The Garden Of Eros

It is full summer now, the heart of June;     Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir     Upon the upland meadow where too soon     Rich autumn time, the season's usurer,     Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,     And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.     Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,     That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on     To vex the rose with jealousy, and still     The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,     And like a strayed and wandering reveller     Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June's messenger     The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,     One pale narcissus loiters fearfully     Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid     Of their own loveliness some violets lie     That will not look the gold sun in the face     For fear of too much splendour, ah! methinks it is a place     Which should be trodden by Persephone     When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!     Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!     The hidden secret of eternal bliss     Known to the Grecian here a man might find,     Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.     There are the flowers which mourning Herakles     Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,     Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze     Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,     That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,     And lilac lady's-smock, but let them bloom alone, and leave     Yon spired hollyhock red-crocketed     To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,     Its little bellringer, go seek instead     Some other pleasaunce; the anemone     That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl     Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl     Their painted wings beside it, bid it pine     In pale virginity; the winter snow     Will suit it better than those lips of thine     Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go     And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,     Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.     The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus     So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet     Whiter than Juno's throat and odorous     As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet     Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar     For any dappled fawn, pluck these, and those fond flowers which are     Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon     Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,     That morning star which does not dread the sun,     And budding marjoram which but to kiss     Would sweeten Cytheraea's lips and make     Adonis jealous, these for thy head, and for thy girdle take     Yon curving spray of purple clematis     Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,     And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,     But that one narciss which the startled Spring     Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard     In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer's bird,     Ah! leave it for a subtle memory     Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,     When April laughed between her tears to see     The early primrose with shy footsteps run     From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,     Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering gold.     Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet     As thou thyself, my soul's idolatry!     And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet     Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,     For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride     And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.     And I will cut a reed by yonder spring     And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan     Wonder what young intruder dares to sing     In these still haunts, where never foot of man     Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy     The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.     And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears     Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,     And why the hapless nightingale forbears     To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone     When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,     And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.     And I will sing how sad Proserpina     Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,     And lure the silver-breasted Helena     Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,     So shalt thou see that awful loveliness     For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war's abyss!     And then I'll pipe to thee that Grecian tale     How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,     And hidden in a grey and misty veil     Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun     Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase     Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.     And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,     We may behold Her face who long ago     Dwelt among men by the AEgean sea,     And whose sad house with pillaged portico     And friezeless wall and columns toppled down     Looms o'er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town.     Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,     They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;     Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile     Is better than a thousand victories,     Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo     Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few     Who for thy sake would give their manlihood     And consecrate their being; I at least     Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,     And in thy temples found a goodlier feast     Than this starved age can give me, spite of all     Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.     Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,     The woods of white Colonos are not here,     On our bleak hills the olive never blows,     No simple priest conducts his lowing steer     Up the steep marble way, nor through the town     Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.     Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,     Whose very name should be a memory     To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest     Beneath the Roman walls, and melody     Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play     The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.     Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left     One silver voice to sing his threnody,     But ah! too soon of it we were bereft     When on that riven night and stormy sea     Panthea claimed her singer as her own,     And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone,     Save for that fiery heart, that morning star     Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye     Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war     The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy     Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring     The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,     And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,     And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot     In passionless and fierce virginity     Hunting the tusked boar, his honied lute     Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,     And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.     And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,     And sung the Galilaean's requiem,     That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine     He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him     Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,     And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.     Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,     It is not quenched the torch of poesy,     The star that shook above the Eastern hill     Holds unassailed its argent armoury     From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight     O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,     Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer's child,     Dear heritor of Spenser's tuneful reed,     With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled     The weary soul of man in troublous need,     And from the far and flowerless fields of ice     Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.     We know them all, Gudrun the strong men's bride,     Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,     How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,     And what enchantment held the king in thrall     When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers     That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,     Long listless summer hours when the noon     Being enamoured of a damask rose     Forgets to journey westward, till the moon     The pale usurper of its tribute grows     From a thin sickle to a silver shield     And chides its loitering car how oft, in some cool grassy field     Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,     At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come     Almost before the blackbird finds a mate     And overstay the swallow, and the hum     Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,     Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,     And through their unreal woes and mimic pain     Wept for myself, and so was purified,     And in their simple mirth grew glad again;     For as I sailed upon that pictured tide     The strength and splendour of the storm was mine     Without the storm's red ruin, for the singer is divine;     The little laugh of water falling down     Is not so musical, the clammy gold     Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town     Has less of sweetness in it, and the old     Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady     Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.     Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!     Although the cheating merchants of the mart     With iron roads profane our lovely isle,     And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,     Ay! though the crowded factories beget     The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!     For One at least there is, He bears his name     From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,     Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame     To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,     Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien's snare,     And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,     Loves thee so well, that all the World for him     A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,     And Sorrow take a purple diadem,     Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair     Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be     Even in anguish beautiful; such is the empery     Which Painters hold, and such the heritage     This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,     Being a better mirror of his age     In all his pity, love, and weariness,     Than those who can but copy common things,     And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.     But they are few, and all romance has flown,     And men can prophesy about the sun,     And lecture on his arrows how, alone,     Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,     How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,     And that no more 'mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.     Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon     That they have spied on beauty; what if we     Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon     Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,     Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope     Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!     What profit if this scientific age     Burst through our gates with all its retinue     Of modern miracles! Can it assuage     One lover's breaking heart? what can it do     To make one life more beautiful, one day     More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay     Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth     Hath borne again a noisy progeny     Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth     Hurls them against the august hierarchy     Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust     They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must     Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,     From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,     Create the new Ideal rule for man!     Methinks that was not my inheritance;     For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul     Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.     Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away     Her visage from the God, and Hecate's boat     Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day     Blew all its torches out: I did not note     The waning hours, to young Endymions     Time's palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!     Mark how the yellow iris wearily     Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed     By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,     Who, like a blue vein on a girl's white wrist,     Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,     Which 'gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.     Come let us go, against the pallid shield     Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,     The corncrake nested in the unmown field     Answers its mate, across the misty stream     On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,     And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,     Scatters the pearled dew from off the grass,     In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,     Who soon in gilded panoply will pass     Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion     Hung in the burning east: see, the red rim     O'ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him     Already the shrill lark is out of sight,     Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,     Ah! there is something more in that bird's flight     Than could be tested in a crucible!     But the air freshens, let us go, why soon     The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!