Tristram of Lyonesse: And Other Poems

And thither, ere sweet night had slain sweet day,
Iseult and Tristram took their wandering way,
And rested, and refreshed their hearts with cheer
In hunters' fashion of the woods; and here
More sweet it seemed, while this might be, to dwell
And take of all world's weariness farewell
Than reign of all world's lordship queen and king.
Nor here would time for three moon's changes bring
Sorrow nor thought of sorrow; but sweet earth
Fostered them like her babes of eldest birth,
Reared warm in pathless woods and cherished well.
And the sun sprang above the sea and fell,
And the stars rose and sank upon the sea;
And outlaw-like, in forest wise and free,
The rising and the setting of their lights
Found those twain dwelling all those days and nights.
And under change of sun and star and moon
Flourished and fell the chaplets woven of June,
And fair through fervours of the deepening sky
Panted and passed the hours that lit July,
And each day blessed them out of heaven above,
And each night crowned them with the crown of love.
Nor till the might of August overhead
Weighed on the world was yet one roseleaf shed
Of all their joy's warm coronal, nor aught
Touched them in passing ever with a thought
That ever this might end on any day
Or any night not love them where they lay;
But like a babbling tale of barren breath
Seemed all report and rumour held of death,
And a false bruit the legend tear impearled
That such a thing as change was in the world.

This were more to me than an angel's wings.

Yea, many men pray God for many things,

But I pray that this only thing may be."

And as a full field charging was the sea,

And as the cry of slain men was the wind.

"Yea, since I surely loved him, and he sinned

Surely, though not as my sin his be black,

God, give him to me—God, God, give him back!

For now how should we live in twain or die?

I am he indeed, thou knowest, and he is I.

Not man and woman several as we were,

But one thing with one life and death to bear.

How should one love his own soul overmuch?

And time is long since last I felt the touch,

The sweet touch of my lover, hand and breath,

In such delight as puts delight to death...

Dickens

CHIEF in thy generation born of men
Whom English praise acclaimed as English-born,
With eyes that matched the worldwide eyes of morn
For gleam of tears or laughter, tenderest then
When thoughts of children warmed their light, or when
Reverence of age with love and labour worn,
Or godlike pity fired with godlike scorn,
Shot through them flame that winged thy swift live pen:
Where stars and suns that we behold not burn,
Higher even than here, though highest was here thy place,
Love sees thy spirit laugh and speak and shine
With Shakespeare and the soft bright soul of Sterne
And Fielding’s kindliest might and Goldsmith’s grace;
Scarce one more loved or worthier love than thine.

On the Deaths of Thomas Carlyle and George Eliot

TWO SOULS diverse out of our human sight
Pass, followed one with love and each with wonder:
The stormy sophist with his mouth of thunder,
Clothed with loud words and mantled in the might
Of darkness and magnificence of night;
And one whose eye could smite the night in sunder,
Searching if light or no light were thereunder,
And found in love of loving-kindness light.
Duty divine and Thought with eyes of fire
Still following Righteousness with deep desire
Shone sole and stern before her and above,
Sure stars and sole to steer by; but more sweet
Shone lower the loveliest lamp for earthly feet,
The light of little children, and their love.

Hope and Fear

BENEATH the shadow of dawn’s aerial cope,
With eyes enkindled as the sun’s own sphere,
Hope from the front of youth in godlike cheer
Looks Godward, past the shades where blind men grope
Round the dark door that prayers nor dreams can ope,
And makes for joy the very darkness dear
That gives her wide wings play; nor dreams that fear
At noon may rise and pierce the heart of hope.
Then, when the soul leaves off to dream and yearn,
May truth first purge her eyesight to discern
What once being known leaves time no power to appal;
Till youth at last, ere yet youth be not, learn
The kind wise word that falls from years that fall—
‘Hope thou not much, and fear thon not at all.’

So came their hour on them that were in life

Tristram and Iseult: so from love and strife

The stroke of love's own hand felt last and best

Gave them deliverance to perpetual rest.

So, crownless of the wreaths that life had wound,

They slept, with flower of tenderer comfort crowned;

From bondage and the fear of time set free,

And all the yoke of space on earth and sea

Cast as a curb for ever: nor might now

Fear and desire bid soar their souls or bow,

Lift up their hearts or break them: doubt nor grief

More now might move them, dread nor disbelief

Touch them with shadowy cold or fiery sting,

Nor sleepless languor with its weary wing,

Nor harsh estrangement, born of time's vain breath,

Nor change, a darkness deeper far than death.