TWELVE·SONNETS·OF·LOVE
I
LOVE’S SANCTUARY NO more I go to worship with the crowd In Christian temples, pagan now to me, No dim cathedral hears me pray aloud, I sing no credo, as it used to be: Though kneeling not beneath the roof of Rome, Or in protesting fanes, I have a shrine— A holiest of holies—Love’s sweet home, On whose white altar lies life’s bread and wine. There oft, in saddened times and weary hours, To secret sanctuary do I flee, Where one sweet presence soothes, like breath of flowers, To whom their incense rises ceaselessly; For there, though not a Roman devotee, Sweet virgin Mary I do worship thee.
II
LOVE’S HERALDRY I GAVE to thee at parting, dear, a rose, Encrimsoned with the hue of Love’s warm lips, But yet it faded when compared to those Wherefrom my soul unfailing honey sips. And thou didst plant it in the snowy lawn Which veiled the purer treasures of thy breast, As when we see o’er earth, by winter drawn The white sky-covering in spotless rest. Warm gules on argent, like a blazoned field, The hues of life and death in red and white— A fair device for any knightly shield, Nor needing motto to proclaim its might. Henceforth I bear it on my battle crest, Till in thine arms from life’s alarms I rest.
III
THE SOLACE OF LOVE IN my heart’s chamber cold in day’s white glare, Sate Love disconsolate with tatter’d wings, And brooding on the memory of lost things That erst made glad those walls, so wan and bare. Came Hope then unto him and bade him look Upon the brightness of the cloudless hours, And on the buds of yet unopened flowers; But Love, being blind, all blank was nature’s book. Sleep came to him, and would have brought him peace, But dreams awoke Desire whose torturing flame Made worse his case and left him agony: Till one, with wreathÈd brows, for his release, Unto his fingers gave a stringÈd frame, And then Love wept, and sang his pain to thee.
IV
PASSION MUSIC THE air grows faint within the shrine of Love, And from his altar rose-leaves fall away, As smoke of incense dims the dying day That crimsons on the golden roof above: But, slowly stealing, soon the organ plains, With quiring voices in a tender song, Which shakes my soul as with a tempest strong, Still as the music rolleth on refrains. Now lifted light upon melodious wave, My spirit rises on each beating wing, That near unto the gates of bliss me bring; Full soon cast down, and bowed by thunder-tones, He falls upon the ground, and weeps and moans— Such madness doth Love’s votaries enslave.
V
LOVE’S ANCHORITE LOVE’S anchorite, within my lonely cell, His breviary I learn you every day, And Aves to my sainted Mary say, As all my rosary I careful tell: While on thy picture sweet my fond eyes dwell, Or rapt upon thy treasured story pore, Which, ending, leaves me yet to hunger more, And still athirst to seek again the well. Yet all Love’s calendar I follow through, And each fair day, where memory shows thy sign, Keep holy unto thee in prayer and song; So every season brings to thee its due; But, while thy table’s set with corn and wine, Fasting I keep Love’s Lenten-tide so long.
VI
LOVE’S GARDEN IN my heart’s garden, winter dark and bare, Love sought for flowers to make a wreath for thee, Which, since the sun was gone, he scarce might see In all the waste, and Time was gardener there, Who yet a little bloom will hardly spare, But with remorseless hand still prunes away, And still his scythe he sharpeneth every day; So Love was left with empty hands to fare. Till Hope had led him to a little well That in this desert kept a joyful spot, Made sapphire with the eyes of flowers Love knew, As though from heavenly seed their harvest grew, That soon into his reaping fingers fell Which bring you these—sweet, sweet FORGET-ME-NOT.
VII
LOVE’S SOLITUDE FILLED with the breath of Love, my soul knows change Throughout its troubled region, day by day, Still as the breaking fire upclimbs its way From scarlet dawn, through fervent noon to range; Until the fainting eve, grown wan and pale, Swoons in the arms of close embracing night That putteth forth her spells of dreamful might, And sweet enchantments, till the starry veil Is cloven by the gleaming shafts of morn, Ascending new with all his glittering train To bring me peace, or strange tempestuous pain; Or soft winds singing in the sacred grove That keeps thy shrine, and where I talk with Love, Watching the far-off sea whence hope is born.
VIII
LOVE’S HOPE JOY, like the flashes of a fitful sun, Falls on my storm-worn heart, and kindling, dies In wandering gleams about the changeful skies, Cloud-built with tempest towers, and wind-undone: For winds make desolate the day begun Wild on my path that climbs a bleak green hill, Among the writhen thorns, oft traversed, chill With the breath of March, until the ridge is won: Wherefrom I think to gain some hopeful sign, As range mine eyes the saddened landscape round, That keeps my soul’s white house, whence I return, With thoughts that may not utterly repine, But hearing even in the strong wind’s sound The shout of coming spring which makes me burn.
IX
LOVE’S DOUBT DOUBT, Hope, and Fear, all day within my breast Have clanged in cruel war where none prevail, Though their fierce cries have rent the sacred veil, When in Love’s sanctuary I sought to rest. Since brazen morn awoke this wild alarm So have they striven long with clashing swords Of two edged thought—since fell the words Upon my soul from herald lips of harm; Whose message strange a fiery hand imprest In charact’ry that burns my mazÈd sight: Yet loud with iron hands they tear and smite, But through the cloud of strife I see Hope’s crest Rise loftier, and his voice above the rest Grows calm and clearer with the falling night.
X
LOVE’S GARLAND YOUNG Love with rosy wings came through a mead, Whereon before the feet of spring had gone, Along a slender brook that wound and shone By stems made bright with blooms of fruitful deed. He gathered as he went of such fair seed As Spring upon her grassy ways had sown, And in his fingers wove a garland crown That faded not, or drooped or died for need. Full soon the stream had brought him to a space Of orchard green, where maidens sweet were met With Time’s frail gifts around his dial stone; And, these among, thou sat’st in such sweet grace, That, seeing thee, Love on thy dear head set His magic wreath and crowned thee on my throne.
XI
LOVE’S ARROWS I SAW young Love make trial of his bow, In May’s green garden where he shot his dart, Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art, But other eyes did mark him as I know; For my sweet lady sate anear his throw, And I with her, and joinÈd heart to heart, So that we might not feel the bitter smart Love leaveth there when time doth force us go. We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass, Or watched them quiver in the targe below; Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came, Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim, That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.
XII
LOVE’S HARVEST I STAND to gaze across the years’ long fields That have the tinge of Autumn, and their gold Gathered by careful hours on lea and wold; Rich spoils of time that he to Love upyields Who yet amid fair corn his sickle wields, Though harvest’s done, and summer groweth old: Well-storÈd barns, and orchards he doth hold Whose wealth against the steely winter shields. Unto my feet the days, like full-eared sheaves, Have fallen, one by one, time-bound and borne To be the bread of Love through barren days; E’en such dear heritage the sweet year leaves, And life to live again Love’s night and morn Whose light thou art, whose glory is their praise.
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