Poems. Edward Dowden

wreaths and snow-white doves’?

      In the dim woods

      There is a sacred place, a solitude

      Within their solitude, a heart of strength

      Within their strength. The rocks are heaped around

      A goblet of great waters ever fed

      By one swift stream which flings itself in air

      With all the madness, mirth and melody

      Of twenty rivulets gathered in the hills

      Where might escapes in gladness. Here the trees

      Strike deeper roots into the heart of earth,

      And hold more high communion with the heavens;

      Here in the hush of noon the silence broods

      More full of vague divinity; the light

      Slow-changing and the shadows as they shift

      Seem characters of some inscrutable law,

      And one who lingers long will almost hope

      The secret of the world may be surprised

      Ere he depart. It is a haunt beloved

      Of Artemis, the echoing rocks have heard

      Her laughter and her lore, and the brown stream

      Flashed, smitten by the splendour of her limbs.

      Hither I came; here turned, and dared confront

      Pursuing thoughts; here held my life at gaze,

      If ruined at least to clear loose wrack away,

      Study its lines of bare dismantlement,

      And shape a strict despair. With fixed hard lips,

      Dry-eyed, I set my face against the stream

      To deal with fate; the play of woven light

      Gleaming and glancing on the rippled flood

      Grew to a tyranny; and one visioned face

      Would glide into the circle of my sight,

      Would glide and pass away, so glad, so great

      The imminent joy it brought seemed charged with fear.

      I rose, and paced from trunk to trunk, brief track

      This way and that; at least my will maintained

      Her law upon my limbs; they needs must turn

      At the appointed limit. A keen cry

      Rose from my heart—‘Toils of the world grow strong,

      ‘Yield strength, yield strength to rend them to my hands;

      ‘Be thou apparent, Queen! in dubious ways

      ‘Lo my feet fail; cry down the forest glade,

      ‘Pierce with thy voice the tangle and dark boughs,

      ‘Call, and I follow thee.’

      What things made up

      Memorial for the Presence of the place

      Thenceforth to hold? Only the torrent’s leap

      Endlessly vibrating, monotonous rhythm

      Of the swift footstep pacing to and fro,

      Only a soul’s reiterated cry

      Under the calm, controlling, ancient trees,

      And tutelary ward and watch of heaven

      Felt through steep inlets which the upper airs

      Blew wider.

      On the grass at last I lay

      Seized by a peace divine, I know not how;

      Passive, yet never so possessed of power,

      Strong, yet content to feel not use my strength

      Sustained a babe upon the breasts of life

      Yet armed with adult will, a shining spear.

      O strong deliverance of the larger law

      Which strove not with the less! impetuous youth

      Caught up in ampler force of womanhood!

      Co-operant ardours of joined lives! the calls

      Of heart to heart in chase of strenuous deeds!

      Virgin and wedded freedom not disjoined,

      And loyal married service to my Queen!

      Husband, have lesser gains these seven good years

      Been yours because you chose no gracious maid

      Whose hands had woven in the women’s room

      Many fair garments, while her dreaming heart

      Had prescience of the bridal; one whose claims,

      Tender exactions feminine, had pleased

      Fond husband, one whose gentle gifts had pleased,

      Soft playful touches, little amorous words,

      Untutored thoughts that widened up toward yours,

      With trustful homage of uplifted eyes,

      And sweetest sorrows lightly comforted?

      Have we two challenged each the other’s heart

      Too highly? Have our joys been all too large,

      No gleaming gems on finger or on neck

      A man may turn and touch caressingly,

      But ampler than this heaven we stand beneath—

      Wide wings of Presences august? Our lives,

      Were it not better they had stood apart

      A little space, letting the sweet sense grow