Renascence: A Book of Verse — Twelve Sonnets of Love I -- VI

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.