Читать книгу Love Letters of a Violinist, and Other Poems - Eric Mackay - Страница 5

Table of Contents

I.

Yes, I was mad. I know it. I was mad.

For there is madness in the looks of love;

And he who frights a tender, brooding dove

Is not more base than I, and not so sad;

For I had kill'd the hope that made me glad,

And curs'd, in thought, the sunlight from above.

II.

He was a fool, indeed, who lately tried

To touch the moon, far-shining in the trees,

He clomb the branches with his hands and knees.

And craned his neck to kiss what he espied.

But down he fell, unseemly in his pride,

And told his follies to the fitful breeze.

III.

I was convicted of as strange a thing,

And wild as strange; for, in a hope forlorn,

I fought with Fate. But now the flag is torn

Which like a herald in the days of spring

I held aloft. The birds have ceased to sing

The dear old songs they sang from morn to morn.

IV.

All holy things avoid me. Breezes pass

And will not fan my cheek, as once they did.

The gloaming hies away like one forbid;

And day returns, and shadows on the grass

Fall from the trees; and night and morn amass

No joys for me this side the coffin-lid.

V.

Absolve me, Sweet! Absolve me, or I die;

And give me pardon, if no other boon.

Aye, give me pardon, and the sun and moon,

And all the stars that wander through the sky

Will be thy sponsors, and the gladden'd cry

Of one poor heart will thank thee for it soon.

VI.

And mine Amati—my belovèd one—

The tender sprite who soothes, as best he may,

My fever'd pulse, and makes a roundelay

Of all my fears—e'en he, when all is done,

Will be thy friend, and yield his place to none

To wish thee well, and greet thee day by day.

VII.

For he is human, though, to look at him,

To see his shape, to hear,—as from the throat

Of some bright angel,—his ecstatic note,

A sinful soul might dream of cherubim.

Aye! and he watches when my senses swim,

And I can trace the thoughts that o'er him float.

VIII.

Often, indeed, I tell him more than man

E'er tells to woman in the honied hours

Of tranced night, in cities or in bowers;

And more, perchance, than lovers in the span

Of absent letters may, with scheming, plan

For life's surrender in the fairy towers.

IX.

And he consoles me. There is none I find,

None in the world, so venturesome and wild,

And yet withal, so tender, true, and mild,

As he can be. And those who think him blind

Are much to blame. His ways are ever kind;

And he can plead as softly as a child.

X.

And when he talks to me I feel the touch

Of some sweet hope, a feeling of content

Almost akin to what by joy is meant.

And then I brood on this; for Love is such,

It makes us weep to want it overmuch,

If wayward Fate withhold his full consent.

XI.

Oh, come to me, thou friend of my desire,

My lov'd Amati! At a word of thine

I can be brave, and dash away the brine

From off my cheek, and neutralise the fire

That makes me mad, and use thee as a lyre

To curb the anguish of this soul of mine.

XII.

Wood as thou art, my treasure, with the strings

Fair on thy form, as fits thy parentage,

I cannot deem that in a gilded cage

Thy spirit lives. The bird that in thee sings

Is not a mortal. No! Enthralment flings

Its charms about thee like a poet's rage.

XIII.

Thou hast no sex; but, in an elfish way,

Thou dost entwine in one, as in a troth,

The gleesome thoughts of man and maiden both.

Thy voice is fullest at the flush of day,

But after midnight there is much to say

In weird remembrance of an April oath.

XIV.

And when the moon is seated on the throne

Of some white cloud, with her attendants near—

The wondering stars that hold her name in fear—

Oh! then I know that mine Amati's tone

Is all for me, and that he stands alone,

First of his tribe, belov'd without a peer.

XV.

Yea, this is so, my Lady! A fair form

Made of the garner'd relics of a tree,

In which of old a dryad of the lea

Did live and die. He flourish'd in a storm,

And learnt to warble when the days were warm

And learnt at night the secrets of the sea.

XVI.

And now he is all mine, for my caress

And my strong bow,—an Ariel, as it seems,—

A something sweeter than the sweetest dreams;

A prison'd wizard that has come to bless

And will not curse, though tortured, more or less,

By some remembrance that athwart him streams.

XVII.

It is the thought of April. 'Tis the tie

That made us one; for then the earth was fair

With all things on't, and summer in the air

Tingled for thee and me. A soft reply

Came to thy lips, and I was like to die

To hear thee make such coy confessions there.

XVIII.

It was the dawn of love (or so I thought)

The tender cooing of thy bosom-bird—

The beating heart that flutter'd at a word,

And seem'd for me alone to be so fraught

With wants unutter'd! All my being caught

Glamor thereat, as at a boon conferr'd.

XIX.

And I was lifted, in a minute's space,

As nigh to Heaven as Heaven is nigh to thee,

And in thy wistful glances I could see

Something that seem'd a joy, and in thy face

A splendour fit for angels in the place

Where God has named them all in their degree.

XX.

Ah, none so blest as I, and none so proud,

In that wild moment when a thrill was sent

Right through my soul, as if from thee it went

As flame from fire! But this was disallow'd;

And I shall sooner wear a winter shroud

Than thou revoke my doom of banishment.