THE DESERTED CITY

Stray Sonnets written by F. S.
and Rescued for the Few who
Love them by H. D.

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MDCCCXCIX

THE DESERTED CITY

THE HOUSE OF NIGHT

 

Though all the light were lifted from the land,

And a great darkness lay upon the sea;

Though, groping each for some not-careless hand,

I felt sad men pass over wearily;

Though it were certain dawn would not come in

With the next hour; that after many days

Would no moon rise where the grey clouds grew thin,

Nor any stars resume their ancient ways:

Though all my world was thus, and I more blind

Than the dead, blundering planets raining past,

I know I should not fancy Time unkind;

For you, as once of old you came, at last

Would surely come, and with unfaltering faith

Lead me beyond the dominance of death.

THE HOUSE OF DOUBT

 

Why should we fear? The sun will surely rise,

If we but wait, to light us on our way.

Think you none hearkeneth to us who pray,

That no God's heart is softened by our cries?

Did we not learn that He was kind and wise

And loved our souls? And shall your bodies say

"There is no light. The tales they told us,--they

Were only dreams, dreamed in the House of Lies."

Nay, listen not to what your body saith,

But by the memory of those antique years

When it was evil and of little faith

And led the soul along a way of tears,

Let your soul chant--as one that hath no fears--

"We know that Thou art stronger, God, than death."

THE HOUSE OF MERCY

 

I question not, Beloved, nor deny

That you had God's own right of punishment;

Yet now my sins and days are over and spent

Find you the hours so pleasant that go by?

Would not the colour of the fields and sky,

The odour of the woods, bring more content

Now, if a little pity had been lent

Then, unto love, to judge a life awry?

Upon a day the young June grasses seem

Quite still that keep the edge of the still stream;

I think you go down close to them, and say:

"O little grasses, waiting patiently,

I come to tell you this is God's decree:

'I comfort him who suffered yesterday?'"

THE HOUSE OF EARTH

 

O ye disconsolate and heavy-souled,

That evening cometh when ye too shall learn

The pangs of one who may no more return,

To live again the uneven days of old.

Ye too shall weary of the myrrh and gold

(Seeing the gods and their great unconcern),

And, as I yearn to-day, your feet shall yearn

To touch that Earth which ye afar behold.

Think now upon your grievous things to bear,--

Some goal unwon, some old sin's lurid stain,

Your vistaed paths,--are they not fair as hope?

But I between dead suns must peer, and grope

Among forsaken worlds, one glimpse to gain

Of my old place--the heaviest shadow there.

THE HOUSE OF FAITH

 

I would not have thee, dear, in darkness sit,

On days like this, hand clasped in quiet hand,

Remembering mournfully that fragrant land--

Each day therein, the joy we had of it.

Rather, while still the lamps are trimmed and lit,

Bid strangers to the feasts that once we planned,

Merry the while! Until the dust's demand

My soul, not thine, shall separately submit.

So, when thou comest (for I at last will call

And thou shalt hear, and linger not at all),

Still to thy throat, thine arms, thy loosened hair

Will cling the savour of the World's fresh kiss,

So sweet to me! and doubly sweet for this--

That thou for mine shouldst leave a place so fair!

THE HOUSE OF TEARS

 

When in the old years I had dreams of thee

Thy dark walls stood in a most barren place;

And he within (was his wan face my face?)

Wandered alone and wept continually.

There was no bird to hear, nor sun to see,

Nor green thing growing; nor for his release

Came sleep; neither forgetfulness nor peace:

Whereby I knew that none had sinned as he.

To-day I met him where white lilies gleam;

Across our path we watched the sparrows flit;

Until--the sunlight strong in our dry eyes--

He paused with me beside a green-edged stream,

Moaning, "I know, where its young waters rise,

Remembering, one leaneth over it."

THE HOUSE OF LOVE

 

Often between the midnight and the morn

I wake and see the angels round my bed;

Then fall asleep again, well-comforted.

I wait not now till that clear dawn be born

Shall lead my feet (O Love, thine eyes are worn

With watching) where her feet have late been led;

Nor lie awake, saying the words she said--

(Her yellow hair.--Have ye seen yellow corn?)

I fall asleep and dream and quite forget,

For here in heaven I know a new love's birth

Which casteth out all memory. And yet

(As I had loved her more, O Christ, on earth,

Hadst Thou not been so long unsought, unmet)

Some morrow Thou shalt learn my worship's worth.

THE HOUSE OF BEAUTY

 

She pauseth; and as each great mirror swings

(O ruined Helen, O once golden hair)

I see Œnone's ashes scattered there.

Another, and, behold, the shadowed things

Are violated tombs of shrunken kings.

And yet another (O, how thou wert fair!),

And I see one, black-clad, who prayeth where

No sound of sword on cloven helmet rings.

Yet, were I Paris, once more should I see

Troy's seaward gates for us swung open wide.

Or old Nile's glory, were I Anthony.

Or, were I Launcelot, the garden-side

At Joyous Gard. Surely; for even to me,

Where Love hath lived hath Beauty never died.

THE HOUSE OF CONTENT

 

Were once again the immortal moment mine

How should I choose my path? The path I chose

(How long ago I wonder if Time knows)

Even now I see. I see the old sun shine

Upon the moss, thick strewn with fir and pine;

The open field; the orchard's even rows;

The wood again; then, where the hills unclose,

Far off at first, now near, the long-sought shrine.

O Time, how impotent thou art! Though thou

Hast taken me from all things, and all things

From me,--although the wind of thy swift wings

Hath swept at last the shadow from her brow

Of my last kiss, yet do I triumph now

Who, choosing, paused to hear Love's counsellings.

THE HOUSE OF CHANGE

 

Was it last Autumn only, when I stood

At the field's edge, and watched the red glow creep

Among the leaves, and saw the swift flame sweep

From spruce to hemlock, till the living wood

Became a devastated solitude?

For now, behold, old seeds, long years asleep,

Wake; and a legion of young birches leap

To life, and tell the ashes life is good.

O Love of long ago, when this mad fire

Is over, and the ruins of my soul

With the Spring wind the old quest would resume,--

When age knocks at the inn of youth's desire,

Shall the new growth, now worthier of the goal,

Find still untenanted the chosen room?

THE HOUSE OF REGRET

 

It is not that I now were happier

If with the dawn my tireless feet were led

Along her path, till I saw her fair head

Thrown back to make the sunshine goldener:

For it is well, sometimes, the things that were

Are over, ere their perfectness hath fled;

Lest the old love of them should fade instead,

And lie like ruins round the throne of her.

Now with the wisdom of increasing years

I know each ancient joy a cup for tears;

Yet had I drunk, while they were draughts to praise,

Deeper, I were not now as men that grow

Old, and sit gazing out across the snow

To dream sad dreams of wasted summer days.

THE HOUSE OF WISDOM

 

I had not thought (ah, God! had I but known!)

That this sad hour should ever me befall,

When thou I judged the holiest of all

Should come to be the thing I must disown.

Was it not true? that April morn? thy blown

Gold hair around my hair for coronal?

Or is this truer?--thou at the outer wall,

Unroyal, and with unrepentant moan?

Yet prize I now this wisdom I have won,

Who must always remember? Nay! My tears

Must close mine eyes--as thou wouldst hide thy face

If some great meteor, kindred to the sun,

Should haunt the undying stars ten million years

To fall, some noon, dead in thy market place.

THE HOUSE OF SIN

 

When Time is done at last, and the last Spring

Fadeth on earth, and thy gaze seeketh mine,

Watch well for one whose face beareth for sign

The legend of a soul's refashioning:

As I shall watch for one whose pale hands bring

The first faint violet, and know them thine

Grown pitiful and come to build Love's shrine

Where the old Aprils wait, unfaltering.

Then the great floods between us will retire,

And the long path I follow down will grow

To be the path thy climbing feet desire;

Until we meet at last, made glad, and know

The cleansing hands that made my soul as snow

Have kept alive in thine the ancient fire.

THE HOUSE OF MUSIC

 

Such space there is, such endless breadth of time

Between me and my world of yesterday,

I half forget what sounds these be that stray

About my chamber, and grow and fall and climb.

Listen!--that sweet reiterated chime,

Doth it not mark some body changed to clay?

That last great chord, some anguish far away?

Hark! harmony ever now and faultless rhyme.

O Soul of mine, among these lutes and lyres,

These reeds, these golden pipes, and quivering strings,

Thou knowest now that in the old, old years

We who knew only one of all desires

Came often even to music's furthest springs--

To pass, because their waters gleamed like tears.

THE HOUSE OF COLOUR

 

Mine gold is here; yea, heavy yellow gold,

Gathered ere Earth's first days and nights were fled;

And all the walls are hung with scarfs of red,

Broidered in fallen cities, fold on fold;

The stainéd window's saints are aureoled;

And all the textures of the East are spread

On the pavéd floor, whereon I lay my head,

And sleep, and count the coloured things of old.

Once, when the hills and I were all aflame

With envy of the pageant in the West

(Except the sombre pine-trees--whence there came,

Continually, the sigh of their unrest),

A lonely crow sailed past me, black as shame,

Hugging some ancient sorrow to his breast.

THE FOURTH DAY

 

As when the tideless, barren waters lay

About the borders of the early earth;

And small, unopened buds dreamt not the worth

Of their incomparable gold array;

And tall young hemlocks were not set a-sway

By any wind; and orchards knew no mirth

At Autumn time, nor plenteousness from dearth;

And night and morning, then, were the first day,

--Even so was I. Yet, as I slept last night,

My soul surged towards thy love's controlling power;

And, quickened now with the sun's splendid might,

Breaks into unimaginable flower,

Knowing thy soul knows this for beacon-light--

The culmination of the harvest hour.

VICTORY

 

Because your strife and labour have been vain,

Ye who have striven, shall I forego, forget

The far-off goal where to my feet were set

In the old days when life was first made plain?

Upward in April, who, meeting with the rain,

Did turn, the first shy mayflowers still are met?

I who have sought, yea, who am seeking yet,

What pain have I like unto your sore pain?

So let me go as one yearning, that braves,

With shipmen that have knowledge of the sea,

The wind disastrous and the ponderous waves

(Because his love dwells in some far countree),

Crying, "Not one of all your million graves

Is deep enough to keep my love from me!"

THE LAST STORM

 

From north, from east, the strong wind hurries down

Against the window-pane the sleet rings fast;

The moon hath hid her face away, aghast,

And darkness keeps each corner of the town.

The garden hedges wear a heavy crown,

And the old poplars shriek, as night drifts past,

That, leagues on desolate leagues away, at last

One comes to know he too must surely drown.

And yet at noon, to-morrow, when I go

Out to the white, white edges of the plain,

I shall not grieve for this night's hurricane,

Seeing how, in a little hollow, sinks the snow

Around the southmost tree, where a lean crow

Sits noisily impatient for the rain.

A LAST WORD

 

And if it be I shall not sing again,

And thou have wonder at my silent ways,

I pray thee think my days not weary days,

Or that my heart is dumb for some new pain.

Seeing that words are nought, nor may remain,

Why should I strive with Time? Come blame, come praise,

I am but one of them his might betrays

At last, when all men learn that all was vain.

And yet one thing Time cannot wrest from me.

Therefore, cry out, yea, even to the throng

That pauseth not for echo of a song,

"O, your red gold is very fair. But he

Is glad as heaven to loiter and dream along

His Lady Beauty's path continually."

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DESERTED CITY ***