Ethereal vibrations
And soulful pulsations
Of song,
Afloat on the air
—More aspiring than prayer—
How strong
The wings that uplift!
As soaring adrift,
A throng
Of angels there are,
And an echoing star,
As along
You rise ever higher,
Sole voice of a choir
How long
Shall we follow your flight,
Through crystaline night,
And belong
—Through the high vaults of space—
To your archangel’s face,
And long,
—With the heavens still ringing—
To be one with your singing?

Music, language of the mortal soul.
The face of twilight,
The mouth of bitterness made lyrical,
Eyes closed on poignant joys that might have been!
A profile turned to life, and yet beyond …
Reborn, transfigured; penetrating sense
To gather an acute expressiveness
Vibrant within itself: all our lost lives!
—We must play gently to the living dead—
Fingers outstretched, by that responsive lid
Where Angel harps lie buried at full length,
Yet still in touch and resonant—Arise
To laying on of hands—
Invisible, a phantom of pure sound
Voices the spirit sitting there, awakes
The sighing, and the soaring and the beat
(O dispossessed and silenced King: my heart!)
Until we too are echos of that tide,
Where winds and waves become articulate,
Our being tossed so high, beyond itself,
Winged by the elements!
Our human weight of woe no longer felt
Until we meet
—By some familiar fall of minor chords—
The inner God of Sorrow face to face.

You say I’ve lived too long in France
And wearied of the senses’ dance?

Like fresh air in an opium den
You’ll lead me out—to where? and when?

…. I fear no country’s ready yet
For our complexities: forget
The best of flesh and food to go
A’roaming o’er the world, and know
Discomfort’s great surprises few—?
No, let me travel just to you!

Her name begins as Love begins,
Mine as “November”, “Nevermore”.

No thousand nights and one between these covers,
No miniatures, enluminures or dyes—
For art is but a prostitute that hovers
To court outsiders—you alone may prize
These pages which your idle hand unties?—

… Leaving art to artists—we, loves lovers,
Keep for out-worn Beauty a disguise.
—(A line traced round a shadow as it dies,
Some semblance of the scattered rose recovers?)—
So making everything seem otherwise:
Associations are our deities!
—And ivy leaves, transparent eggs of plovers
Are fragments of the feast they symbolize.—

Here, visible as sleeping Eros, lies
A book of dreams and broken memories,
A living past for which blind Love has eyes?

Her flute’s clear solo greets the maiden day—
Above the waking of melodious May,
Its notes are like a trellised flight of flowers.

The chirping birds whose orchestra of bills
Accompanies rain—the tea-rose best distills—
And then the smell of earth between the showers!

From garden bright, in drops of crystal gown’d,
I hear the breezes make a leafy sound
Through vibrant buzz of flies that seek the shade—

… And wonder whether—as sweet noon reposes—
The roses make the air, the air the roses
Within the house kept cooler than a glade.

Against the wall, upon the sunny side,
Their fruitful branches fixed and crucified,
The pear-trees stretch out arms in martyred line—

While we that surfeit, nap, as calyx’d bees,
Who murmurs, still pursuing imageries
… «Like Jewish candelabras». (relight mine!)

Rising as to welcome a newcomer
The flute pipes to the first eve of the summer
—Nocturnal nature moves to minor bars—

A golden crescent in a druid’s tree
Reminds her that the forest has a key—
And out she goes to serenade the stars!