Renascence: A Book of Verse — Twelve Sonnets of Love VII -- XII

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.

·PART·II·

·LATER·POEMS·

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