Classic Poem

I.

And art thou dead? O hushed in solemn chamber
Art thou the deathless form, the deathless face,
Caught now in death's illimitable embrace?
Is this white shrine whereover wild vines clamber
The resting-place
O wondrous body to which the waves were gracious
When it sprang forth a splendour from the spacious
Deep halls of sea-washed amber
That close in Venus' grace?

II.

What shall I wind, O marble brow, around thee?
Surely our ancient ferns and meadow-sweet
Are even than the august great rose more meet:
The growth that filled the woods where love's eyes found thee
And barred retreat;
Those sacred groves whereover once a glory
Flamed like the sun, — now dim with mosses hoary, —
The woods wherein love bound thee
And stayed thy girlish feet.

III.

Wonderful hair that once the Northern breezes
Found sweeter than the clover-fields that shine
Starlike along the level cliff-top line,
Now may death's hand toy with thee as it pleases!
His fingers twine
Idly the locks at sight of which love maddened,
Idly the hair which all the sweet world gladdened;
Now strand by strand death seizes
What once was so divine.

IV.

Thou art gone from the old grey cliff, and who may follow?
Art thou to nether gods exceeding fair?
Oh do they wonder at the black-brown hair,
Laughing for joy within their chambers hollow
As they prepare
Roses and flowers and many gifts to greet thee, —
Jubilant gods advancing swift to meet thee,
Yea even gold-harped Apollo
Thrilling with song the air.

V.

What land of dreams is thine, what perfect splendour
Of soft-voiced lovers wandering with calm feet
Along the meadows that the west winds greet
With heavenly kiss flower-exquisite and tender,
With love-touch fleet:
Whom hast thou now, O sweet beyond all roses,
On whose strong heavenly breast thy breast reposes, —
Or dost thou not surrender,
Alone for me flower-sweet?

VI.

Oh, through the woodlands, o'er the old seas foaming,
Spirit of perfect love, I cry to thee!
Wilt thou not wait me by some sunset-sea, —
Within the purple sombre shadow of gloaming, —
By green spring-tree?
Human art thou no more? or art thou stronger
In sweetest passion-force as years grow longer?
Stronger in that thou art roaming
Heaven-lands apart from me!

VII.

So to the spirit I cry: Thy wondrous body
Sweeter itself than flowers, with flowers I ring,
And these poor garlands of sad words I bring;
Garlands wherein the autumn leaves mix ruddy
With sprays of spring:
Words patient under sorrow and uncomplaining,
Yet stricken of grief as leaves the storms are staining, —
Which, golden-hued or bloody,
Flutter from autumn's wing.

VIII.

No more the waves shall worship thee their daughter
Born of the tender wreaths of Northern foam;
No more shalt thou with sun-sweet footstep roam
Over the grey tossed leagues of billowy water,
Thy well-loved home:
The tomb now holds thee as it holds each flower
That fades to whiteness in one deathful hour;
The hills that heard thy laughter
Gaze now upon thy tomb.