  The doves call down the long arcades of pine, The screaming swifts are tiring towards their eaves, And you are very quiet, O lover of mine. No foot is on your ploughlands now, the song Fails and is no more heard among your leaves That wearied not in praise the whole day long. I have watched with you till this twilight-fall, The proud companion of your loveliness; Have you no word for me, no word at all? The passion of my thought I have given you, Striving towards your passion, nevertheless, The clover leaves are deepening to the dew, And I am still unsatisfied, untaught. You lie guarded in mystery, you go Into your night, and leave your lover naught. Would I were Titan with immeasurable thews To hold you trembling, lover of mine, and know To the full the secret savour that you use Now to my tormenting. I would drain Your beauty to the last sharp glory of it; You should work mightily through me, blood and brain. Your heart in my heart’s mastery should burn, And you before my swift and arrogant wit Should be no longer proudly taciturn. You should bend back astonished at my kiss, Your wisdom should be armourer to my pride, And you, subdued, should yet be glad of this. The joys of great heroic lovers dead Should seem but market-gossiping beside The annunciation of our bridal bed. And now, my lover earth, I am a leaf, A wave of light, a bird’s note, a blade sprung Towards the oblivion of the sickled sheaf; A mere mote driven against your royal ease, A tattered eager traveller among The myriads beating on your sanctuaries. I have no strength to crush you to my will, Your beauty is invulnerably zoned, Yet I, your undefeated lover still, Exulting in your sap am clear of shame, And biding with you patiently am throned Above the flight of desolation’s aim. You may be mute, bestow no recompense On all the thriftless leaguers of my soul— I am at your gates, O lover of mine, and thence Will I not turn for any scorn you send, Rebuked, bemused, yet is my purpose whole, I shall be striving towards you till the end. |
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