Rosa Mystica

Helas

  • To drift with every passion till my soul
  • Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,
  • Is it for this that I have given away
  • Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?-
  • Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
  • Scrawled over on some boyish holiday
  • With idle songs for pipe and virelay
  • Which do but mar the secret of the whole.
  • Surely that was a time I might have trod
  • The sunlit heights, and from life’s dissonance
  • Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God;
  • Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod
  • I did but touch the honey of romance-
  • And must I lose a soul’s inheritance?

Requiescat

    • Tread lightly, she is near
    • Under the snow,
    • Speak gently, she can hear
    • The daisies grow.
    • All her bright golden hair
    • Tarnished with rust,
    • She that was young and fair
    • Fallen to dust.
    • Lily-like, white as snow,
    • She hardly knew
    • She was a woman, so
    • Sweetly she grew.
    • Coffin-board, heavy stone,
    • Lie on her breast,
    • I vex my heart alone
    • She is at rest.
    • Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
    • Lyre or sonnet,
    • All my life’s buried here,
    • Heap earth upon it.

Avignon

Salve Saturnia Tellus

  • I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned
  • Italia, my Italia, at thy name:
  • And when from out the mountain’s heart I came
  • And saw the land for which my life had yearned,
  • I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:
  • And musing on the story of thy fame
  • I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame
  • The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned
  • The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,
  • And in the orchards every twining spray
  • Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:
  • But when I knew that far away at Rome
  • In evil bonds a second Peter lay,
  • I wept to see the land so very fair.

Turin

San Miniato

    • See, I have climbed the mountain side
    • Up to this holy house of God,
    • Where once that Angel-Painter trod
    • Who say the heavens opened wide,
    • And throned upon the crescent moon
    • The Virginal white Queen of Grace,-
    • Mary! could I but see thy face
    • Death could not come at all too soon.
    • O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
    • Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!
    • My heart is weary of this life
    • And over-sad to sing again.
    • O crowned by, God with love and flame!
    • O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
    • O listen ere the searching sun
    • Show to the world my sin and shame.

Ave Maria Plena Gratia

  • Was this his coming! I had hoped to see
  • A scene wondrous glory, as was told
  • Of some great God who a rain of gold
  • Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
  • Or a dread vision as when Semele
  • Sickening for love and unappeased desire
  • Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire
  • Caught her white limbs and slew her utterly:
  • With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
  • And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
  • Before this supreme mystery of Love:
  • A kneeling girl with passionless pale face,
  • An angel with a lily in his hand,
  • And over both with outstretched wings the Dove.

Florence

Italia

  • Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen
  • Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride
  • From the North Alps to the Sicilian tide!
  • Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen
  • Because rich gold in every town is seen,
  • An on thy sapphire lake, in tossing pride
  • Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride
  • Beneath one flag of red and white and green.
  • O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!
  • Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town
  • Lies mourning for her God-anointed King?
  • Look heavenward! shall God allow this thing?
  • Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,
  • And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.

Venice

Sonnet

  • I wandered in Scoglietto’s green retreat,
  • The oranges on each o’erhanging spray
  • Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day
  • Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
  • Made snow of all the blossoms, at my feet
  • Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
  • And the curved waves that streaked the sapphire bay
  • Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
  • Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,
  • “Jesus the Son of Mary has been slain,
  • O come and fill his sepulchre with flowers.”
  • Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours
  • Had drowned all memory of thy bitter pain,
  • The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers, and the Spear.

Genoa, Holy Week

Rome Unvisited

I

    • The corn has turned from gray to red,
    • Since first my spirit wandered forth
    • From the drear cities of the north,
    • And to Italia’s mountains fled.
    • And here I set my face toward home,
    • For all my pilgrimage is done,
    • Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun
    • Marshals the way to Holy Rome.
    • O Blessed Lady, who dost hold
    • Upon the seven hills thy reign!
    • O Mother without blot or stain,
    • Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!
    • O Roma, Roma, at thy feet
    • I lay this barren gift of song!
    • For, ah! the way is steep and long
    • That leads unto thy sacred street.

II

    • And yet what joy it were for me
    • To turn my feet unto the south,
    • And journeying toward the Tiber mouth
    • To kneel again at Fiesole!
    • And wandering through the tangled pines
    • That break the gold of Arno’s stream,
    • To see the purple mist and gleam
    • Of morning on the Apennines.
    • By many a vineyard-hidden home,
    • Orchard, and olive-garden gray,
    • Till from the drear Campagna’s way
    • The seven hills bear up the dome!

III

    • A pilgrim from the northern seas-
    • What joy for me to seek alone
    • The wondrous Temple, and the throne
    • Of Him who holds the awful keys!
    • When, bright with purple and with gold,
    • Come priest and holy Cardinal,
    • And borne above the heads of all
    • The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
    • O joy to see before I die
    • The only God-anointed King,
    • And hear the silver trumpets ring
    • A triumph as He passes by.
    • Or at the altar of the shrine
    • Holds high the mystic sacrifice,
    • And shows a God to human eyes
    • Beneath the veil of bread and wine.

IV

    • For lo, what changes time can bring!
    • The cycles of revolving years
    • May free my heart from all its fears,-
    • And teach my lips a song to sing.
    • Before yon field of trembling gold
    • Is garnered into dusty sheaves,
    • Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves
    • Flutter as birds adown the wold,
    • I may have run the glorious race,
    • And caught the torch while yet aflame,
    • And called upon the holy name
    • Of Him who now doth hide His face.

Aruna

Urbs Sacra Aeterna

  • Rome! What a scroll of History thine has been!
  • In the first days thy sword republican
  • Ruled the whole world for many an age’s span:
  • Then of thy peoples thou wert crowned Queen,
  • Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;
  • And now upon thy walls the breezes fan
  • (Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)
  • The hated flag of red and white and green.
  • When was thy glory! when in search for power
  • Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun,
  • And all the nations trembled at thy rod?
  • Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour,
  • When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,
  • The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God.

Sonnet On Hearing the Dies Irae Sung in the Sistine Chapel

  • Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,
  • Sad olive-groves, or sliver-breasted dove,
  • Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
  • Than terrors of red flame and thundering.
  • The empurpled vines dear memories of Thee bring:
  • A bird at evening flying to its nest,
  • Tells me of One who had no place of rest:
  • I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.
  • Come rather on some autumn afternoon,
  • When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,
  • And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,
  • Come when the splendid fulness of the moon
  • Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,
  • And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.

Easter Day

  • The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
  • The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
  • And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
  • Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
  • Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
  • And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
  • Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
  • In splendor and in light the Pope passed home.
  • My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
  • To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
  • And sought in vain for any place of rest:
  • “Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
  • I, only I, must wander wearily,
  • And bruise My feet, and drink wine salt with tears.”

E Tenebris

  • Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand,
  • For I am drowning in a stormier sea
  • Than Simon on Thy lake of Galilee:
  • The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
  • My heart is as some famine-murdered land,
  • Whence all good things have perished utterly,
  • And well I know my soul in Hell must lie
  • If I this night before God’s throne should stand.
  • “He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,
  • Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name
  • From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.”
  • Nay, peace, I shall behold before the night,
  • The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,
  • The wounded hands, the weary human face.

Vita Nuova

  • I stood by the unvintageable sea
  • Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray,
  • The long red fires of the dying day
  • Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily;
  • And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:
  • “Alas! ” I cried, “my life is full of pain,
  • And who can garner fruit or golden grain,
  • From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!”
  • My nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw
  • Nathless I threw them as my final cast
  • Into the sea, and waited for the end.
  • When lo! a sudden glory! and I saw
  • The argent splendor of white limbs ascend,
  • And in that joy forgot my tortured past.

Madonna Mia

  • A lily girl, not made for this world’s pain,
  • With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
  • And longing eyes half veiled by slumbrous tears
  • Like bluest water seen through mists of rain;
  • Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
  • Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
  • And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
  • Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
  • Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
  • Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
  • Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe.
  • Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
  • Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast and saw
  • The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

The New Helen

    • Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy
    • The sons of God fought in that great emprise?
    • Why dost thou walk our common earth again?
    • Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,
    • His purple galley, and his Tyrian men,
    • And treacherous Aphrodite’s mocking eyes?
    • For surely it was thou, who, like a star
    • Hung in the silver silence of the night,
    • Didst lure the Old World chivalry and might
    • Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!
    • Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?
    • In amorous Sidon was thy temple built
    • Over the light and laughter of the sea?
    • Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt,
    • Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry,
    • All through the waste and wearied hours of noon;
    • Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned,
    • And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss
    • Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned
    • From Calpe and the cliffs of Herakles!
    • No! thou art Helen, and none other one!
    • It was for thee that young Sarpedon died,
    • And Memnon’s manhood was untimely spent;
    • It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried
    • With Thetis’ child that evil race to run,
    • In the last year of thy beleaguerment;
    • Ay! even now the glory of thy fame
    • Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel,
    • Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well
    • Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.
    • Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land
    • Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew,
    • Where never mower rose to greet the day
    • But all unswathed the trammeling grasses grew,
    • And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand
    • Till summer’s red had changed to withered gray?
    • Didst thou lie there by some Lethaean stream
    • Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,
    • The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam
    • From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry?
    • Nay, thou were hidden in that hollow hill
    • With one who is forgotten utterly,
    • That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine;
    • Hidden away that never might’st thou see
    • The face of her, before whose mouldering shrine
    • To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;
    • Who gat from joy no joyous gladdening,
    • But only Love’s intolerable pain,
    • Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,
    • Only the bitterness of child-bearing.
    • The lotos-leaves which heal the wounds of Death
    • Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me,
    • While yet I know the summer of my days;
    • For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath
    • To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise,
    • So bowed am I before thy mystery;
    • So bowed and broken on Love’s terrible wheel,
    • That I have lost all hope and heart to sing,
    • Yet care I not what ruin time may bring
    • If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.
    • Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,
    • But, like that bird, the servant of the sun,
    • Who flies before the north wind and the home.
    • So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear,
    • Back to the tower of thine old delight,
    • And the red lips of young Euphorion;
    • Nor shall I ever see thy face again,
    • But in this poisonous garden must I stay,
    • Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain,
    • Till all my loveless life shall pass away.
    • O Helen! Helen! Helen! Yet awhile,
    • Yet for a little while, O tarry here,
    • Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!
    • For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile
    • Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear,
    • Seeing I know no other god but thee:
    • No other god save him, before whose feet
    • In nets of gold the tired planets move,
    • The incarnate spirit of spiritual love
    • Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.
    • Thou wert not born as common women are!
    • But, girt with silver splendor of the foam,
    • Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise!
    • And at thy coming some immortal star,
    • Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies;
    • And waked the shepherds on thine island home.
    • Thou shalt not die! no asps of Egypt creep
    • Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air;
    • No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair,
    • Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.
    • Lily of love, pure and inviolate!
    • Tower of ivory! red rose of fire!
    • Thou hast come down our darkness to illume:
    • For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,
    • Wearied with waiting for the World’s Desire,
    • Aimlessly wandered in the house of gloom.
    • Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne
    • For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness,
    • Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,
    • And the white glory of thy loveliness.