poppies red.

And for eternal peace
Be poppies strown upon thy holy eyes,
Till also these shall cease
Turning to that which man is when he dies.
And poppies on thine unassuaged mouth
Be strown, until death shall be done with thee,
Until the white worms shall be one with thee.




AUTUMN BURIAL


The moon shone full that night,
And fill'd with misty light
The solemn clouds hung white
Above her pall;
Waiting the golden dawn
The silent woods stood wan,
While through their aisles mov'd on
Her funeral.

Palely their torches flare,
While rob'd in white they bear
Her corpse that was most fair
Of them that die,
By sleeping forests tall
And woods funereal
Through the decaying fall
Beneath the sky.

The orbed moon looks down
Upon her golden crown,
From out the forest brown
The wood-things stare;
The holy stars behold
Her woven hair of gold,
And slumbering and cold
Her bosom bare.

The moon shines full o'erhead,
And they with bowed head
About her body dead
In silence stand;
There where no foot hath trod
They bury her with sod
Alone with only God
In all the land.

Tall forests stand around
About her grassy mound
And over all the ground
Lie shadows hoar.
She 'neath the passing moon
Sees not the shadows strewn
Sunk in her golden swoon
Forevermore.




SONNET OF BURIAL


Now that the earth thy buried corpse doth hold,
Now that thy soul that hath so much desired,
Is gone down to the places of the tired,
Far from the dawning and the star-light cold;

Thine eyes shall not again the sun behold;
Now shall thy body that all men hath fired
Have ceasing, and thy grave shall be admired,
That doth the fairest thing o' the earth enfold.

Now that thine ashes are all buried,
And thou art gone to slumber with the blessed,
Thy buried body shall be no more distressed;

Being now number'd with the placid dead,
Thine eyes forever more have ceas'd from weeping,
For evermore thy spirit shall have sleeping.




NOCTURNE


Lo, how the moon, beloved,
Far in the heavens gleaming,
Over the ocean dreaming
Her pallid light doth throw;

Lo, where the endless ocean,
Where softly the night wind bloweth,
Into the darkness floweth,
Thither at last I go.

Listen, how sweet the ocean
Unto our spirits sigheth,
And lo, where our pinnace lieth
Awaiting, with sails unfurl'd;

Come thou with me, beloved,
Come thou with heart unquailing,
There where no ships come sailing,
Out of the dreary world.

Come thou with me, beloved,
Out of the world and its seeming,
Where all things are only dreaming,
And shadows all we know;

The heart hath not found its longing
Here, nor shall find it ever;
Behold of my life's endeavour
Remaineth only woe.

Behold, my desire, my anguish,
Trouble and toil surpassing,
Are all but as shadows passing,
Shadows the fame thereof;

Here, where the heart attaineth
Not, what the heart desireth,
Where beauty too early tireth,
And kisses mean not love.

Here where what man hath desired,
He shall not find forever,
But ever and only ever
Unending vanity;

Not in this world, beloved,
My only longing hideth,
But in farther lands abideth
And over a wider sea.

There, when the spring shall blossom,
There, when the winter is vanisht,
My spirit that long was banisht
Shall come to its home, though late;

There in mine olden kingdom,
Where nothing is transitory,
I in exceeding glory
Shall hold mine ancient state.

Here let us leave our anguish,
Here at the hour of leaving,
Leave we our woe and grieving
Like garments long outworn;

Leave we our mortal sorrow,
Our longing and our repenting,
The anguish and the lamenting
That made our hearts to mourn.

Others may weep and anguish,
Others may talk of laughter,
And ever a little after
Sorrow is theirs the more;

But we two have done with laughter
And sadness that hath no reason,
We two in the springtime season
Push out from the weary shore.

Past are the storms of winter,
Past is the rainy weather,
Past are the snows, together
With sadness and sorrowing;

Past are the rains, beloved,
Past is the time of weeping,
And lo, o'er the green earth sleeping,
Laugheth the world-wide Spring!

Come thou with me, beloved,
O let us now be starting!
All things, at the hour of parting,
Shall be made new for thee;

Listen, how sweet the ocean
Unto our spirits calleth;
Softly the starlight falleth
Over the dreaming sea.

Fadeth the land, beloved,
That long hath our spirits tired,
Before us lies that desired
Far country, strange and new;

Far off lies that dream'd-of country
Eternally fair and blessed
Eternally undistressed,
Far over the ocean blue.

Knowst thou the land, beloved?
Year-long with gentle motion
There the unending ocean
Batheth the tropic shore;

There never storms blow loudly,
There never wet rain falleth,
There never loud wind calleth,
Nor stormy waters roar.

Fairer the stars that lighten
There, than to us is given,
There in a fairer heaven
Shineth a larger moon;

Fair stand the castles golden
There, and o'er stranger flowers
There through the long long hours
The wandering breezes swoon.

There in that land, beloved,
Is never a sound of living,
Never is heard thanksgiving
There, nor the noise of moan;

There naught is heard of sorrow,
And nothing is there begotten;
There, with all life forgotten,
We two shall come alone.

There, O my one beloved,
Through twilight never-closing,
We two shall sit reposing,
Forever, thou with me;

There 'neath the stars eternal,
We two shall sit, we only,
While from the heavens, lonely,
The moon sinks in the sea.

THE BOOK OF JADE

PART TWO

MAD SONNET


Lo, in the night I cry out, in the night,
God! and my voice shall howl into the sky!
I am weary of seeing shapeless things that fly,
And flap into my face in their vile flight;

I am weary of dead things that crowd into my sight,
I am weary of hearing horrible corpses that cry,
God! I am weary of that lidless Eye
That comes and stares at me, O God of light!

All, all the world is become a dead blur,
God! God! and I, stricken with hideous blight,
Crouch in the black corners, and I dare not stir.

I am aweary of my evil plight.
If thou art not a dead corpse in thy sky,
Send thou down Death into my loathed sty!




THE HOUSE OF YOUTH


Far in the melancholy hills it stands,
Far off; and through the vista of the years,
Down which my soul its helpless journey steers,
It flames a fire to lighten all the lands,
A fire that burns me and a flame that brands
Me, whose dead days pass slow as heavy tears.

The road my footsteps tread is dim and still,
There darkness abides and silence endlessly,
And the low way mine eyes can scarcely see;
And yet the light and sound from that far hill
Like the sky's fire my weary pathway fill,
So that it seems a place of life to be.

The world is but a background for it there,
There where it stands, loud like a beaten lyre,
And flames blood-red like some vast funeral-pyre,
Whereat my heart to fail doth not forbear;
Of all the things that have been made soe'er
Only the House remains, a quenchless fire.

Ah God, that this thing were not in the world—
The hateful House that flames with light and song
And weary singing all the ages long;
Ah that ev'n this might in the dust be hurl'd,
And crush'd and slain, even as my heart, where curl'd
The kindly armies of the worm do throng.

Yea, surely I have seen it long ago,
Far sunken in the weary dust of time;
Yea surely even that stair so hard to climb
I climb'd, and strode its hallways to and fro;
The which were bright with many lamps aglow,
And loud with choristers in ceaseless chime.




DE PROFUNDIS


Out of the grave, O God, I call to thee,
Be thou not deaf unto my dolorous cry;
My soul is fallen down into the sty,
And the dead things are crawling over me;
O thou my God, give me the worm to flee,
Out from the pit's depths I would rise on high.

Again am I fallen down into the grave,
My soul is sunken in the place of slime,
I am too weak its loathed walls to climb,
Thou, only thou, O God, art strong to save;
Lo, in mine eyes the worms have made their cave,
And squatting toads oppress me all the time.

Yea, from this pit I have crawl'd out before;
With groans and cries and many a dolorous fall,
I have climbed up its impregnable wall;
I shall not rise now from its slimy floor;
O God, hear thou my lamentable call,
Or from the grave I come not evermore.

I am become a housing for the toad;
All things are fled wherein I took delight;
There is no joy here, and there is no light;
O God, O God, I have reap'd what I sow'd;
I am become a dead thing in the night,
And in my heart the worms have their abode.

Lo, from my body all my might is fled,
And all the light is gone out of mine eyes;
Mine ears hear only lamentable cries,.
And eyeless things stand round about my head;
I am made as a man that slowly dies;
I am made as a man already dead.




PRAYER

IN TIME OF PLAGUE

Holy Pestilence, holy Pestilence, gird thee with might,
Holy Pestilence, come thou upon them, come thou at night,
Holy Pestilence, put on thy mantle, put on thy crown,
Holy Pestilence, come on the cities, come and strike down,
Holy Pestilence, let them all perish, touch'd with thy breath,
Holy Pestilence, let them grow rotten, moulding in death,
Holy Pestilence, put on thy garments, a crown on thy head,
Holy Pestilence, let all the nations fall at thy tread,
Holy Pestilence, let them all perish, let them be dead.
Holy Pestilence, then shall the cities sink with thy might,
Holy Pestilence, they shall lie desert, plague-struck at night,
Holy Pestilence, then shall the rulers, crown'd with a crown,
Holy Pestilence, feeling them stricken, reel and fall down,
Holy Pestilence, then shall the nations faint with thy breath,
Holy Pestilence, then shall the valleys be cover'd with death,
Holy Pestilence, peasant with ruler, body with head,
Holy Pestilence, all shall be stricken under thy tread,
Holy Pestilence, all shall be rotten, all shall be dead.




SESTETTES


I

Thou shalt rejoice for woe:
The pallid goblet old,
That holds thy life's dull wine,
Is made thereby divine;
Stain'd with a purpler glow,
And wrought in stranger gold.

II

From the suck'd lees of pain,
We have won joy again:
Death shall thee not distress:
That sleepy bitterness
To thy kist lips shall be
The supreme exstasy.

III

Put ashes on your golden body bare,
Puissant as musk, bitter-sweet as to die,
Ashes upon your arms that grow not old,
And on your unassuaged lips of gold:
So we will wanton in love's sepulchre,
And mock the face of Death with blasphemy.

IV

I love you more than Death: your mournful head,
Your shrouding hair, and your unfathom'd eyes,
And your white body beautiful, alas,
Priestess and victim in love's holy mass....
Your flesh that loves, and loving ever dies....
I could not love you more if you were dead.

V

Death is death; the little host that squirms,
The smell, the dark, the coffin clos'd, and I
So soft, so soft; no movement, and no breath;
No ears, no nose, no eyeballs; Death is Death;
The sepulchre, no sight, no sound, no cry,
And always; Death is Death; the worms! the worms

VI

Not for your evil is my spirit sad—
I mourn because you are not really bad;
Because your beauty's perfect cruelty
Is ever marr'd with pity and distress,
And you still show within your wickedness
The poor stale weakness of humanity.

VII

I am as one that thirsteth for all things,
As one that holdeth to his lips the cup,
With lower'd eyes searching the wine's dull flame.
No thing may I refuse among all things,
Till, having drain'd unto its dregs the cup,
I may return into the astral flame.

VIII

Heart, we have wholly drain'd the cup of sadness,
And found in sadness no reality;
Now from the night of sadness let us go.
Henceforward let us drain the cup of gladness,
And find in gladness no reality;
From sadness then and gladness let us go.




SONNET OF THE INSTRUMENTS OF DEATH


Adorned daggers, ruby-hilted swords;
Huge mortal serpents in gold volumes roll'd;
All-holy poisons in wrought cups of gold;
Unfailing crucifixes of strong cords;

Mortal baptismal waters without fords,
Wherein lie death's communicants untold—
Which of these instruments blessed and old,
Is meetest for life's purple-robed lords?

Ye that commune in death's ciborium,
Of all the vessels in his sacristy
Which will ye choose to make of you a clod—

Sharp swords, bright lightnings, orient opium?—
All these, brave souls, are of one sanctity;
All ways are good whereby ye pass to God.




TRUTH


It is not that I have not sought thy face
Ceaselessly through the