Once in a Saintly Passion

ONCE in a saintly passion

  I cried with desperate grief,

"O Lord, my heart is black with guile,

  Of sinners I am chief."

Then stooped my guardian angel

  And whispered from behind,

"Vanity, my little man,

  You're nothing of the kind."

James Thomson

The Fire That Filled My Heart of Old

THE fire that filled my heart of old

  Gave luster while it burned;

Now only ashes gray and cold

  Are in its silence urned.

Ah! better was the furious flame,

  The splendor with the smart;

I never cared for the singer's fame

  But, oh! for the singer's heart

Once more--

The burning fulgent heart!

No love, no hate, no hope, no fear,

  No anguish and no mirth;

Thus life extends from year to year,

  A flat of sullen dearth.

Ah! life's blood creepeth cold and tame,

  Life's thought plays no new part;

I never cared for the singer's fame,

  But, oh! for the singer's heart

Once more--

The bleeding passionate heart!

James Thomson

Day After Day of this Azure May

DAY after day of this azure May

The blood of the Spring has swelled in my veins;

Night after night of broad moonlight

A mystical dream has dazzled my brains.

A seething might, a fierce delight,

The blood of the Spring is the wine of the world;

My veins run fire and thrill desire,

Every leaf of my heart's red rose uncurled.

A sad sweet calm, a tearful balm,

The light of the Moon is the trance of the world;

My brain is fraught with yearning thought,

And the rose is pale and its leaves are furled.

O speed the day, thou dear, dear May,

And hasten the night I charge thee, O June,

When the trance divine shall burn with the wine

And the red rose unfurl all its fire to the Moon!

James Thomson

Day

WAKING one morning

In a pleasant land,

By a river flowing

Over golden sand:--

Whence flow ye, waters,

O'er your golden sand?

We come flowing

From the Silent Land.

Whither go ye, waters,

O'er your golden sand?

We go flowing

To the Silent Land.

And what is this fair realm?

A grain of golden sand

In the great darkness

Of the Silent Land.

James Thomson

Night

HE cried out through the night:

"Where is the light?

Shall nevermore

Open Heaven's door?

Oh, I am left

Lonely, bereft!"

He cried out through the night:

It spread vaguely white,

With its ghost of a moon

Above the dark swoon

Of the earth lying chill,

Breathless, grave still.

He cried out through the night:

His voice in its might

Rang forth far and far,

And then like a star

Dwindled from sense

In the Immense.

He cried out through the night:

No answering light,

No syllabled sound;

Beneath and around

A long shuddering thrill

Then all again still.

James Thomson

A Song of Sighing

WOULD some little joy to-day

Visit us, heart!

Could it but a moment stay,

Then depart,

With the flutter of its wings

Stirring sense of brighter things.

Like a butterfly astray

In a dark room;

Telling:--Outside there is day,

Sweet flowers bloom,

Birds are singing, trees are green

Runnels ripple silver sheen.

Heart! we now have been so long

Sad without change,

Shut in deep from shine and song

Nor can range;

It would do us good to know

That the world is not all woe.

Would some little joy to-day

Visit us, heart!

Could it but a moment stay,

Then depart,

With the luster of its wings

Lighting dreams of happy things,

O sad my heart!

James Thomson

Proem

O ANTIQUE fables! beautiful and bright

And joyous with the joyous youth of yore;

O antique fables! for a little light

Of that which shineth in you evermore,

To cleanse the dimness from our weary eyes,

And bathe our old world with a new surprise

Of golden dawn entrancing sea and shore.

We stagger under the enormous weight

Of all the heavy ages piled on us,

With all their grievous wrongs inveterate,

And all their disenchantments dolorous,

And all the monstrous tasks they have bequeathed;

And we are stifled with the airs they breathed;

And read in theirs our dooms calamitous.

Our world is all stript naked of their dreams;

No deities in sky or sun or moon,

No nymphs in woods and hills and seas and streams;

Mere earth and water, air and fire, their boon;

No God in all our universe we trace,

No heaven in the infinitude of space,

No life beyond death--coming not too soon.

Our souls are stript of their illusions sweet,

Our hopes at best in some far future years

For others, not ourselves; whose bleeding feet

Wander this rocky waste where broken spears

And bleaching bones lie scattered on the sand;

Who know we shall not reach the Promised Land;

Perhaps a mirage glistening through our tears.

And if there be this Promised Land indeed,

Our children's children's children's heritage,

Oh, what a prodigal waste of precious seed,

Of myriad myriad lives from age to age,

Of woes and agonies and blank despairs,

Through countless cycles, that some fortunate heirs

May enter, and conclude the pilgrimage!

But if it prove a mirage after all!

Our last illusion leaves us wholly bare,

To bruise against Fate's adamantine wall,

Consumed or frozen in the pitiless air;

In all our world, beneath, around, above,

One only refuge, solace, triumph,--Love,

Sole star of light in infinite black despair.

Of antique fables! beautiful and bright,

And joyous with the joyous youth of yore;

O antique fables! for a little light

Of that which shineth in you evermore,

To cleanse the dimness from our weary eyes

And bathe our old world with a new surprise

Of golden dawn entrancing sea and shore.

James Thomson

Art

                I.

What precious thing are you making fast

  In all these silken lines?

And where and to whom will it go at last?

  Such subtle knots and twines!

I am tying up all my love in this,

  With all its hopes and fears,

With all its anguish and all its bliss,

  And its hours as heavy as years.

I am going to send it afar, afar,

  To I know not where above;

To that sphere beyond the highest star

  Where dwells the soul of my Love.

But in vain, in vain, would I make it fast

  With countless subtle twines;

For ever its fire breaks out at last,

  And shrivels all the lines.

                II.

If you have a carrier-dove

  That can fly over land and sea;

And a message for your Love,

  "Lady, I love but thee!"

And this dove will never stir

  But straight from her to you,

And straight from you to her,

  As you know and she knows too.

Will you first ensure, O sage,

  Your dove that never tires

With your message in a cage,

  Though a cage of golden wires?

Or will you fling your dove:

  "Fly, darling, without rest,

Over land and sea to my Love,

  And fold your wings in her breast"?

                III.

Singing is sweet; but be sure of this,

Lips only sing when they cannot kiss.

Did he ever suspire a tender lay

While her presence took his breath away?

Had his fingers been able to toy with her hair

Would they have then written the verses fair?

Had she let his arm steal round her waist

Would the lovely portrait yet be traced?

Since he could not embrace it flushed and warm,

He has carved in stone the perfect form.

Who gives the fine report of the feast?

He who got none and enjoyed it least.

Were the wine really slipping down his throat

Would his song of the wine advance a note?

Will you puff out the music that sways the whirl,

Or dance and make love with a pretty girl?

Who shall the great battle-story write?

Not the hero down in the thick of the fight.

Statues and pictures and verse may be grand,

But they are not the Life for which they stand.

James Thomson