Charmides and Other Poems | Page 9

timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their
secret forth into a sigh.
Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
And ever nigher still their faces came,

And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of
flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing bosom, and
his breath came hot and fast,
And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
And all her maidenhood was his to slay,

And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned, - O
why essay
To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Eros
laughed upon that flowerless mead.
Too venturous poesy, O why essay
To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings

O'er
daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre's silent strings
Till thou hast
found the old Castalian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho's
golden quid!
Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,

Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of

flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded, - ah! enough
that once their lips could meet
In that wild throb when all existences
Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which
dies through its own sweetness and the stress
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone

Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna
loosed her zone.
POEMS
REQUIESCAT
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies
grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to
dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life's buried here,
Heap earth
upon it.
AVIGNON
SAN MINIATO
See, I have climbed the mountain side
Up to this holy house of God,
Where once that
Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,
And throned upon the crescent moon
The Virginal white Queen of Grace, -
Mary!
could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.
O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!
My heart
is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.
O crowned by God with love and flame!
O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
O listen
ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.
ROME UNVISITED
I.
The corn has turned from grey to red,
Since first my spirit wandered forth
From the

drear cities of the north,
And to Italia's mountains fled.
And here I set my face towards home,
For all my pilgrimage is done,
Although,
methinks, yon blood-red sun
Marshals the way to Holy Rome.
O Blessed Lady, who dost hold
Upon the seven hills thy reign!
O Mother without blot
or stain,
Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!
O Roma, Roma, at thy feet
I lay this barren gift of song!
For, ah! the way is steep and
long
That leads unto thy sacred street.
II.
And yet what joy it were for me
To turn my feet unto the south,
And journeying
towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole!
And wandering through the tangled pines
That break the gold of Arno's stream,
To
see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines
By many a vineyard-hidden home,
Orchard and olive-garden grey,
Till from the drear
Campagna's way
The seven hills bear up the dome!
III.
A pilgrim from the northern seas -
What joy for me to seek alone
The wondrous
temple and the throne
Of him who holds the awful keys!
When, bright with purple and with gold
Come priest and holy cardinal,
And borne
above the heads of all
The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
O joy to see before I die
The only God-anointed king,
And hear the silver trumpets
ring
A triumph as he passes by!
Or at the brazen-pillared shrine
Holds high the mystic sacrifice,
And shows his God
to human eyes
Beneath the veil of bread and wine.
IV.
For lo, what changes time can bring!
The cycles of revolving years
May free my heart
from all its fears,
And teach my lips a song to sing.
Before yon field of trembling gold
Is garnered into dusty sheaves,
Or ere the autumn's
scarlet leaves

Flutter as birds adown the wold,
I may have run the glorious race,
And caught the torch while yet aflame,
And called

upon the holy name
Of Him who now doth hide His face.
ARONA
HUMANITAD
It is full winter now: the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold

Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn's gaudy livery whose gold
Her
jealous brother pilfers, but is true
To the green doublet; bitter is the wind, as though it
blew
From Saturn's cave; a few thin wisps of hay
Lie on the sharp black hedges, where the
wain
Dragged the sweet pillage of a summer's day
From the low meadows up the
narrow lane;
Upon the