A Sheaf of Sonnets
I.
Ellen Terry’s Beatrice.
A WIND of spring that whirls the foignèd snows
Of blossom-petals in the face, and flees ;
Elusive, made of mirthful mockeries,
Yet tender with the prescience of the rose ;
A strain desired, that through the memory goes,
Too subtle-slender for the voice to seize;
A flame dissembled, only lit to tease,
Whose touch were half a kiss, if one but knows.
Of blossom-petals in the face, and flees ;
Elusive, made of mirthful mockeries,
Yet tender with the prescience of the rose ;
A strain desired, that through the memory goes,
Too subtle-slender for the voice to seize;
A flame dissembled, only lit to tease,
Whose touch were half a kiss, if one but knows.
She shows by Leonato’s dove-like daughter
A tercel, by a prince to be possessed,
Gay-graced with bells that ever chiming are ;
In azure of the bright Sicilian water,
A billow that has rapt into its breast
The swayed reflection of a dancing star!
A tercel, by a prince to be possessed,
Gay-graced with bells that ever chiming are ;
In azure of the bright Sicilian water,
A billow that has rapt into its breast
The swayed reflection of a dancing star!
II.
The Resolve.
Thou intimate, malign, benumbing power
I cannot name, since names that men have made
For shapes of evil shine beside thy shade,
Who from the seat of mine own soul dost lower, —
Darkness itself, that doth the light devour, —
I feel thine urgency upon me laid
To voice despair ! Thou shalt not be obeyed;
Thou art my master only for thine hour !
I cannot name, since names that men have made
For shapes of evil shine beside thy shade,
Who from the seat of mine own soul dost lower, —
Darkness itself, that doth the light devour, —
I feel thine urgency upon me laid
To voice despair ! Thou shalt not be obeyed;
Thou art my master only for thine hour !
As some sad-eyed, wan woman that is slave
To the swart Moor, being bid her lute to bring,
Since song of her strange land her lord doth crave,
With lip a-tremble dares the scourge’s sting,
Refusing, — thy brute might so far I brave:
I will not sing what thou wouldst have me sing!
To the swart Moor, being bid her lute to bring,
Since song of her strange land her lord doth crave,
With lip a-tremble dares the scourge’s sting,
Refusing, — thy brute might so far I brave:
I will not sing what thou wouldst have me sing!
III.
On First Reading Landor’s Hellenics.
Two sauntering, hand in hand, one happy day,
Along a pleasant path that neither knew,
Came, glad and startled, on the sudden blue,
With sails unclouded, of a sunny bay,
And hollowing toward the wave a meadow, gray
With honey-giving growths thick-spread as dew.
There goatskin-girt, with limbs like bronze in hue,
Free-bathed in sun and wind, a shepherd lay,
Along a pleasant path that neither knew,
Came, glad and startled, on the sudden blue,
With sails unclouded, of a sunny bay,
And hollowing toward the wave a meadow, gray
With honey-giving growths thick-spread as dew.
There goatskin-girt, with limbs like bronze in hue,
Free-bathed in sun and wind, a shepherd lay,
Asleep, his reed pipe fallen by his knee;
And late, it seemed, a song had left his lips.
We heard but lapping ripple, prattling bee
Above the thyme’s dim purple, downy tips ;
Beyond, once beat by oars of beakèd ships,
Far outward swept the calm, the storied sea.
And late, it seemed, a song had left his lips.
We heard but lapping ripple, prattling bee
Above the thyme’s dim purple, downy tips ;
Beyond, once beat by oars of beakèd ships,
Far outward swept the calm, the storied sea.
IV.
Bach’s St. Matthew Passion Music.
Hark! on this wind eternal Voices ride.
Oh, hark ! out of the deep mysterious East
The Voices of Disciple and High-Priest,
Betrayer, and Denier, and Denied:
Strong prayers at midnight by a streamlet-side,
And broken sayings at a solemn feast;
A sea-like sound : “ Barabbas be released ! ”
A fiercer wave : “ Let Him be crucified ! ”
Oh, hark ! out of the deep mysterious East
The Voices of Disciple and High-Priest,
Betrayer, and Denier, and Denied:
Strong prayers at midnight by a streamlet-side,
And broken sayings at a solemn feast;
A sea-like sound : “ Barabbas be released ! ”
A fiercer wave : “ Let Him be crucified ! ”
And now arise new voices blent with these,
In sober chorals linkèd, like the beads
Of some brown chaplet; breathing pieties
Of faithful souls that sifted not the creeds.
The names of those that sang the loiterer reads
In God’s green acre, spired with poplar-trees.
In sober chorals linkèd, like the beads
Of some brown chaplet; breathing pieties
Of faithful souls that sifted not the creeds.
The names of those that sang the loiterer reads
In God’s green acre, spired with poplar-trees.
V.
The Passing of the Year.
O gentle Year, I ’ll not entreat thee stay,
Since now thy face is set to some far land
Not named of men, untrod, a shadow-strand !
And those most powerful prayers that lips could pray
Would not obtain thy tarrying for a day.
Yet, gliding from us with the sliding sand,
Thou shalt not pass till I have kissed the hand
That gave me joys, and took but time away.
Since now thy face is set to some far land
Not named of men, untrod, a shadow-strand !
And those most powerful prayers that lips could pray
Would not obtain thy tarrying for a day.
Yet, gliding from us with the sliding sand,
Thou shalt not pass till I have kissed the hand
That gave me joys, and took but time away.
Can Love, that of the soul’s delight is born,
Being matched in stature to the soul, increase?
Not so : but Memory, leaning at his side,
Waxes with every rosy draught of morn,
And gathers to her every moon’s full peace,
And, gazing on dark seas of summer, grows deep-eyed.
Being matched in stature to the soul, increase?
Not so : but Memory, leaning at his side,
Waxes with every rosy draught of morn,
And gathers to her every moon’s full peace,
And, gazing on dark seas of summer, grows deep-eyed.
Helen Gray Cone.