1
我想起，当年希腊的诗人曾经歌咏：
年复一年，那良辰在殷切的盼望中
翩然降临，各自带一份礼物
分送给世人－－年老或是年少。
当我这么想，感叹着诗人的古调，
穿过我泪眼所逐渐展开的幻觉，
我看见，那欢乐的岁月、哀伤的岁月－－
我自己的年华，把一片片黑影接连着
掠过我的身。紧接着，我就觉察
（我哭了）我背后正有个神秘的黑影
在移动，而且一把揪住了我的发，;
往后拉，还有一声吆喝（我只是在挣扎）：
“这回是谁逮住了你？猜！”“死，”我答话。
听哪，那银铃似的回音：“不是死，是爱！”
2
可是在上帝的全宇宙里，总共才只
三个人听见了你那句话：除了
讲话的你、听话的我，就是他－－
上帝自己！我们中间还有一个
出来答话；那昏黑的诅咒落上
我的眼皮，挡了你，不让我看见，
就算我瞑了目，放上沉沉的“压眼钱”，
也不至于那么彻底隔绝。唉，
比谁都厉害，上帝的那一声“不行！”
要不然，世俗的诽谤离间不了我们，
任风波飞扬，也不能动摇那坚贞；
我们的手要伸过山岭，互相接触；
有那么一天，天空滚到我俩中间，
我俩向星辰起誓，还要更加握紧。
3
我们原不一样，尊贵的人儿呀，
原不一样是我们的职司和前程。
你我头上的天使，迎面飞来，
翅膀碰上了翅膀，彼此瞪着
惊愕的眼睛。你想，你是华宫里
后妃的上宾，千百双殷勤的明眸
（哪怕挂满了泪珠，也不能教我的眼
有这份光彩）请求你担任领唱。
那你干什么从那灯光辉映的纱窗里
望向我？－－我，一个凄凉、流浪的
歌手，疲乏地靠着柏树，吟叹在
茫茫的黑暗里。圣油搽在你头上－－
可怜我，头上承受着凉透的夜露。
只有死，才能把这样的一对扯个平。
4
你曾经受到邀请，进入了宫廷，
温雅的歌手！你唱着崇高的诗篇；
贵客们停下舞步，为了好瞻仰你，
期待那丰满的朱唇再吐出清音；
而你却抽起我的门闩，你果真
不嫌它亵渎了你的手？没谁看见，
你甘让你那音乐飘落在我门前，
叠作层层金声的富丽？你忍不忍？
你往上瞧，看这窗户都被闯破－－
是蝙蝠和夜莺的窠巢盘踞在顶梁，
是 编 的蟋蟀在跟你的琵琶应和！
住声，别再激起回声来加深荒凉！
那里边有一个哀音，它必须深躲，
在暗里哭泣－－正象你应该当众歌唱。
5
我肃穆地端起了我沉重的心，
象当年希腊女儿捧着那坛尸灰；
眼望着你，我把灰撒在你脚下。
请看呀，有多大一堆悲哀埋藏在
我这心坎里；而在那灰暗的深处，
那惨红的灰烬又怎样在隐约燃烧。
要是那点点火星给你鄙夷地
一脚踏灭、还它们一片黑暗，
这样也好。可是，你偏不，
你要守在我身旁，等风来把尘土
扬起，把死灰吹活；爱呀，那戴在
你头上的桂冠可不能给你做屏障，
保护你不让这一片火焰烧坏了
那底下的发丝。快站远些呀，快走！
6
舍下我，走吧。可是我觉得，从此
我就一直徘徊在你的身影里。
在那孤独的生命的边缘，从今再不能
掌握自己的心灵，或是坦然地
把这手伸向日光，象从前那样，
而能约束自己不感到你的指尖
碰上我的掌心。劫运教天悬地殊
隔离了我们，却留下了你那颗心，
在我的心房里搏动着双重声响。
正象是酒，总尝得出原来的葡萄，
我的起居和梦寐里，都有你的份。
当我向上帝祈祷，为着我自个儿
他却听到了一个名字、那是你的；
又在我眼里，看见有两个人的眼泪。
7
全世界的面目，我想，忽然改变了，
自从我第一次在心灵上听到你的步子
轻轻、轻轻，来到我身旁－－穿过我和
死亡的边缘：那幽微的间隙。站在
那里的我，只道这一回该倒下了，
却不料被爱救起，还教给一曲
生命的新歌。上帝赐我洗礼的
那一杯苦酒，我甘愿饮下，赞美它
甜蜜－－甜蜜的，如果有你在我身旁。
天国和人间，将因为你的存在
而更改模样；而这曲歌，这支笛，
昨日里给爱着，还让人感到亲切，
那歌唱的天使知道，就因为
一声声都有你的名字在荡漾。
8
你那样慷慨豪爽的施主呀，你把
你心坎里金 袒 煌的宝藏、
原封地掏出来，只往我墙外推，
任凭象我这样的人去拣起，还是
把这罕见的舍施丢下；教我拿什么
来作为你应得的报答？请不要
说我太冷漠、太寡恩，你那许多
重重叠叠的深情厚意，我却
没有一些儿回敬；不，并不是
冷漠无情，实在我太寒伧。你问
上帝就明白。那连绵的泪雨冲尽了
我生命的光彩，只剩一片死沉沉的
苍白，不配给你当偎依的枕头。
走吧！尽把它踏在脚下，作垫石。
9
我能不能有什么、就拿什么给你？
该不该让你紧挨著我，承受
我簌簌的苦泪；听著那伤逝的青春，
在我的唇边重复著叹息，偶而
浮起一丝微笑，哪怕你连劝带哄，
也随即在叹息里寂灭？啊，我但怕
这并不应该！我俩是不相称的
一对，哪能匹配作情侣？我承认，
我也伤心，象我这样的施主
只算得鄙吝。唉，可是我怎能够让
我满身的尘土玷污了你的紫袍，
叫我的毒气喷向你那威尼斯晶杯！
我什么爱也不给，因为什么都不该给。
爱呀，让我只爱著你，就算数了吧！
10
不过只要是爱，是爱，可就是美，
就值得你接受。你知道，爱就是火，
火总是光明的，不问着火的是庙堂
或者柴堆－－那栋梁还是荆榛在烧，
火焰里总跳得出同样的光辉。当我
不由得倾吐出：“我爱你！”在你的眼里，
那荣耀的瞬息，我忽然成了一尊金身，
感觉到有一道新吐的皓光从我天庭
投向你脸上。是爱，就无所谓卑下，
即使是最微贱的在爱：那微贱的生命
献爱给上帝，宽宏的上帝受了它、
又回赐给它爱。我那迸发的热情
就象道光，通过我这陋质，昭示了
爱的大手笔怎样给造物润色。
11
_ _， 。
这么说，把爱情作为我的名份，
我还不是完全不配承受。虽然，
你看，两颊那么苍白，那摇晃的
双膝仿佛负担不了沉重的心房；
这疲乏的行吟生涯也曾想望过
把奥纳斯山 迮 登，却只落得一片
辛酸的哀吟，怎好去跟谷莺竞奏？－－
干吗提这些来着？啊，亲爱的，
不用讲，我高攀不上，不配在你身边
占一个位置。可是，就因为我爱你，
这片爱情提拔我，让我抬起了头、
承受着光明，许我继续活下去，
哪怕是怎样枉然，也要爱你到底；
也要祝福你－－即使拒绝你在当面。
12
说真的，就是这为我所夸耀的爱吧，
当它从胸房涌上眉梢，给我加上
一顶皇冠－－那一颗巨大的红宝石，
光彩夺目，让人知道它价值连城……
就算我这全部的、最高成就的爱吧，
我也不懂得怎样去爱，要不是你
先立下示范，教给我该怎么办－－
当你恳切的目光第一次对上了
我的目光，而爱呼应了爱。很明白，
即使爱，我也不能夸说是我的美德。
是你，把我从一片昏迷的软乏中
抱起，高置上黄金的宝座，靠近在
你的身旁。而我懂得了爱，只因为
紧挨着你－－我唯一爱慕的人。
13
你可是要我把对你涌起的恩情，
形之于言词，而且还觉得十分充裕；
不管有多猛的风，高举起火炬，
让光辉，从两张脸儿间，把我俩照明？
我却把它掉在你脚边，没法命令
我的手托着我的心灵，那么远距
自己；难道我就能借文字作契据，
掏给你看、那无从抵达的爱情
在我的心坎？不，我宁愿表达
女性的爱凭她的贞静，而换来
你的谅解－－看见我终不曾软化，
任你怎样地央求，我只是咬紧着嘴，
狠心撕裂着生命的衣裙；生怕
这颗心一经接触，就泄露了悲哀。
14
如果你一心要爱我，那就别为了么，
只是为了爱才爱我。别这么讲：
“我爱她，为了她的一笑，她的模样，
她柔语的声气；为了她这感触
正好合我的心意，那天里，的确
给我带来满怀的喜悦和舒畅。”
亲爱的，这些好处都不能持常，
会因你而变，而这样唱出的爱曲
也将这样哑寂。也别爱我因为你
又怜又惜地给我揩干了泪腮，
一个人会忘了哭泣，当她久受你
温柔的慰安－－却因此失了你的爱。
爱我，请只是为了那爱的意念，
那你就能继续地爱，爱我如深海。
15.
请不要这样指责我：我在你面前
露出一副太冷静、忧郁的面容；
你我原是面朝着两个不同的方向，
那普照的阳光照不到两人的前额。
你看着我，心中没半点儿不踏实，
象看着一只笼罩在水晶里的蜜蜂；
哀怨把我密封在圣洁的爱情中，
想张开双翼，扑向外面的空间、
是绝不可能的失败－－哪怕我狠着心
追求这颠扑和失败。可是我向你看，
我看见了爱，还看到了爱的结局，
听到了记忆外层的哪一片寂寥！
就象从千层万丈之上，你向下眺望，
只见滚滚的浪涛尽向大海里流。
16
然而，因为你完全征服了我，
因为你那样高贵、象尊严的帝皇，
你能消除我的惶恐，把你的
紫袍裹绕住我，直到我的心
跟你的贴得那么紧，再想不起
当初怎样独自在悸动。那宣抚，
就象把人践踏在脚下，一样是
威严和彻底完满的征服！就象
投降的兵士捧着战刀呈交给
把他从血滩里搀扶起来的主人；
亲爱的，我终于认了输，承认：
我的抗拒到此为止。假如你召唤我，
听着这话，我要从羞愧中站起。
扩大些你的爱，好提高些我的价值。
17
我的诗人，在上帝的宇宙里，从洪荒
到终极，那参差的音律，无一不能
从你的指尖弹出。你一挥手
就打断了人世间熙熙攘攘的声浪，
奏出清音，在空气里悠然荡漾；
那柔和的旋律，象一剂凉药，把安慰
带给痛苦的心灵。上帝派给你
这一个职司，而吩咐我伺候你。
亲爱的，你打算把我怎样安排？－－
作为一个希望、给欢乐地歌唱？还是
缠绵的回忆、溶化入抑扬的音调？
还是棕榈，还是松树－－那一树绿荫
让你在底下歌唱；还是一个青冢，
唱倦了，你来这里躺下？请挑吧。
18
我从不曾拿我的卷发送给谁，
除非是这一束，我最亲爱的，给你；
满怀心事，我把它抽开在指尖，
拉成棕黄色的一长段；我说：“爱，
收下吧。”我的青春已一去不回，;
这一头散发再也不跟着我脚步一起
雀跃，也不再象姑娘们，在鬓发间
插满玫瑰和桃金娘，却让它披垂，
从一个老是歪着的头儿－－由于
忧郁的癖性－－披下来遮掩着泪痕。
原以为理尸的剪刀会先把它收去，
可不想爱情的名份得到了确认。
收下吧，那上面有慈母在弥留时给儿女
印下的一吻－－这些年始终保持着洁净。
19
心灵跟心灵也有市场和贸易，
在那儿我拿卷发去跟卷发交换；
从我那诗人的前额，我收下了
这一束，几根发丝，在我心里
却重过了飘洋大船。它那带紫的乌亮，
在我眼里，就象当初平达所看见的
斜披在缪斯玉额前暗紫色的秀发。
为了媲美，我猜想那月桂冠的阴影
依然逗留在发尖－－爱，你看它
有多么黑！我借轻轻的一吻，吐出
温柔的气息，绾住了那阴影，不让它
溜走；又把礼品放在最妥贴的地方－－
我的心头，叫它就象生长在你额上，
感受着体热，直到那心儿有一天冷却。
20
亲爱的，我亲爱的，我想到从前－－
一年之前，当时你正在人海中间，
我却在这一片雪地中独坐，
望不见你迈步留下的踪迹，
也听不见你的謦咳冲破了这死寂；
我只是一环又一环计数着我周身
沉沉的铁链，怎么也想不到还有你－－
仿佛谁也别想把那锁链打开。
啊，我喝了一大杯美酒：人生的奇妙！
奇怪啊，我从没感觉到白天和黑夜
都有你的行动、声音在空中震荡，
也不曾从你看着成长的白花里，
探知了你的消息－－就象无神论者
那样鄙陋，猜不透神在神的化外！
21
请说了一遍，再向我说一遍，
说“我爱你！”即使那样一遍遍重复，
你会把它看成一支“布谷鸟的歌曲”；
可是记着，在那青山和绿林间，
那山谷和田野中，纵使清新的春天
披着全身绿装降临、也不算完美无缺，
要是她缺少了那串布谷鸟的音节。
爱，四周那么黑暗，耳边只听见
惊悸的心声，处于那痛苦的不安中，
我嚷道：“再说一遍：我爱你！”谁嫌
太多的星，即使每颗都在太空转动；
太多的花，即使每朵洋溢着春意？
说你爱我，你爱我，一声声敲着银钟！
只是记住，还得用灵魂爱我，在默默里。
22
当我俩的灵魂壮丽地挺立起来，
默默地，面对着面，越来越靠拢，
那伸张的翅膀在各自弯圆的顶端，
迸出了火星。世上还有什么苦恼，
落到我们头上，而叫我们不甘心
在这里长留？你说哪。再往上，就有
天使抵在头上，为我们那一片
深沉、亲密的静默落下成串
金黄和谐的歌曲。亲爱的，让我俩
就相守在地上吧－－人世的争吵、熙攮
都向后退隐，留给纯洁的灵魂
一方隔绝，容许在这里面立足，
在这里爱，爱上一天，尽管昏黑的
死亡，不停地在它的四围打转。
23
真是这样吗？如果我死了，你可会，
失落一些生趣、由于失去了我？
阳光照着你，你会觉得它带一丝寒意，
为着潮湿的黄土已盖没了我的脸？
真没想到啊！我体味到你这份情意
在信中。爱，我是你的，可就这样
给珍重？我能用我那双发抖的手
为你斟酒？好吧，那我就抛开了
死的梦幻，重新捧起来那生命。
爱我吧，看着我，用暖气呵我吧！
多少闺秀，为着爱不惜牺牲了
财富和身份；我也要放弃那坟墓－－
为了你；把我那迫近而可爱的天国的
景象、来跟载着你的土地交换！
24
让世界象一把摺刀，把它的锋芒
在自身内敛藏，埋进在爱情的
掌握内、温柔的中心，而不再为害。
让嗒的一声，刀子合上之后，
我们就此再听不见人世的争吵。
亲爱的，我紧挨着你，生命贴恋着
生命，什么也不怕，我只觉得安全，
象有了神符的保护，世人的刀枪
怎么稠密也不能伤害毫发。我们
生命中的素莲，依然能开出纯洁
雪白的花朵；那底下的根，只仰赖
天降的甘露，从山头往上挺伸，
高出世间的攀折。只有上帝，
他赐我们富有，才能叫我们穷。
25
亲爱的，年复一年，我怀着一颗
沉重的心，直到我瞧见了你的面影。
一个个忧伤已相继剥夺了我所有的
欢欣－－象一串轻贴在胸前的珍珠，
在跳舞的当儿，给一颗跳动的心儿
逐一地拨弄。希望随即转成了
漫长的失望，纵使上帝的厚恩，
也没法从那凄凉的人世举起来
我这颗沉甸甸的心。可是你，
你当真命令我捧着它，投到
你伟大深沉的跟前！它立即往下沉，
就象堕落是它的本性；而你的心，
立即紧跟着，贴在它上面，挡在
那照临的星辰和未完功的命运间。
26
是幻想——并不是男友还是女伴，
多少年来，跟我生活在一起，做我的
亲密的知友。它们为我而奏的音乐，
我不想听到还有比这更美的。
可是幻想的轻飘的紫袍，免不了
沾上人世的尘土，那琴声终于逐渐
消歇，而我也在那些逐渐隐灭的
眸子下头晕眼花。于是，亲爱的，
你来了——仿佛来接替它们。就象
河水盛入了洗礼盆、水就更圣洁，
它们的辉煌的前额、甜蜜的歌声，
都聚集在你一身，通过你而征服了我，
给予我最大的满足。上帝的礼物
叫人间最绚烂的梦幻失落了颜色。
27
爱人，我亲爱的人，是你把我，
一个跌倒在尘埃的人，扶起来，
又在我披垂的鬓发间吹入了一股
生气，好让我的前额又亮光光地
闪耀着希望——有所有的天使当着
你救难的吻为证！亲爱的人呀，
当你来到我跟前，人世已舍我远去，
而一心仰望上帝的我、却获得了你！
我发现了你，我安全了，强壮了，快乐了。
象一个人站立在干洁的香草地上
回顾他曾捱过来的苦恼的年月；
我抬起了胸脯，拿自己作证：
这里，在一善和那一恶之间，爱，
象死一样强烈，带来了同样的解脱。
28
我的信！一堆堆死沉沉的纸，苍白又无声，
可是它们又象具有生命、颤动在
我拿不稳的手内——是那发抖的手
解开丝带，让它们今晚散满在
我膝上。这封说：他多盼望有个机会，
能作为朋友，见一见我。这一封又订了
春天里一个日子，来见我，跟我
握握手——平常的事，我可哭了！
这封说（不多几个字）：“亲，我爱你！”
而我却惶恐得象上帝的未来在轰击
我的过去。这封说：“我属于你！”那墨迹，
紧贴在我悸跳的心头，久了，褪了色。
而这封……爱啊，你的言词有什么神妙，
假如这里吐露的，我敢把它再说！
29
我想你！我的相思围抱住了你，
绕着你而抽芽，象蔓藤卷缠着树木、
遍发出肥大的叶瓣，除了那蔓延的
青翠把树身掩藏，就什么都看不见。
可是我的棕榈树呀，你该明白，
我怎愿怀着我的思念而失去了
更亲更宝贵的你！我宁可你显现
你自己的存在；象一株坚强的树
成车匾『持 杈，挣出了赤裸的
躯干来，叫这些重重叠叠的绿叶
都给摔下来狼藉满地。因为在
看着你、听着你、在你荫影里呼吸着
清新的空气，洋溢着深深的喜悦时，
我再不想你——我是那么地贴紧你。
30
今晚，我泪眼晶莹，恍惚瞧见了
你的形象；然而不是今朝，我还看到
你在笑？爱人，这是为什么？是你，
还是我——是谁叫我黯然愁苦？
一个浸沉在欢颂和崇拜中的僧侣
把苍白无知觉的额头投在祭坛下，
或许就这样俯伏。正象他耳内轰响着
“阿门”的歌声；我听得你亲口的盟誓，
心里却一片怔忡不安，因为不见你
在我的眼前。亲爱的，你当真爱我？
我当真看见了那恍如梦境的荣光，
并且经不起那强烈的逼射而感到了
眩晕？这光可会照临，就象那
盈盈的泪，一颗颗滚下来，又热又真？
31
你来了！还没开口，心意都表明了。
我坐在你的容光下，象沐浴在阳光中的
婴孩，那闪烁的眸子无声地泄露了
颤动在那颗小心里的无比的喜悦。
看哪，我这最后的疑虑是错了！
可是我不能只埋怨自己，你想，
这是怎样的情景，怎样的时辰？
这一刻，我俩竞轻易地并站在一起。
啊，靠近我，让我挨着你吧；当我
涌起了疑虑，你宽坦的心胸给我
清澈而温柔的慰抚；用你崇高的
光辉来孵育我那些思念吧；失了
你的庇护，它们就要战栗－－就象
那羽翼未丰的小鸟给撇下在天空里。
32
当金黄的太阳升起来，第一次照上
你爱的盟约，我就预期着明月
来解除那情结、系的太早太急。
我只怕爱的容易、就容易失望，
引起悔心。再回顾我自己，我哪象
让你爱慕的人！－－却象一具哑涩
破损的弦琴、配不上你那么清澈
美妙的歌声！而这琴，匆忙里给用上，
一发出沙沙的音，就给恼恨地
扔下。我这么说，并不曾亏待
自己，可是我冤了你。在乐圣的
手里，一张破琴也可以流出完美
和谐的韵律；而凭一张弓，真诚的
灵魂，可以在勒索、也同时在溺爱。
33
对啦，叫我的小名儿呀！让我再听见
我一向飞奔著去答应的名字－－那时，
还是个小女孩，无忧无虑，沉浸于
嬉戏，偶尔从一大堆野草野花间
抬起头来，仰望那用和蔼的眼
抚爱我的慈颜。我失去了那仁慈
亲切的呼唤，那灵衬给我的是
一片寂静，任凭我高呼著上天，
那慈声归入了音乐华严的天国。
让你的嘴来承继那寂灭的清音。
采得北方的花，好完成南方的花束，
在迟暮的岁月里赶上早年的爱情。
对啦，叫我的小名儿吧，我，就随即
答应你，怀著当初一模样的心情。
34
怀著当初一模样的心情，我说，
我要答应你，当你叫我的小名。
唉，这分明是空的愿心！我的心
还能是一模样－－饱受了人生的磨折？
从前，我听得一声喊，就扔下花束，
要不，从游戏里跳起，奔过去答应，
一路上都是我的笑容笑声在致敬，
眼星里还闪烁著方才那一片欢乐。
现在我应你，我舍下一片沉重的
忧思，从孤寂里惊起。可是，我的心
还是要向你飞奔，你不是我一种的
善，而是百善所钟！我最可爱的人，
你把手按著我的心口，同意吗：孩童的
小脚从没跑得这么快－－象这血轮。
35
要是我把一切都交给你，你可愿意
作为交换，把什么都归给我？
我可是永不会缺少家常的谈笑、
互酬接吻、彼此的祝福？也不会
感到生疏、当我抬起头来打量
新的墙壁和地板－－家以外另一个家？
不，我还要问，你可愿顶替那一双
瞑合了的柔眼在我身旁留下的位置
而一样地不懂得变心？这可是难！
征服爱如果费事，征服怨，那就更难。
怨是，爱不算，再得加上个怨。我的怨，
唉，那么深，就那么不轻易爱。可是，
你依然爱我－－你愿？敞开些你的心，
好让你那羽翼湿透的鸽子扑进来！ 。
36
当初我俩相见、一见而倾心的时光，
我怎敢在这上面，建起大理石宫殿，
难道这也会久长－－那来回摇摆在
忧伤与忧伤间的爱？不，我害怕，
我信不过那似乎浮泛在眼前的
一片金光，不敢伸出手指去碰一下。
到后来才坦然、坚定了；可我又觉得，
上帝总该另有恐惧安排在后面……
爱啊，要不然，这双紧握著的手
就不会接触；这热热的亲吻，一旦
从嘴唇上冷却了，何以不变成虚文？
爱情啊，你快变了心吧！要是命运
这样注定：他，为了信守一个盟誓
就非得拿牺牲一个喜悦作代价。
37
原谅我，啊，请原谅吧，并非我无知，
不明白一切德性全归于你、属于你；
可是，你在我心里构成的形象，
却就象一堆虚浮不实的泥沙！
是那年深月久的孤僻，象遭了
当头一棒，从你面前尽往后缩，
迫使我眩晕的知觉涌起了疑虑和
恐惧，盲目地舍弃了你纯洁的面目，
最崇高的爱给我歪曲成最荒谬的
形状。就象一个沉了船的异教徒，
安然脱险，上了岸，酬谢保佑他的
海神，献上了一尾木雕的海豚——
那两腮呼呼作响、尾巴掀起了
怒浪的庞大的海族——在庙宇的门墙内。
38
第一次他亲我，他只是亲了一下
在写这诗篇的手，从此我的手就越来
越白净晶莹，不善作世俗的招呼，
而敏于呼召：“啊，快听哪，快听
天使在说话哪！”即使在那儿戴上一个
紫玉瑛戒指，也不会比那第一个吻
在我的眼里显现得更清楚。
第二个吻，就往高处升，它找到了
前额，可是偏斜了一些，一半儿
印在发丝上。这无比的酬偿啊，
是爱神擦的圣油！－－先于爱神的
华美的皇冠。那第三个，那么美妙，
正好按在我嘴唇上，从此我就
自傲，敢于呼唤：“爱，我的爱！”
39
为着你的魄力和盛德－－你那样
犀利地望着我，通过我那给泪雨
冲洗得成了灰白的面具、照彻了
我灵魂的真实面目（灰暗疲乏的
人生的证明！）也为着你只知道忠诚，
只知道爱，只是朝我看，通过我那
麻木的灵魂，看到了那忍耐的天使
一心期待着天堂里的位置；又为着
无论是罪恶、是哀怨、甚至上帝的谴责，
死神的逼近的威胁－－不管这一切，
叫人们一看就掉首而去，叫自己
想着都厌恶……却没什么能吓退你；
亲爱的，那你教我吧，教我怎么样
把感激尽量倾吐，正象你把恩惠布施。
40
是啊，咱们这世道，谈情说爱，多的是！
我不想问：真有爱这回事吗？有就有吧——
从小，我就听惯了人们嘴里的“爱”，
直到才不久——那会儿采来的鲜花
香味还没散呢。不管是回教徒、“外教徒”，
笑一笑，手绢儿就摔过来；可是一哭，
谁也不理了。“独眼龙”的白牙齿咬不紧
硬果子，假使淋过了几阵骤雨，
果壳变得滑溜溜——从没想把这称做
“爱”的东西，也跟他们的“恨”、以至
跟“淡漠”并列。可是你，亲爱的，你不是
那样的情人！你从那哀怨和疾病里
伺候了过来，教心灵终于接通了心灵，
人家会嫌“太晚”了，而你想还没想到。
41
我满怀着感激和爱，向凡是在心里
爱过我的人们道谢。深深的感谢啊，
好心的人们，打牢墙外经过，驻足
听取我三两声稍微响亮些的音乐，
这才继续赶路，奔赴市场或是圣殿、
各自的前程，再无从召唤。可是你，
当我的歌声低落了、接不上了，代之以
哭泣，你却叫神的最尊贵的乐器
掉在脚下，倾听我那夹杂在泪珠里的
怨声……啊，指点我，该怎么报答
你的恩情吧！怎么能把这一片
回旋荡漾的情意奉献给未来的
岁月，由它来给我表白，向耐久的
爱情致敬，凭着那短暂的人生！
42
“未来啊，任你怎样临摹，也描不成
我过去的样本了，”我曾这么写过，
以为守护在我身畔的天使会同意
这话，把仰天呼吁的眼光瞥向那
高踞玉座的上帝。待我回过头来，
看见的却是你，还有你我的天使
结伴在一起！一向为哀怨、病痛
所折磨的我，就把幸福抱得那么紧。
一见了你，我那朝拜的手杖
抽了芽、发出了绿叶，承受着
清晨的露珠。如今，我再不追寻
我生命中前半的样本，让那些反复
吟叹、卷了角的书页放过在一边，
我给我重写出新的一章生命！
43
我是怎样地爱你？让我逐一细算。
我爱你尽我的心灵所能及到的
深邃、宽广、和高度－－正象我探求
玄冥中上帝的存在和深厚的神恩。
我爱你的程度，就象日光和烛焰下
那每天不用说得的需要。我不加思虑地
爱你，就象男子们为正义而斗争；
我纯洁地爱你，象他们在赞美前低头。
我爱你以我童年的信仰；我爱你
以满怀热情，就象往日满腔的辛酸；
我爱你，抵得上那似乎随着消失的圣者
而消逝的爱慕。我爱你以我终生的
呼吸，微笑和泪珠－－假使是上帝的
意旨，那么，我死了我还要更加爱你！
44
亲爱的，你从一整个夏天到冬天，
从园子里采集了那么多的花
送给我；而这幽闭的小室里，它们
继续生长，仿佛并不缺少阳光和
雨水的滋养。那么同样地凭着
这爱的名义－－那爱是属于我俩的，
也请收下了我的回敬；那在热天，
在冷天，发自我心田的情思的花朵。
不错，在我那园圃里确是长满着
野草和苦艾，有待于你来耘除；
向你自己说，它们的根都埋在我的深心。
可这儿也有白玫瑰，也有常春藤！
请收下吧，就象我惯常接受你的花。
好生地护养着，别让它褪落了颜色，
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
I I thought once how Theocritus had sung
II But only three in all God's universe
III Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
IV Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor
V I lift my heavy heart up solemnly
VI Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
VII The face of all the world is changed, I think
VIII What can I give thee back, O liberal
IX Can it be right to give what I can give?
X Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
XI And therefore if to love can be desert
XII Indeed this very love which is my boast
XIII And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
XIV If thou must love me, let it be for nought
XV Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear
XVI And yet, because thou overcomest so
XVII My poet thou canst touch on all the notes
XVIII I never gave a lock of hair away
XIX The soul's Rialto hath its merchandize
XX Beloved, my beloved, when I think
XXI Say over again, and yet once over again
XXII When our two souls stand up erect and strong
XXIII Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead
XXIV Let the world's sharpness like a clasping knife
XXV A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne
XXVI I lived with visions for my company
XXVII My own Beloved, who hast lifted me
XXVIII My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
XXIX I think of thee!--my thoughts do twine and bud
XXX I see thine image through my tears to-night
XXXI Thou comest! all is said without a word
XXXII The first time that the sun rose on thine oath
XXXIII Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear
XXXIV With the same heart, I said, I'll answer thee
XXXV If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
XXXVI When we met first and loved, I did not build
XXXVII Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make
XXXVIII First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
XXXIX Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace
XL Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!
XLI I thank all who have loved me in their hearts
XLII My future will not copy fair my past
XLIII How do I love thee? Let me count the ways
XLIV Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
I
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,--
"Guess now who holds thee!"--"Death," I said, But, there,
The silver answer rang, "Not Death, but Love."
II
But only three in all God's universe
Have heard this word thou hast said,--Himself, beside
Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied
One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse
So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce
My sight from seeing thee,--that if I had died,
The death-weights, placed there, would have signified
Less absolute exclusion. "Nay" is worse
From God than from all others, O my friend!
Men could not part us with their worldly jars,
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;
Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:
And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,
We should but vow the faster for the stars.
III
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
Unlike our uses and our destinies.
Our ministering two angels look surprise
On one another, as they strike athwart
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art
A guest for queens to social pageantries,
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part
Of chief musician. What hast thou to do
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,
A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?
The chrism is on thine head,--on mine, the dew,--
And Death must dig the level where these agree.
IV
Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor
For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door?
Look up and see the casement broken in,
The bats and owlets builders in the roof!
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation! there's a voice within
That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof.
V
I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,
And, looking in thine eyes, I over-turn
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn
Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn
Could tread them out to darkness utterly,
It might be well perhaps. But if instead
Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow
The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on thine head,
O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,
That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred
The hair beneath. Stand further off then! go!
VI
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore--
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
VII
The face of all the world is changed, I think,
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul
Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.
The names of country, heaven, are changed away
For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;
And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday,
(The singing angels know) are only dear
Because thy name moves right in what they say.
VIII
What can I give thee back, O liberal
And princely giver, who hast brought the gold
And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,
And laid them on the outside of the wall
For such as I to take or leave withal,
In unexpected largesse? am I cold,
Ungrateful, that for these most manifold
High gifts, I render nothing back at all?
Not so; not cold,--but very poor instead.
Ask God who knows. For frequent tears have run
The colours from my life, and left so dead
And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done
To give the same as pillow to thy head.
Go farther! let it serve to trample on.
IX
Can it be right to give what I can give?
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative
Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live
For all thy adjurations? O my fears,
That this can scarce be right! We are not peers
So to be lovers; and I own, and grieve,
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas!
I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,
Nor give thee any love--which were unjust.
Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass.
X
Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:
And love is fire. And when I say at need
I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee--in thy sight
I stand transfigured, glorified aright,
With conscience of the new rays that proceed
Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low
In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures
Who love God, God accepts while loving so.
And what I feel, across the inferior features
Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show
How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.
XI
And therefore if to love can be desert,
I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale
As these you see, and trembling knees that fail
To bear the burden of a heavy heart,--
This weary minstrel-life that once was girt
To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail
To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale
A melancholy music,--why advert
To these things? O Beloved, it is plain
I am not of thy worth nor for thy place!
And yet, because I love thee, I obtain
From that same love this vindicating grace
To live on still in love, and yet in vain,--
To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face.
XII
Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,--
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
And love called love. And thus, I cannot speak
Of love even, as a good thing of my own:
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,
And placed it by thee on a golden throne,--
And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)
Is by thee only, whom I love alone.
XIII
And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
The love I bear thee, finding words enough,
And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,
Between our faces, to cast light on each?--
I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach
My hand to hold my spirits so far off
From myself--me--that I should bring thee proof
In words, of love hid in me out of reach.
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood
Commend my woman-love to thy belief,--
Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,
And rend the garment of my life, in brief,
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,
Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief.
XIV
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
"I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"--
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,--
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.
XV
Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear
Too calm and sad a face in front of thine;
For we two look two ways, and cannot shine
With the same sunlight on our brow and hair.
On me thou lookest with no doubting care,
As on a bee shut in a crystalline;
Since sorrow hath shut me safe in love's divine,
And to spread wing and fly in the outer air
Were most impossible failure, if I strove
To fail so. But I look on thee--on thee--
Beholding, besides love, the end of love,
Hearing oblivion beyond memory;
As one who sits and gazes from above,
Over the rivers to the bitter sea.
XVI
And yet, because thou overcomest so,
Because thou art more noble and like a king,
Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling
Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow
Too close against thine heart henceforth to know
How it shook when alone. Why, conquering
May prove as lordly and complete a thing
In lifting upward, as in crushing low!
And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword
To one who lifts him from the bloody earth,
Even so, Beloved, I at last record,
Here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth,
I rise above abasement at the word.
Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth!
XVII
My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes
God set between His After and Before,
And strike up and strike off the general roar
Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats
In a serene air purely. Antidotes
Of medicated music, answering for
Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour
From thence into their ears. God's will devotes
Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?
A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine
Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?
A shade, in which to sing--of palm or pine?
A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.
XVIII
I never gave a lock of hair away
To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully
I ring out to the full brown length and say
"Take it." My day of youth went yesterday;
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee,
Nor plant I it from rose- or myrtle-tree,
As girls do, any more: it only may
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears,
Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside
Through sorrow's trick. I thought the funeral-shears
Would take this first, but Love is justified,--
Take it thou,--finding pure, from all those years,
The kiss my mother left here when she died.
XIX
The soul's Rialto hath its merchandize;
I barter curl for curl upon that mart,
And from my poet's forehead to my heart
Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,--
As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes
The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart
The nine white Muse-brows. For this counterpart, . . .
The bay crown's shade, Beloved, I surmise,
Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black!
Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath,
I tie the shadows safe from gliding back,
And lay the gift where nothing hindereth;
Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack
No natural heat till mine grows cold in death.
XX
Beloved, my Beloved, when I think
That thou wast in the world a year ago,
What time I sat alone here in the snow
And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink
No moment at thy voice, but, link by link,
Went counting all my chains as if that so
They never could fall off at any blow
Struck by thy possible hand,--why, thus I drink
Of life's great cup of wonder! Wonderful,
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night
With personal act or speech,--nor ever cull
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white
Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull,
Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight.
XXI
Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem a "cuckoo-song," as thou dost treat it,
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's pain
Cry, "Speak once more--thou lovest!" Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me--toll
The silver iterance!--only minding, Dear,
To love me also in silence with thy soul.
XXII
When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curved point,--what bitter wrong
Can the earth do to us, that we should not long
Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher,
The angels would press on us and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
Rather on earth, Beloved,--where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.
XXIII
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine--
But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.
Then, love me, Love! look on me--breathe on me!
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee!
XXIV
Let the world's sharpness like a clasping knife
Shut in upon itself and do no harm
In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,
And let us hear no sound of human strife
After the click of the shutting. Life to life--
I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm,
And feel as safe as guarded by a charm
Against the stab of worldlings, who if rife
Are weak to injure. Very whitely still
The lilies of our lives may reassure
Their blossoms from their roots, accessible
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer;
Growing straight, out of man's reach, on the hill.
God only, who made us rich, can make us poor.
XXV
A heavy heart, Beloved, have I borne
From year to year until I saw thy face,
And sorrow after sorrow took the place
Of all those natural joys as lightly worn
As the stringed pearls, each lifted in its turn
By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes apace
Were changed to long despairs, till God's own grace
Could scarcely lift above the world forlorn
My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid me bring
And let it drop adown thy calmly great
Deep being! Fast it sinketh, as a thing
Which its own nature does precipitate,
While thine doth close above it, mediating
Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate.
XXVI
I lived with visions for my company
Instead of men and women, years ago,
And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know
A sweeter music than they played to me.
But soon their trailing purple was not free
Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent grow,
And I myself grew faint and blind below
Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst come--to be,
Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts,
Their songs, their splendours, (better, yet the same,
As river-water hallowed into fonts)
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame
My soul with satisfaction of all wants:
Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.
XXVII
My own Beloved, who hast lifted me
From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,
And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully
Shines out again, as all the angels see,
Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own,
Who camest to me when the world was gone,
And I who looked for only God, found thee!
I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and glad.
As one who stands in dewless asphodel,
Looks backward on the tedious time he had
In the upper life,--so I, with bosom-swell,
Make witness, here, between the good and bad,
That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well.
XXVIII
My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said,--he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it!--this, . . . the paper's light . . .
Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine--and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
XXIX
I think of thee!--my thoughts do twine and bud
About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,
Put out broad leaves, and soon there's nought to see
Except the straggling green which hides the wood.
Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood
I will not have my thoughts instead of thee
Who art dearer, better! Rather, instantly
Renew thy presence; as a strong tree should,
Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,
And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee,
Drop heavily down,--burst, shattered everywhere!
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee
And breathe within thy shadow a new air,
I do not think of thee--I am too near thee.
XXX
I see thine image through my tears to-night,
And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How
Refer the cause?--Beloved, is it thou
Or I, who makes me sad? The acolyte
Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite
May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow,
On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and vow,
Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight,
As he, in his swooning ears, the choir's amen.
Beloved, dost thou love? or did I see all
The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when
Too vehement light dilated my ideal,
For my soul's eyes? Will that light come again,
As now these tears come--falling hot and real?
XXXI
Thou comest! all is said without a word.
I sit beneath thy looks, as children do
In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through
Their happy eyelids from an unaverred
Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I erred
In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue
The sin most, but the occasion--that we two
Should for a moment stand unministered
By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near and close,
Thou dove-like help! and when my fears would rise,
With thy broad heart serenely interpose:
Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies
These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,
Like callow birds left desert to the skies.
XXXII
The first time that the sun rose on thine oath
To love me, I looked forward to the moon
To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon
And quickly tied to make a lasting troth.
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe;
And, looking on myself, I seemed not one
For such man's love!--more like an out-of-tune
Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth
To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float
'Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,--
And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.
XXXIII
Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear
The name I used to run at, when a child,
From innocent play, and leave the cowslips plied,
To glance up in some face that proved me dear
With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear
Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled
Into the music of Heaven's undefiled,
Call me no longer. Silence on the bier,
While I call God--call God!--so let thy mouth
Be heir to those who are now exanimate.
Gather the north flowers to complete the south,
And catch the early love up in the late.
Yes, call me by that name,--and I, in truth,
With the same heart, will answer and not wait.
XXXIV
With the same heart, I said, I'll answer thee
As those, when thou shalt call me by my name--
Lo, the vain promise! is the same, the same,
Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategy?
When called before, I told how hastily
I dropped my flowers or brake off from a game.
To run and answer with the smile that came
At play last moment, and went on with me
Through my obedience. When I answer now,
I drop a grave thought, break from solitude;
Yet still my heart goes to thee--ponder how--
Not as to a single good, but all my good!
Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow
That no child's foot could run fast as this blood.
XXXV
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,
When I look up, to drop on a new range
Of walls and floors, another home than this?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change
That's hardest. If to conquer love, has tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove,
For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thy heart wide,
And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.
XXXVI
When we met first and loved, I did not build
Upon the event with marble. Could it mean
To last, a love set pendulous between
Sorrow and sorrow? Nay, I rather thrilled,
Distrusting every light that seemed to gild
The onward path, and feared to overlean
A finger even. And, though I have grown serene
And strong since then, I think that God has willed
A still renewable fear . . . O love, O troth . . .
Lest these enclasped hands should never hold,
This mutual kiss drop down between us both
As an unowned thing, once the lips being cold.
And Love, be false! if he, to keep one oath,
Must lose one joy, by his life's star foretold.
XXXVII
Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make
Of all that strong divineness which I know
For thine and thee, an image only so
Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break.
It is that distant years which did not take
Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow,
Have forced my swimming brain to undergo
Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake
Thy purity of likeness and distort
Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit.
As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port,
His guardian sea-god to commemorate,
Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort
And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate.
XXXVIII
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew more clean and white.
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "O, list,"
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, "My love, my own."
XXXIX
Because thou hast the power and own'st the grace
To look through and behind this mask of me,
(Against which, years have beat thus blanchingly,
With their rains,) and behold my soul's true face,
The dim and weary witness of life's race,--
Because thou hast the faith and love to see,
Through that same soul's distracting lethargy,
The patient angel waiting for a place
In the new Heavens,--because nor sin nor woe,
Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighbourhood,
Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,
Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,--
Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach me so
To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!
XL
Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!
I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth:
I have heard love talked in my early youth,
And since, not so long back but that the flowers
Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans and Giaours
Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth
For any weeping. Polypheme's white tooth
Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers,
The shell is over-smooth,--and not so much
Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate
Or else to oblivion. But thou art not such
A lover, my Beloved! thou canst wait
Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to touch,
And think it soon when others cry "Too late."
XLI
I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,
With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all
Who paused a little near the prison-wall
To hear my music in its louder parts
Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's
Or temple's occupation, beyond call.
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall
When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's
Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot
To harken what I said between my tears, . . .
Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot
My soul's full meaning into future years,
That they should lend it utterance, and salute
Love that endures, from life that disappears!
XLII
My future will not copy fair my past--
I wrote that once; and thinking at my side
My ministering life-angel justified
The word by his appealing look upcast
To the white throne of God, I turned at last,
And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied
To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried
By natural ills, received the comfort fast,
While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's staff
Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.
I seek no copy now of life's first half:
Leave here the pages with long musing curled,
And write me new my future's epigraph,
New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!
XLIII
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
XLIV
Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine,
Here's ivy!--take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.