.u.s.trously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat?

Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?

Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death; Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beat.i.tude's breath.

Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses,-- "Life is the l.u.s.t of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die."

Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of G.o.d.

Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things: Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of h.e.l.l shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.

_Algernon Charles Swinburne._

UP THE SPOUT

I

Hi! Just you drop that! Stop, I say!

Shirk work, think slink off, twist friend's wrist?

Where that spined sand's lined band's the bay-- Lined blind with true sea's blue, as due-- Promising--not to pay?

II

For the sea's debt leaves wet the sand; Burst worst fate's weight's in one burst gun?

A man's own yacht, blown--What? off land?

Tack back, or veer round here, then--queer!

Reef points, though--understand?

III

I'm blest if I do. Sigh? be blowed!

Love's doves make break life's ropes, eh? Tropes!

Faith's brig, baulked, sides caulked, rides at road; Hope's gropes befogged, storm-dogged and bogged-- Clogged, water-logged, her load!

Stowed, by Jove, right and tight, away.

No show now how best plough sea's brow, Wrinkling--breeze quick, tease thick, ere day, Clear sheer wave's sheen of green, I mean, With twinkling wrinkles--eh?

V

Sea sprinkles wrinkles, tinkles light Sh.e.l.ls' bells--boy's joys that hap to snap!

It's just sea's fun, breeze done, to spite G.o.d's rods that scourge her surge, I'd urge-- Not proper, is it--quite?

VI

See, fore and aft, life's craft undone!

Crank plank, split spritsail--mark, sea's lark!

That gray cold sea's old sprees, begun When men lay dark i' the ark, no spark, All water--just G.o.d's fun!

VII

Not bright, at best, his jest to these Seemed--screamed, shrieked, wreaked on kin for sin!

When for mirth's yell earth's knell seemed please Some dumb new grim great whim in him Made Jews take chalk for cheese.

VIII

Could G.o.d's rods bruise G.o.d's Jews? Their jowls Bobbed, sobbed, gaped, aped, the plaice in face!

None heard, 'tis odds, his--G.o.d's--folk's howls.

Now, how must I apply, to try This hookiest-beaked of owls?

Well, I suppose G.o.d knows--I don't.

Time's crimes mark dark men's types, in stripes Broad as fen's lands men's hands were wont Leave grieve unploughed, though proud and loud With birds' words--No! he won't!

X

One never should think good impossible.

Eh? say I'd hide this Jew's oil's cruse-- His shop might hold bright gold, engrossible By spy--spring's air takes there no care To wave the heath-flower's glossy bell!

XI

But gold bells chime in time there, coined-- Gold! Old Sphinx winks there--"Read my screed!"

Doctrine Jews learn, use, burn for, joined (Through new craft's stealth) with health and wealth-- At once all three purloined!

XII

I rose with dawn, to p.a.w.n, no doubt, (Miss this chance, glance untried aside?) John's shirt, my--no! Ay, so--the lout!

Let yet the door gape, store on floor And not a soul about?

XIII

Such men lay traps, perhaps--and I'm Weak--meek--mild--child of woe, you know!

But theft, I doubt, my lout calls crime.

Shrink? Think! Love's dawn in p.a.w.n--you sp.a.w.n Of Jewry! Just in time!

_Algernon Charles Swinburne._

IN IMMEMORIAM