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Trembling, he gat his sword into his hand, Yet was she seen again on many a day And midmost of the cloisters took his stand. By some half-waking mariner, or herd,

Playing amid the ripples of the bay, But for a while that unknown noise in- Or on the hills making all things afcard, creased,

Or in the wood, that did that castle gird, A rattling, that with strident roars did blend, But never any man again durst go

503 And whining moans; but suddenly it ceased, To seek her woman's form, and end her woe. A fearful thing stood at the cloister's end, And eyed him for a while, then 'gan to wend As for the man, who knows what things he Adown the cloisters, and began again 468 bore? That rattling, and the moan like fiends in pain. What mournful faces peopled the sad night,

What wailings vexed him with reproaches sore, And as it came on towards him, with its What images of that nigh-gained delight ! teeth

What dreamed caresses from soft hands and The body of a slain goat did it tear,

white, The blood whereof in its hot jaws did seethe, Turning to horrors ere they reached the best : And on its tongue he saw the smoking hair; What struggles vain, what shame, what huge Then his heart sank, and standing trembling unrest?

511 there, Throughout his mind wild thoughts and fearful No man he knew, three days he lay and

raved, “Some fiend she was,” he said, “the banel of And cried for death, until a lethargy man."


Fell on him, and his fellows thought him

saved ; Yet he abode her still, although his blood But on the third night he awoke to die; Curdled within him: the thing dropped the And at Byzantium doth his body lie goat,

Between two blossoming pomegranate trees, And creeping on, came close to where he stood, Within the churchyard of the Genoese. 518 And raised its head to him, and wrinkled

throat, Then he cried out and wildly at her smote, ALGERNON CHARLES SWINShutting his eyes, and turned and from the

BURNE (1837-1909) place

482 Ran swiftly, with a white and ghastly face.

CHORUS FROM ATALANTA IN But little things rough stones and tree

CALYDON trunks seemed, And if he fell, he rose and ran on still; When the hounds of spring are on winter's No more he felt his hurts than if he dreamed, traces, He made no stay for valley or steep hill, The mother of months in meadow or plain Heedless he dashed through many a foaming Fills the shadows and windy places rill,

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; Until he came unto the ship at last 489 And the brown bright nightingale amorous And with no word into the deep hold passed. Is half assuaged for Itylus,

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, Meanwhile the dragon, seeing him clean The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 8

gone, Followed him not, but crying horribly, Come with bows bent and with emptying of Caught up within her jaws a block of stone quivers, And ground it into powder, then turned she, Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With cries that folk could hear far out at sea, With a noise of winds and many rivers, And reached the treasure set apart of old, With a clamour of waters, and with might; To brood above the hidden heaps of gold. 497

1 cf. the nightingale poems in this volume and 1 destroyer

the note on Sidney's The Nightingale.



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For winter's rains and ruins are over,

And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remember'd is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 32

I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.


The full streams feed on flower of rushes,

Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat' is heard above the lyre, And the hoofèd heel of a satyr crushes

The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 40



Here life has death for neighbour,

And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labour,

Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice,

No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies,

Green grapes of Proserpine,2 Pale beds of blowing rushes, Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes.

For dead men deadly wine.

And Pan? by noon and Bacchus 3 by night,

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with delight

The Mänad * and the Bassarid ; * And soft as lips that laugh and hide, The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight

The god pursuing, the maiden hid.



The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's 4 hair

Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare

Her bright breast shortening into sighs ;

Pale, without name or number,

In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber

All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,

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Then star nor sun shall waken,

Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken,

Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal

In an eternal night.




Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow,
How can thine heart be full of the spring ?

A thousand summers are over and dead. What hast thou found in the spring to follow? What hast thou found in thy heart to sing? What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?



Though one were strong as seven,

He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,

Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,

In the end it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal,

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal

With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her

From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other,

She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother,

The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where suinmer song rings hollow

And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither,

The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,

And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.

72 We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;

Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.


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Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
Thy way is long to the sun and the


But I, fulfill'd of my heart's desire, Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, From tawny body and sweet small mouth

Feed the heart of the night with fire. 18 I the nightingale all spring through, O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,

All spring through till the spring be done, Clothed with the light of the night on the

dew, Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow,

23 Take flight and follow and find the sun.

Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, Though all things feast in the spring's guest

chamber, How hast thou heart to be glad thereof


From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

For where thou fliest I shall not follow,
Till life forget and death remember,

Till thou remember and I forget.


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Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow,

I know not how thou hast heart to sing.
Hast thou the heart? is it all past over?

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled
Thy lord the summer is good to follow,

Whence yet no leaf expands, And fair the feet of thy lover the spring :

Ope if you touch, though close upcurled, But what wilt thou say to the spring thy

A baby's hands.

Then, fast as warriors grip their brands

When battle's bolt is hurled,
O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow,
My heart in me is a molten ember

They close, clenched hard like tightening

bands. And over my head the waves have met.

7 But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow Could I forget or thou remember,

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled Couldst thou remember and I forget. 42

Match, even in loveliest lands,

The sweetest flowers in all the world -
O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow,

A baby's hands.
The heart's division divideth us.
Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree;

But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow
To the place of the slaying of Itylus, A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,
The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea. 48 Ere lips learn words or sighs,

Bless all things bright enough to win
O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow,

A baby's eyes. I pray thee sing not a little space.

Are not the roofs and the lintels wet ? Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, The woven web' that was plain to follow,

And sleep flows out and in, The small slain body, the flower-like face, Sees perfect in them Paradise.

7 Can I remember if thou forget ? 54

Their glance might cast out pain and sin, O sister, sister, thy first-begotten!

Their speech make dumb the wise,
The hands that cling and the feet that follow, By mute glad godhead felt within

The voice of the child's blood crying yet, A baby's eyes.
Who hath remember'd me ? who hath forgotten?
Thou hast forgotten, O) summer swallow,
But the world shall end when I forget. 60



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Under yonder beech-tree single on the green

sward, Couch'd with her arms behind her golden

head, Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly,

Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, Press her parting lips as her waist I gather

slow, Waking in amazement she could not but em

brace me: Then would she hold me and never let me



Beneath the shadow of dawn's aërial cope, With eyes enkindled as the sun's own

sphere, Hope from the front of youth in godlike

cheer Looks Godward, past the shades where blind

men grope Round the dark door that prayers nor dreams

can ope, And makes for joy the very darkness dear That gives her wide wings play; nor dreams

that fear At noon may rise and pierce the heart of

hope. Then, when the soul leaves off to dream and

yearn, May truth first purge her eyesight to discern What once being known leaves time no

power to appal; Till youth at last, ere yet youth be not,

learn The kind wise word that falls from years

that fall “Hope thou not much, and fear thou not


Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swal

low, Swift as the swallow along the river's light Circleting the surface to meet his mirror'd

winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her

flight. Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine

tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of

at all."


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