The Garden of Eros

    • It is full summer now, the heart of June,
    • Not yet the sun-burnt reapers are a-stir
    • 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 holly-hock red-crocketed
    • To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,
    • Its little bell-ringer, 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, creamery meadow-sweet
    • Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous
    • As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet
    • Of Huntress Dian would be loath 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 fox-gloves 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 you 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 gray 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 a-while,
    • 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 skeptical 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 thee at Thessaly,
    • And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot
    • In passionless and fierce virginity
    • Hunting the tusked boar, his honeyed lute
    • Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
    • And Venus laughs to the one knee will bow before
    • her still.
    • And he hath kissed the one 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 Sign grows gray 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 armory
    • 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 meet to make an earthly
    • paradise.
    • We know them all, Gudrun the strong man’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 enamored 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 a-while!
    • Although the cheating merchants of the mart
    • With iron roads profane our lovely isle,
    • And break on whirring wheels the limbs of Art,
    • Ay! though the crowded factories beget
    • The blind-worm 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-colored 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 god-like 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 corn-crake 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!