.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- .. meta:: :PG.Id: 42667 :PG.Title: The Deserted City :PG.Released: 2013-05-08 :PG.Rights: Public Domain :PG.Producer: Al Haines :DC.Creator: Francis Sherman :DC.Title: The Deserted City :DC.Language: en :DC.Created: 1899 :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg ================= THE DESERTED CITY ================= .. clearpage:: .. pgheader:: .. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line .. vspace:: 4 .. class:: x-large THE DESERTED CITY .. class:: large Stray Sonnets written by F. S. and Rescued for the Few who Love them by H. D. .. vspace:: 2 .. figure:: images/img-title.jpg :align: center :alt: Title page decoration Title page decoration .. vspace:: 2 .. class:: medium *Privately Printed* MDCCCXCIX .. vspace:: 4 .. class:: center x-large THE DESERTED CITY .. vspace:: 3 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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." .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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?*'" .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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! .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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." .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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? .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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!" .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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. .. vspace:: 4 .. | 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." .. vspace:: 6 .. pgfooter::