href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@45466@[email protected]#XXVII" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">"Fervency of Sense, of Heart, of Soul"

AFTERNOON

I


Slowly maturity has come to our surprise,
Placing its hands upon the naked forehead of our love,
Looking upon it with its dimmer eyes.

And, in the garden shrivelled by July,
The flowers and shrubs and vibrant leaves
Have let fall their fervent powers which lie
Over the misty pond and gentle paths.
And bitterly the jealous sun now shows
Harshly a brilliant shadow
Round its light that grieves.

And yet, see how the fearless hollyhocks aspire
Ardently to their own splendid fire!
See how season after season's stress
Is vain—the fibres of our hearts
Deeper than ever and insatiable,
Are rooted firmly in our happiness.

Oh hours of afternoon, fragrant with rose,
Clutching at time, with cheek in flower and flame,
Seeking, against his chilly side, repose!

And nothing, nothing is better than to feel
Happy and limpid still—after what years?
But if fate had willed above
For us two naught but suffering and tears,
Still, would I have wished to live and die
Complaintless, in such unrelenting love!




II


Roses of June, you the most fair,
You with your hearts transpierced by sun;
Violent, tranquil roses, with the air
Of halted flights of birds upon a bough;
Roses of June and July, straight and new-begun,
Mouths whose kisses all at once are thrilled
With the wind or with it stilled,
Caressing with shade and gold the moving green;
Roses mutely ardent and sweet willed,
Voluptuous roses in your sheaths of moss,
You who pass the long summer time
Loving each other
In this clarity sublime;
Fresh, magnificent, vivid—like you, oh roses,
Is our multitudinous desire
That in lassitude or leaping fire
Loves, exalts, and then reposes!




III


If other flowers decorate our home,
And multiply the splendour of this place,
The little lake shines ever from the grass
With the large eyes of its ever moving face.

Ah, say, from what deep distances unknown
So many gleaming birds have come
With wings sun-sown?

July has driven April from the close
And bluish tints have given place to red,
The skies are torpid and the wind has fled;
Joyously brilliant insects fill the air
That harks,
And summer wanders by, robed with diamonds
And sparks.




IV


Shadows are lustral in the iris'd dawn;
From a branch on high whence a bird has fled
Dew drops tremble and are gone.

Purity, delicate and fair,
Beautifies the hour that brings
Crystal brilliance to the air;
We hear the sounds of water and the brush of wings.

Oh! how your eyes are beauteous at this hour
When our silver lake is gleaming in the sight
Of the day arising;
Your forehead radiant and your heart-beat light.
Intensity of life, its goodness and its power,
Like to a mighty blessedness
Of your soul are part,
So that to contain the anguish and the stress,
Suddenly your hands have clasped my own,
Laying them, as though with fear,
Against your heart.




V


I bring you, this eve, an offering of joy
From having drenched my body in the gold
And silken texture of the joyous wind
And in the yellow splendour of the sun;
My feet are pure with having walked the grass,
My hands are sweet with the dim hearts of flowers,
My eyes are brilliant with the sudden tears
Born in an instant from the sight of such
A beauteous earth and its eternal night.

Space, with arms of burning clarity,
Drunk and fervent, sobbing, led me on,
And I have gone down there—I know not where—
Where all my captive cries did free my steps;
I bring you life and beauty of the plains;
Take from me their free and bounteous breath;
Storms have laid caresses on my hands,
And air and light and perfume are in me.




VI


Come, let us rest a while beside the path,
Upon the aged bench long stained with mould,
And let me leave, between your two sure hands,
My hand, abandoned to your gentle hold.

And as my hand that lies upon your knees
Is glad to be abandoned there and knows
Contentment, so my sweet and fervent heart
Between your gentle hands has found repose.

And there is joy intense and love profound
Of which we do partake together now,
Nor trembles on our lips a single word
Too strong, nor any kiss that burns your brow.

We would prolong the ardour of this silence,
Of mute desires the immobility,
Save that, when they quiver of a sudden,
I press your pensive hands unknowingly—

Your hands wherein my happiness is sealed—
Your hands which never would attempt to reach
To all these sacred and profounder things
Whereby we live without the need of speech.




VII


Sweetly and more sweetly still
Cradle in your arms my head,
My fevered eyes and forehead wearied;
Sweetly and more sweetly still
Kiss my lips and say
Words made sweeter at each break of day
When uttered by your voice:
That you are given to me and that I love you still.

The day has broken dull and sad; my sleep
Was swept with sombre dreams;
The rain lets down its dusky hair in streams,
And skies are lost in dreary clouds that weep.

Sweetly and more sweetly still
Cradle in your arms my head,
My fevered eyes and forehead wearied;
You are to me the gracious morn
Whose caress is in your hand:
Behold, I am reborn,
With no evil or dismay,
Unto the daily work which marks my way,
—A sign
That makes me live in an heroic strife,
A sword of beauty and of power divine
Against invidious