« ForrigeFortsæt »
My tillage of the wilderness; for lo
Yes, this thing, Love, is just a sample of what Browning calls
Earth's true food for men,
Its sweet in sad, its sad in sweet.'
And a sample of the former is the keen feeling of the unsuccessful man, that he is unappreciated, not understood; that if she really knew him, she would and must love him. Not out of conceit; I don't mean that I mean that dignity of selfbelief which true unselfish love gives a man a right to have. (If I quote poetry again, you shall excuse this, when the theme is love.) So the gentler heart, that finds the less worthy, but more showy, rough heart win his treasure from him, will thus muse:
But in the world I learnt, what there
Are yet far, far less rare than love.'
And he consoles himself with the vague hope that, somehow, things will right themselves in another state.
Yet we shall one day gain, life past,
Clear prospect o'er our being's whole;
Our true affinities of soul.'
Browning's Last ride together' gives one of the most whimsical ways of taking a refusal: also a most philosophic string of consolations. The poem is a vast favourite with me. And most happy is that exquisite extravagance in the Angel in the house,' which makes the bridegroom the envier of the unselfish nobility of the rejected lover:
We left him looking from above;
As hapless, I had been as great.'
giving a prescription for this malady which I find labelled 'Bitter Herbs.'
• Wild roses wreathe their glowing arms
In the deep grove's most hidden part
Cometh the meed of love.
'A nest forsaken, on a tree
Withered, and sere, and dry;
A wreck upon a wide waste sea,
A heart that yearns for love's dear grace,
And fain would fill the desert place
None ever sought in vain ;
A love that shines with tenfold power
That to Eternity's last hour
Unchanging shall remain.
And thou, who mourn'st an earthly love,
Listen! The voice of LOVE Himself
Biddeth thee cease to mourn:
He takes from thee the twining growths
Within His garden ground!'
Yes, and besides a present sweet in the bitter, there is, believe me, a hope beyond, for every pure and godlike spark in the heart's often dead hearth. With grand notes to this effect I end this my playing with the keys:
There shall never be one lost good! What
was, shall live as before;
The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound:
What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more;
On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.
All we have willed, or hoped, or dreamed of good, shall exist:
Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power,
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist,
When Eternity affirms the conception of an hour.
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,
The passion that left the ground to lose itself
in the sky,
Are music sent up to God by the lover and
Enough that He heard it once: we shall hear it by-and-by.'
THE LOVES OF THE MONTHS.
LOVE not the sweetest of love protestations
That love that is rouged, and those forced suspirations,
Those pink chubby boys with their impudent faces,
Their hearts and their darts and their old stock in trade, Bedizened with tinsel, embowered in laces,
Shan't bear my love-song to my tender-eyed maid.
Shall a hireling muse ever sing of her splendour,
I strike my own harp when I sing to my treasure,
And watch her eyes sparkle with exquisite pleasure
Yet I won't bring a harp, and I won't speak in numbers;
When old folks are taking post-prandial slumbers,
There's piercing expression in tightly-locked fingers;
Away with all tears, not a vestige of sadness
Now, darling, pray tell me if this is not better
Than commonplace poems one can ne'er understand?
Than parcel, or picture, or overgrown letter,
Duly stamped and despatched through St. Martin's-le-Grand?
Then leave such devices to boarding-school misses,
I like to make love 'midst a shower of kisses,
J. A. S.