Tema con Variazioni

PRELUDE.

I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Hard task it were to tell how dewy-still
Were flowers and ferns and foliage in the rays
Of Hesper, white amid the daffodil
Of twilight flecked with faintest chrysoprase;
And all the while, embowered in leafy bays,
The bird prolonged her sharp soul-thrilling tone.

I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
But as I stood and listened, on the air
Arose another voice more clear and keen,
That startled silence with a sweet despair,
And stilled the bird beneath her leafy screen:
The star of Love, those lattice-boughs between,
Grew large and leaned to listen from his zone.

I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
The voice, methought, was neither man's nor boy's,
Nor bird's, nor woman's, but all these in one:
In Paradise perchance such perfect noise
Resounds from angel choirs in unison,
Chanting with cherubim their antiphon
To Christ and Mary on the sapphire throne.

I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Then down the forest aisles there came a boy,
Unearthly pale, with passion in his eyes;
Who sang a song whereof the sound was joy,
But all the burden was of love that dies
And death that lives — a song of sobs and sighs,
A wild swan's note of Death and Love in one.

I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
Love burned within his luminous eyes, and Death
Had made his fluting voice so keen and high;
The wild wood trembled as he passed beneath,
With throbbing throat singing, Love-led, to die:
Then all was hushed, till in the thicket nigh
The bird resumed her sharp soul-thrilling tone.

I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.
But in my heart and in my brain the cry,
The wail, the dirge, the dirge of Death and Love,
Still throbs and throbs, flute-like, and will not die,
Piercing and clear the night-bird's tune above, —
The aching, anguished, wild-swan's note, whereof
The sweet sad flower of song was over-blown.

I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her moan.

TEMA.

Love came, and in his hand
He bore a wilding wreath
Of blood-red flowers, the breath
Of summer breezes fanned.

Death came, and on the sod
He set a lily white,,
A lily pale as night,
Before the laughing god.

Love's red, red roses fell;
They had nor root nor fruit:
With leaf and lusty shoot
Death's lily flourished well.

Love wept, but Death was true:
When all Love's flowers were shed,
He wreathed around Love's head
Death's lily wet with dew.

VARIATIONS.

I.

A flower of Love — a briar
To bind the brows of youth,
Whose thorns are each a tooth
Of unassuaged Desire:

A wilding flower — a band
Of blossoms when the June
Was still in summer's noon,
And Love stood near at hand:

A wilding flower, — a wreath
Of crimson leaves that flame,
When Love is lost in shame,
And winter welcomes Death.

II.

Ah little flower of Love!
Cropped flower whose stem hath bled,
On whom no dews are shed,
No rains from heaven above!

But only bitter Love
Hath plucked thee for a day,
To make his tresses gay,
His burning brows above:

And only weeping Love
Hath pressed thee to his heart,
Hath felt thy thorn's quick smart,
His bleeding breast above!

III.

Ah little flower of Love,
Poor rootless, fruitless flower,
That witherest in an hour,
Yet art so full of love!

We hold thee to the light;
We see thee droop and fail:
Thy hues of dawn are pale;
Thy scent hath vanished quite.

Thou wast a rose of Love,
Sad flower, few years ago;
Thou art a rose of woe
To-day, a thorn of Love: —

A withered rose, a thorn: —
Of Love no joy remains;
But only aching pains,
Sad years and sorry scorn.

Poor thorny rose! — O Love,
Hadst thou no power with Death,
To make him end our breath,
Yet spare our flower of Love?

IV.

Sealed are the doors of Death:
Then live and love; a day
Is ours, to weep or play.
Then pass the earth beneath.

Love on: for life is Love;
The end of Love is Death;
And though Love laugh at Death,
Yet Death shall conquer Love.

Pale perfect flower of Death,
Whose root and fruit are one,
Above the stars and sun,
The earth and seas beneath.

In thee the bud of Love,
That might have withered,
Hath raised her perfumed head
All chance or change above.

In thee, pale flower of Death,
Love's rose, a lily grown,
Shall ne'er be over-blown;
For who can wither Death?

Rose-lily, flower of Love
And Death, fade not, but bloom
Within the dateless tomb
Of Death that shelters Love!

FINALE.

From the sorrow and the care
To which mortal love is heir;
From the broken sleep and folly
Of a lover's melancholy;
From the thorn that near the rose
Waits to sting at pleasure's close;
From the lingering long remorse
When wild Love hath run his course;
He hath fled, and he hath found
Peace and slumber underground.
Lay him 'neath the quiet turf,
Far from ocean's plunging surf,
Far from winds that weep and wail
When the star of Love is pale,
Far from sound of hurrying feet
Up and down the cruel street:
Let his grave be roofed with yew,
Sun-proof, still, and dark of hue;
Where the blackbird and the thrush
Pipe in summer's morning hush;
Where the snow spreads smooth and soft
Over copse and over croft.
Leave him there, and let him lie;
Brush the tear-drops from your eye:
Not a voice of grief be heard,
Lest his blissful sleep be stirred.
What he longed for, he hath ta'en:
Would he live to love again?
Nay, be certain, he hath found
Rest from love in holy ground.
Which of us who round him bow,
But is envious of him now?