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I'll not weep that thou art going to leave me, There's nothing lovely here; And doubly will the dark world grieve me, While thy heart suffers there. I'll not weep, because the summer's glory Must always end in gloom; And, follow out the happiest story— It closes with a tomb! And I am weary of the anguish Increasing winters bear; Weary to watch the spirit languish Through years of dead despair. So, if a tear, when thou art dying, Should haply fall from me, It is but that my soul is sighing, To go and rest with thee.

In memory of my mother I Speak then. What is it you wanted to say? Was it the way The barge slid down the city river in sunset’s pursuit, Two thirds of June passed, the twenty-second today And summer on tiptoes, in an effort to stretch to the light, How the linden trees breathed through the stifling square And in July there was thundering, mumbling from every direction? But that speech needed gravity, needed some weight at its core And not lightness—that, I’m afraid, was deception. II Can you smell it: how sweet-rotting melon scented the greengrocer’s store Out of sight in the archway the crashing of empty crates On a breeze from the outskirts, the handcars’ jostling call And an archive of leaf-fall covered the pavements’ gray. Let the Rubik’s Cube fall from your hand, it is not worth the strain All effortful planning in vain, take the grapes, eat your fill In the quiet backyard on a bench, see for real, there in the rain What will come to your mind in the hills and the hollows of hell. III And go now, where you were going. But your nights here, in rain Especially in rain, the steady bare branch of the upas tree Learnt to death like the alphabet, feels for the window pane— G for glass, touching the frame, the words you heard at her knee And although I learnt little at school, I see as if it were now Through the flask’s throat and falling from above to beneath With an unforgettable shivering, the fine sand heaping below. The simplest device, but such an opening for grief. IV You’re done for, you deceiver, you cheat, with the tottering Tripod, your cunning replete, beat your rage on the floor like a staff That a stream might come forth, ghostly, transparent and blossoming With the odor of ozone under the municipal office tin roof. The soft furnishings sting you with static—then resound, Speak again, as if under duress, without manifesto or school If these terrible times, this place the Lord has renounced Can fill with such love, the straggler, the spent force that is you. V Aged forty-seven and widowed, Aizenstadt, shuffling, feels His way round the kitchen to the empty medicine chest Is there anything to raise a smile or a glass to here? Not even the comical long johns, in mourning and flapping half-mast. This place, where a good time means down in the yard by the crates Drinking with the men who have seen a good thing or two, Making toasts to Esenin and Chenier as if they were once mates And another wage packet spent like the last one on booze. VI After death I will leave my beloved city and there, without, I will lift my throat to the heavens, my horns tipped back to the earth, And marked by my sorrow I will give forth from my trumpeting mouth To sound through the autumn wastes, the truths for which speech had no words. How the barge was drawn down the river by sunset’s last fingering ray How, on my left wrist, time’s steel cooled and hissed How the magic door was unlocked with an ordinary key Speak. Such misfortune leaves us little else.

At first I felt shame because I had entered through the door marked Your Death. Not a valuable word written unsteeped in your death. You are the ruin whose arm encircles the young woman at the posthumous bar, before your death. The grass is still hungry above you, fed by your death. Kill whatever killed your father, your life turning to me again said before your death. Hard to grow old still hungry. You were still hungry at your death.

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused With rain, where thick the crocus blows, Past the dark forges long disused, The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride, Through forest, up the mountain-side. The autumnal evening darkens round, The wind is up, and drives the rain; While, hark! far down, with strangled sound Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain, Where that wet smoke, among the woods, Over his boiling cauldron broods. Swift rush the spectral vapours white Past limestone scars with ragged pines, Showing—then blotting from our sight!— Halt—through the cloud-drift something shines! High in the valley, wet and drear, The huts of Courrerie appear. Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher Mounts up the stony forest-way. At last the encircling trees retire; Look! through the showery twilight grey What pointed roofs are these advance?— A palace of the Kings of France? Approach, for what we seek is here! Alight, and sparely sup, and wait For rest in this outbuilding near; Then cross the sward and reach that gate. Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come To the Carthusians' world-famed home. The silent courts, where night and day Into their stone-carved basins cold The splashing icy fountains play— The humid corridors behold! Where, ghostlike in the deepening night, Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white. The chapel, where no organ's peal Invests the stern and naked prayer— With penitential cries they kneel And wrestle; rising then, with bare And white uplifted faces stand, Passing the Host from hand to hand; Each takes, and then his visage wan Is buried in his cowl once more. The cells!—the suffering Son of Man Upon the wall—the knee-worn floor— And where they sleep, that wooden bed, Which shall their coffin be, when dead! The library, where tract and tome Not to feed priestly pride are there, To hymn the conquering march of Rome, Nor yet to amuse, as ours are! They paint of souls the inner strife, Their drops of blood, their death in life. The garden, overgrown—yet mild, See, fragrant herbs are flowering there! Strong children of the Alpine wild Whose culture is the brethren's care; Of human tasks their only one, And cheerful works beneath the sun. Those halls, too, destined to contain Each its own pilgrim-host of old, From England, Germany, or Spain— All are before me! I behold The House, the Brotherhood austere! —And what am I, that I am here? For rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire, Show'd me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire. Even now their whispers pierce the gloom: What dost thou in this living tomb? Forgive me, masters of the mind! At whose behest I long ago So much unlearnt, so much resign'd— I come not here to be your foe! I seek these anchorites, not in ruth, To curse and to deny your truth; Not as their friend, or child, I speak! But as, on some far northern strand, Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek In pity and mournful awe might stand Before some fallen Runic stone— For both were faiths, and both are gone. Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born, With nowhere yet to rest my head, Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. Their faith, my tears, the world deride— I come to shed them at their side. Oh, hide me in your gloom profound, Ye solemn seats of holy pain! Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me round, Till I possess my soul again; Till free my thoughts before me roll, Not chafed by hourly false control! For the world cries your faith is now But a dead time's exploded dream; My melancholy, sciolists say, Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme— As if the world had ever had A faith, or sciolists been sad! Ah, if it be pass'd, take away, At least, the restlessness, the pain; Be man henceforth no more a prey To these out-dated stings again! The nobleness of grief is gone Ah, leave us not the fret alone! But—if you cannot give us ease— Last of the race of them who grieve Here leave us to die out with these Last of the people who believe! Silent, while years engrave the brow; Silent—the best are silent now. Achilles ponders in his tent, The kings of modern thought are dumb, Silent they are though not content, And wait to see the future come. They have the grief men had of yore, But they contend and cry no more. Our fathers water'd with their tears This sea of time whereon we sail, Their voices were in all men's ears We pass'd within their puissant hail. Still the same ocean round us raves, But we stand mute, and watch the waves. For what avail'd it, all the noise And outcry of the former men?— Say, have their sons achieved more joys, Say, is life lighter now than then? The sufferers died, they left their pain— The pangs which tortured them remain. What helps it now, that Byron bore, With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, Through Europe to the Ætolian shore The pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, And Europe made his woe her own? What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze Carried thy lovely wail away, Musical through Italian trees Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay? Inheritors of thy distress Have restless hearts one throb the less? Or are we easier, to have read, O Obermann! the sad, stern page, Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy head From the fierce tempest of thine age In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, Or chalets near the Alpine snow? Ye slumber in your silent grave!— The world, which for an idle day Grace to your mood of sadness gave, Long since hath flung her weeds away. The eternal trifler breaks your spell; But we—we learned your lore too well! Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, More fortunate, alas! than we, Which without hardness will be sage, And gay without frivolity. Sons of the world, oh, speed those years; But, while we wait, allow our tears! Allow them! We admire with awe The exulting thunder of your race; You give the universe your law, You triumph over time and space! Your pride of life, your tireless powers, We laud them, but they are not ours. We are like children rear'd in shade Beneath some old-world abbey wall, Forgotten in a forest-glade, And secret from the eyes of all. Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves, Their abbey, and its close of graves! But, where the road runs near the stream, Oft through the trees they catch a glance Of passing troops in the sun's beam— Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance! Forth to the world those soldiers fare, To life, to cities, and to war! And through the wood, another way, Faint bugle-notes from far are borne, Where hunters gather, staghounds bay, Round some fair forest-lodge at morn. Gay dames are there, in sylvan green; Laughter and cries—those notes between! The banners flashing through the trees Make their blood dance and chain their eyes; That bugle-music on the breeze Arrests them with a charm'd surprise. Banner by turns and bugle woo: Ye shy recluses, follow too! O children, what do ye reply?— "Action and pleasure, will ye roam Through these secluded dells to cry And call us?—but too late ye come! Too late for us your call ye blow, Whose bent was taken long ago. "Long since we pace this shadow'd nave; We watch those yellow tapers shine, Emblems of hope over the grave, In the high altar's depth divine; The organ carries to our ear Its accents of another sphere. "Fenced early in this cloistral round Of reverie, of shade, of prayer, How should we grow in other ground? How can we flower in foreign air? —Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease; And leave our desert to its peace!"

There may be pink with white or white with rose Or there may be white with rose and pink with mauve Or even there may be white with yellow and yellow with blue Or even if even it is rose with white and blue And so there is no yellow there but by accident.

She need not be selfish but he may add They like my way it is partly mine In which case for them to foil or not please Come which they may they may in June. Not having all made plenty by their wish In their array all which they plan Should they be called covered by which It is fortunately their stay that they may In which and because it suits them to fan Not only not with clover but with may it matter That not only at a distance and with nearly That they ran for which they will not only plan But may be rain can be caught by the hills Just as well as they can with what they have And they may have it not only because of this But because they may be here. Or is it at all likely that they arrange what they like. Nohody knows just why they are or are not anxious While they sit and watch the horse which rests Not because he is tired but because they are waiting To say will they wait with them in their way Only to say it relieves them that they go away This is what they feel when they like it Most of them do or which It is very often their need not to be either Just why they are after all made quickly faster Just as they might do. It is what they did say when they mentioned it Or this. It is very well to go up and down and look more Than they could please that they see where It is better that they are there

Should they may be they might if they delight In why they must see it be there not only necessarily But which they might in which they might For which they might delight if they look there And they see there that they look there To see it be there which it is if it is Which may be where where it is If they do not occasion it to be different From what it is. In one direction there is the sun and the moon In the other direction there are cumulus clouds and the sky In the other direction there is why They look at what they see They look very long while they talk along And they may be said to see that at which they look Whenever there is no chance of its not being warmer Than if they wish which they were. They see that they have what is there may there Be there also what is to be there if they may care They care for it of course they care for it. Now only think three times roses green and blue And vegetables and pumpkins and pansies too Which they like as they are very likely not to be Reminded that it is more than ever necessary That they should never be surprised at any one time At just what they have been given by taking what they have Which they are very careful not to add with As they may easily indulge in the fragrance Not only of which but by which they know That they tell them so.

I think very well of Susan but I do not know her name I think very well of Ellen but which is not the same I think very well of Paul I tell him not to do so I think very well of Francis Charles but do I do so I think very well of Thomas but I do not not do so I think very well of not very well of William I think very well of any very well of him I think very well of him. It is remarkable how quickly they learn But if they learn and it is very remarkable how quickly they learn It makes not only but by and by And they may not only be not here But not there Which after all makes no difference After all this does not make any does not make any difference I add added it to it. I could rather be rather be here.

Why can pansies be their aid or paths. He said paths she had said paths All like to do their best with half of the time A sweeter sweetener came and came in time Tell him what happened then only to go He nervous as you add only not only as they angry were Be kind to half the time that they shall say It is undoubtedly of them for them for every one any one They thought quietly that Sunday any day she might not come In half a way of coining that they wish it Let it be only known as please which they can underrate They try once to destroy once to destroy as often Better have it changed to pigeons now if the room smokes Not only if it does but happens to happens to have the room smoke all the time. In their way not in their way it can be all arranged Not now we are waiting. I have read that they wish if land is there Land is there if they wish land is there Yes hardly if they wish land is there It is no thought of enterprise there trying Might they claim as well as reclaim. Did she mean that she had nothing. We say he and I that we do not cry Because we have just seen him and called him back He meant to go away Once now I will tell all which they tell lightly. How were we when we met. All of which nobody not we know But it is so. They cannot be allied They can be close and chosen. Once in a while they wait. He likes it that there is no chance to misunderstand pansies.