The Garden Of Eros

　　It is full summer now， the heart of June；

　　Not yet the sunburnt reapers¹ are astir

　　Upon the upland meadow where too soon

　　Rich autumn time， the season's usurer，

　　Will lend his hoarded² gold to all the trees，

　　And see his treasure scattered³ by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

　　Too soon indeed！ yet here the daffodil，

　　That love-child of the Spring， has lingered on

　　To vex⁴ the rose with jealousy⁵， and still

　　The harebell spreads her azure⁶ pavilion，

　　And like a strayed and wandering reveller⁸

　　Abandoned of its brothers， whom long since June's messenger

　　The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade⁹，

　　One pale narcissus loiters fearfully

　　Close to a shadowy nook， where half afraid

　　Of their own loveliness some violets lie

　　That will not look the gold sun in the face

　　For fear of too much splendour， - ah！ methinks it is a place

　　Which should be trodden by Persephone

　　When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis！

　　Or danced on by the lads of Arcady！

　　The hidden secret of eternal bliss¹⁰

　　Known to the Grecian here a man might find，

　　Ah！ you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.

　　There are the flowers which mourning Herakles

　　Strewed¹¹ on the tomb of Hylas， columbine，

　　Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze

　　Kissed them too harshly， the small celandine，

　　That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve，

　　And lilac lady's-smock， - but let them bloom alone， and leave

　　Yon spired¹³ hollyhock red-crocketed

　　To sway its silent chimes， else must the bee，

　　Its little bellringer， go seek instead

　　Some other pleasaunce； the anemone¹⁴

　　That weeps at daybreak， like a silly girl

　　Before her love， and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl

　　Their painted wings beside it， - bid it pine

　　In pale virginity； the winter snow

　　Will suit it better than those lips of thine

　　Whose fires would but scorch¹⁵ it， rather go

　　And pluck that amorous¹⁶ flower which blooms alone，

　　Fed by the pander¹⁸ wind with dust of kisses not its own.

　　The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus

　　So dear to maidens¹⁹， creamy meadow-sweet

　　Whiter than Juno's throat and odorous

　　As all Arabia， hyacinths the feet

　　Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar²⁰

　　For any dappled fawn²¹， - pluck these， and those fond flowers which

　　are

　　Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon

　　Beneath the pines of Ida， eucharis，

　　That morning star which does not dread²² the sun，

　　And budding marjoram which but to kiss

　　Would sweeten Cytheraea's lips and make

　　Adonis jealous， - these for thy head， - and for thy girdle take

　　Yon curving spray of purple clematis

　　Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King，

　　And foxgloves with their nodding chalices²³，

　　But that one narciss which the startled Spring

　　Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard

　　In her own woods the wild tempestuous²⁴ song of summer's bird，

　　Ah！ leave it for a subtle memory

　　Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun，

　　When April laughed between her tears to see

　　The early primrose²⁵ with shy footsteps run

　　From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold，

　　Spite of its brown and trampled²⁷ leaves， grew bright with shimmering²⁸

　　gold.

　　Nay²⁹， pluck it too， it is not half so sweet

　　As thou thyself， my soul's idolatry！

　　And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet

　　Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry³⁰，

　　For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride

　　And veil its tangled³¹ whorls， and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.

　　And I will cut a reed by yonder spring

　　And make the wood-gods jealous， and old Pan

　　Wonder what young intruder dares to sing

　　In these still haunts， where never foot of man

　　Should tread at evening， lest he chance to spy

　　The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.

　　And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears

　　Such dread embroidery³² of dolorous³³ moan，

　　And why the hapless nightingale forbears

　　To sing her song at noon， but weeps alone

　　When the fleet swallow sleeps， and rich men feast，

　　And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.

　　And I will sing how sad Proserpina

　　Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed¹²，

　　And lure³⁴ the silver-breasted Helena

　　Back from the lotus meadows of the dead，

　　So shalt thou see that awful loveliness

　　For which two mighty³⁵ Hosts met fearfully in war's abyss！

　　And then I'll pipe to thee that Grecian tale

　　How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion，

　　And hidden in a grey and misty³⁶ veil

　　Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun

　　Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase

　　Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.

　　And if my flute³⁷ can breathe sweet melody，

　　We may behold³⁹ Her face who long ago

　　Dwelt among men by the AEgean sea，

　　And whose sad house with pillaged⁴⁰ portico⁴¹

　　And friezeless wall and columns toppled down

　　Looms¹⁷ o'er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town.

　　Spirit of Beauty！ tarry still awhile，

　　They are not dead， thine ancient votaries⁴²；

　　Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile

　　Is better than a thousand victories，

　　Though all the nobly slain⁴³ of Waterloo

　　Rise up in wrath⁴⁴ against them！ tarry still， there are a few

　　Who for thy sake would give their manlihood

　　And consecrate⁴⁵ their being； I at least

　　Have done so， made thy lips my daily food，

　　And in thy temples found a goodlier feast

　　Than this starved age can give me， spite of all

　　Its new-found creeds⁴⁶ so sceptical and so dogmatical.

　　Here not Cephissos， not Ilissos flows，

　　The woods of white Colonos are not here，

　　On our bleak⁴⁷ hills the olive never blows，

　　No simple priest conducts his lowing steer⁴⁸

　　Up the steep marble way， nor through the town

　　Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.

　　Yet tarry！ for the boy who loved thee best，

　　Whose very name should be a memory

　　To make thee linger， sleeps in silent rest

　　Beneath the Roman walls， and melody

　　Still mourns her sweetest lyre； none can play

　　The lute³⁸ of Adonais： with his lips Song passed away.

　　Nay， when Keats died the Muses⁴⁹ still had left

　　One silver voice to sing his threnody⁵⁰，

　　But ah！ too soon of it we were bereft⁵¹

　　When on that riven night and stormy sea

　　Panthea claimed her singer as her own，

　　And slew⁵² the mouth that praised her； since which time we walk

　　alone，

　　Save for that fiery⁵³ heart， that morning star

　　Of re-arisen England， whose clear eye

　　Saw from our tottering⁵⁴ throne and waste of war

　　The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy

　　Rise mightily⁵⁵ like Hesperus and bring

　　The great Republic！ him at least thy love hath taught to sing，

　　And he hath been with thee at Thessaly，

　　And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot

　　In passionless and fierce virginity

　　Hunting the tusked⁵⁶ boar， his honied lute

　　Hath pierced the cavern⁵⁷ of the hollow hill，

　　And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.

　　And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine，

　　And sung the Galilaean's requiem⁵⁸，

　　That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine

　　He hath discrowned， the Ancient Gods in him

　　Have found their last， most ardent⁵⁹ worshipper，

　　And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror⁶⁰.

　　Spirit of Beauty！ tarry with us still，

　　It is not quenched⁶¹ the torch of poesy，

　　The star that shook above the Eastern hill

　　Holds unassailed its argent armoury

　　From all the gathering⁶² gloom and fretful fight -

　　O tarry with us still！ for through the long and common night，

　　Morris， our sweet and simple Chaucer's child，

　　Dear heritor of Spenser's tuneful reed，

　　With soft and sylvan⁶³ pipe has oft beguiled⁶⁴

　　The weary soul of man in troublous need，

　　And from the far and flowerless fields of ice

　　Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.

　　We know them all， Gudrun the strong men's bride，

　　Aslaug and Olafson we know them all，

　　How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died，

　　And what enchantment⁶⁵ held the king in thrall⁶⁶

　　When lonely Brynhild wrestled⁶⁷ with the powers

　　That war against all passion， ah！ how oft through summer hours，

　　Long listless summer hours when the noon

　　Being enamoured of a damask rose

　　Forgets to journey westward⁶⁸， till the moon

　　The pale usurper⁶⁹ of its tribute grows

　　From a thin sickle⁷⁰ to a silver shield

　　And chides⁷¹ its loitering car - how oft， in some cool grassy⁷² field

　　Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight，

　　At Bagley， where the rustling⁷³ bluebells⁷⁴ come

　　Almost before the blackbird finds a mate

　　And overstay the swallow， and the hum

　　Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves，

　　Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves，

　　And through their unreal woes⁷⁵ and mimic⁷⁶ pain

　　Wept for myself， and so was purified，

　　And in their simple mirth grew glad again；

　　For as I sailed upon that pictured tide

　　The strength and splendour of the storm was mine

　　Without the storm's red ruin， for the singer is divine；

　　The little laugh of water falling down

　　Is not so musical， the clammy gold

　　Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town

　　Has less of sweetness in it， and the old

　　Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady

　　Touched by his lips break forth⁷⁷ again to fresher harmony.

　　Spirit of Beauty， tarry yet awhile！

　　Although the cheating merchants of the mart

　　With iron roads profane⁷⁸ our lovely isle⁷⁹，

　　And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art，

　　Ay！ though the crowded factories beget⁸⁰

　　The blindworm Ignorance that slays⁸¹ the soul， O tarry yet！

　　For One at least there is， - He bears his name

　　From Dante and the seraph⁸² Gabriel， -

　　Whose double laurels⁸³ burn with deathless flame

　　To light thine altar； He too loves thee well，

　　Who saw old Merlin lured⁸⁴ in Vivien's snare⁸⁵，

　　And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair，

　　Loves thee so well， that all the World for him

　　A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear，

　　And Sorrow take a purple diadem⁸⁶，

　　Or else be no more Sorrow， and Despair

　　Gild⁸⁷ its own thorns， and Pain， like Adon， be

　　Even in anguish⁸⁸ beautiful； - such is the empery

　　Which Painters hold， and such the heritage

　　This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess，

　　Being a better mirror of his age

　　In all his pity， love， and weariness，

　　Than those who can but copy common things，

　　And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.

　　But they are few， and all romance has flown，

　　And men can prophesy⁸⁹ about the sun，

　　And lecture on his arrows - how， alone，

　　Through a waste void the soulless atoms run，

　　How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled，

　　And that no more 'mid⁹⁰ English reeds a Naiad shows her head.

　　Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon

　　That they have spied on beauty； what if we

　　Have analysed the rainbow， robbed the moon

　　Of her most ancient， chastest mystery，

　　Shall I， the last Endymion， lose all hope

　　Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope！

　　What profit if this scientific age

　　Burst through our gates with all its retinue⁹¹

　　Of modern miracles！ Can it assuage⁹²

　　One lover's breaking heart？ what can it do

　　To make one life more beautiful， one day

　　More godlike in its period？ but now the Age of Clay

　　Returns in horrid⁹³ cycle， and the earth

　　Hath borne again a noisy progeny⁹⁴

　　Of ignorant Titans， whose ungodly birth

　　Hurls⁹⁵ them against the august hierarchy⁹⁶

　　Which sat upon Olympus； to the Dust

　　They have appealed， and to that barren arbiter⁹⁷ they must

　　Repair for judgment⁹⁸； let them， if they can，

　　From Natural Warfare⁹⁹ and insensate Chance，

　　Create the new Ideal rule for man！

　　Methinks that was not my inheritance；

　　For I was nurtured¹⁰⁰ otherwise， my soul

　　Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme¹⁰¹ goal.

　　Lo！ while we spake the earth did turn away

　　Her visage from the God， and Hecate's boat

　　Rose silver-laden， till the jealous day

　　Blew all its torches out： I did not note

　　The waning¹⁰² hours， to young Endymions

　　Time's palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns！

　　Mark how the yellow iris¹⁰³ wearily

　　Leans back its throat， as though it would be kissed

　　By its false chamberer， the dragon-fly，

　　Who， like a blue vein¹⁰⁴ on a girl's white wrist，

　　Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night，

　　Which 'gins to flush with crimson¹⁰⁵ shame， and die beneath the light.

　　Come let us go， against the pallid¹⁰⁶ shield

　　Of the wan⁷ sky the almond blossoms gleam，

　　The corncrake nested in the unmown field

　　Answers its mate， across the misty stream

　　On fitful wing the startled curlews fly，

　　And in his sedgy bed the lark¹⁰⁷， for joy that Day is nigh，

　　Scatters¹⁰⁸ the pearled dew from off the grass，

　　In tremulous ecstasy¹⁰⁹ to greet the sun，

　　Who soon in gilded¹¹⁰ panoply¹¹¹ will pass

　　Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion

　　Hung in the burning east： see， the red rim²⁶

　　O'ertops the expectant hills！ it is the God！ for love of him

　　Already the shrill¹¹² lark is out of sight，

　　Flooding with waves of song this silent dell， -

　　Ah！ there is something more in that bird's flight

　　Than could be tested in a crucible¹¹³！ -

　　But the air freshens， let us go， why soon

　　The woodmen will be here； how we have lived this night of June！

　　AVIGNON

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