Ernest Christopher Dowson

Violets and leaves of vine, Into a frail, fair wreath We gather and entwine:

Let us go hence: the night is now at hand; The day is overworn, the birds all flown; And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown

Neobule, being tired, Far too tired to laugh or weep, From the hours, rosy and gray,

All that a man may pray, Have I not prayed to thee? What were praise left to say,

If we must part, Then let it be like this; Not heart on heart,

Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, Love me: we will pass and part,

I was always a lover of ladies' hands! Or ever mine heart came here to tryst, For the sake of your carved white hands' commands;

I Il pleut doucement sur la ville.--RIMBAUD Tears fall within mine heart,

When this, our rose, is faded, And these, our days, are done, In lands profoundly shaded

Beyond the pale of memory, In some mysterious dusky grove; A place of shadows utterly,

A gift of Silence, sweet! Who may not ever hear: To lay down at your unobservant feet,

We have walked in Love's land a little way, We have learnt his lesson a little while, And shall we not part at the end of day,

Pale amber sunlight falls across The reddening October trees, That hardly sway before a breeze

What land of Silence, Where pale stars shine On apple-blossom

Without, the sullen noises of the street! The voice of London, inarticulate, Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet

Love's aftermath! I think the time is now That we must gather in, alone, apart The saddest crop of all the crops that grow,

Here, where the breath of the scented-gorse floats through the sun-stained air, On a steep hill-side, on a grassy ledge, I have lain hours long and heard Only the faint breeze pass in a whisper like a prayer,

Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire, Have these white monks been brought into the way of peace, Despising the world's wisdom and the world's desire,

In the deep violet air, Not a leaf is stirred; There is no sound heard,

Shall one be sorrowful because of love, Which hath no earthly crown, Which lives and dies, unknown?

The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof (This is the end of every song man sings!) The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,

Dum nos fata sinunt, oculos satiemus Amore.--PROPERTIUS Cease smiling, Dear! a little while be sad, Here in the silence, under the wan moon;

Because I am idolatrous and have besought, With grievous supplication and consuming prayer, The admirable image that my dreams have wrought

All that I had I brought, Little enough I know; A poor rhyme roughly wrought,

By the sad waters of separation Where we have wandered by divers ways, I have but the shadow and imitation

Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet, On all the passages of sense, The atoning oil is spread with sweet

I would not alter thy cold eyes, Nor trouble the calm fount of speech With aught of passion or surprise.

A while we wandered (thus it is I dream!) Through a long, sandy track of No Man's Land, Where only poppies grew among the sand,

I watched the glory of her childhood change, Half-sorrowful to find the child I knew, (Loved long ago in lily-time)

Before my light goes out for ever if God should give me a choice of graces, I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be; But cry: "One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces,

They sleep well here, These fisher-folk who passed their anxious days In fierce Atlantic ways;

See how the trees and the osiers lithe Are green bedecked and the woods are blithe, The meadows have donned their cape of flowers,

When I am old, And sadly steal apart, Into the dark and cold,

Erewhile, before the world was old, When violets grew and celandine, In Cupid's train we were enrolled:

Goddess the laughter-loving, Aphrodite, befriend! Long have I served thine altars, serve me now at the end, Let me have peace of thee, truce of thee, golden one, send.

A song of the setting sun! The sky in the west is red, And the day is all but done:

Dew on her robe and on her tangled hair; Twin dewdrops for her eyes; behold her pass, With dainty step brushing the young, green grass,

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;

Calm, sad, secure; behind high convent walls, These watch the sacred lamp, these watch and pray: And it is one with them when evening falls,

Exceeding sorrow Consumeth my sad heart! Because to-morrow

Mark the day white, on which the Fates have smiled: Eugenio and Egeria have a child. On whom abundant grace kind Jove imparts

You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he: Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated

Why is there in the least touch of her hands More grace than other women's lips bestow, If love is but a slave in fleshly bands

Ah, Manon, say, why is it we Are one and all so fain of thee? Thy rich red beauty debonnaire

(1887-1895) Through the green boughs I hardly saw thy face, They twined so close: the sun was in mine eyes;

The wisdom of the world said unto me: "Go forth and run, the race is to the brave; Perchance some honour tarrieth for thee!"

Come not before me now, O visionary face! Me tempest-tost, and borne along life's passionate sea; Troublous and dark and stormy though my passage be;

Oh, I would live in a dairy, And its Colin I would be, And many a rustic fairy

I was not sorrowful, I could not weep, And all my memories were put to sleep. I watched the river grow more white and strange,

Even now the fragrant darkness of her hair Had brushed my cheek; and once, in passing by, Her hand upon my hand lay tranquilly:

Sleep on, dear, now The last sleep and the best, And on thy brow,

Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind Against the perfect flowers: thy garden's close Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find

Sleep! Cast thy canopy Over this sleeper's brain, Dim grow his memory,

THE CHARACTERS A MOON MAIDEN PIERROT

Where river and ocean meet in a great tempestuous frown, Beyond the bar, where on the dunes the white-capped rollers break; Above, one windmill stands forlorn on the arid, grassy down:

All the moon-shed nights are over, And the days of gray and dun; There is neither may nor clover,

Why am I sorry, Chloe? Because the moon is far: And who am I to be straitened in a little earthly star? Because thy face is fair? And what if it had not been,

I seek no more to bridge the gulf that lies Betwixt our separate ways; For vainly my heart prays,

There comes an end to summer, To spring showers and hoar rime; His mumming to each mummer

With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars, Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine; Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line

The cherry-coloured velvet of your cloak Time hath not soiled: its fair embroideries Gleam as when centuries ago they spoke

A little while to walk with thee, dear child; To lean on thee my weak and weary head; Then evening comes: the winter sky is wild,

Sometimes, to solace my sad heart, I say, Though late it be, though lily-time be past, Though all the summer skies be overcast,

I said: "There is an end of my desire: Now have I sown, and I have harvested, And these are ashes of an ancient fire,

Beyond the need of weeping, Beyond the reach of hands, May she be quietly sleeping,

Let be at last; give over words and sighing, Vainly were all things said: Better at last to find a place for lying,

Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam They are not long, the weeping and the laughter. Love and desire and hate:

Strange grows the river on the sunless evenings! The river comforts me, grown spectral, vague and dumb: Long was the day; at last the consoling shadows come:

By the pale marge of Acheron, Me thinks we shall pass restfully, Beyond the scope of any sun.

I took her dainty eyes, as well As silken tendrils of her hair: And so I made a Villanelle!

"A little, passionately, not at all?" She casts the snowy petals on the air: And what care we how many petals fall!

Come hither, Child! and rest: This is the end of day, Behold the weary West!

Wine and woman and song, Three things garnish our way: Yet is day over long.

Love wine and beauty and the spring, While wine is red and spring is here, And through the almond blossoms ring

In your mother's apple-orchard It is grown too dark to stray, There is none to chide you, Yvonne!

In your mother's apple-orchard, Just a year ago, last spring: Do you remember, Yvonne!