Poetry

A collection of the remaining Digby Dolben poems.

A Song

The world is young today:

Forget the gods are old,

Forget the years of gold

When all the months were May.

A little flower of Love

Is ours, without a root,

Without the end of fruit,

Yet ― take the scent thereof.

There may be hope above,

There may be rest beneath;

We see them not, but Death

Is palpable ― and Love.

~

Far Above The Shaken Trees

Far above the shaken trees,

In the pale blue palaces,

Laugh the high gods at their ease:

We with tossèd incense woo them,

We with all abasement sue them,

But shall never climb unto them,

    Nor see their faces.

Sweet my sister, Queen of Hades,

Where the quiet and the shade is,

Of the cruel deathless ladies

Thou art pitiful alone.

Unto thee I make my moan,

Who the ways of earth hast known

    And her green places.

Feed me with thy lotus-flowers,

Lay me in thy sunless bowers,

Whither shall the heavy hours

Never trail their hated feet,

Making bitter all things sweet;

Nevermore shall creep to meet

    The perished dead.

There ‘mid shades innumerable,

There in meads of asphodel,

Sleeping ever, sleeping well,

They who toiled and who aspired,

They, the lovely and desired,

With the nations of the tired

    Have made their bed.

There is neither fast nor feast,

None is greatest, none is least;

Times and orders all have ceased.

There the bay-leaf is not seen;

Clean is foul and foul is clean;

Shame and glory, these have been

    But shall not be.

When we pass away in fire,

What is found beyond the pyre?

Sleep, the end of all desire.

Lo, for this the heroes fought;

This the gem the merchant bought,

This the seal of laboured thought

    And subtilty.

~

Beyond

Beyond the calumny and wrong,

Beyond the clamour and the throng,

Beyond the praise and triumph-song

       He passed.

Beyond the scandal and the doubt,

The fear within, the fight without,

The turmoil and the battle-shout

      He sleeps.

The world for him was not so sweet

That he should grieve to stay his feet

Where youth and manhood’s highways meet,

       And die.

For every child a mother’s breast,

For every bird a guarded nest;

For him alone was found no rest

       But this.

Beneath the flight of happy hours,

Beneath the withering of the flowers

In folds of peace more sure than ours

       He lies.

A night no glaring dawn shall break,

A sleep no cruel voice shall wake,

An heritage that none can take

       Are his.

~

From Martial

In vain you count his virtues up,

His soberness commend;

I like a steady servant,

But not a steady friend.

~

Poppies

Lilies, lilies not for me,

Flowers of the pure and saintly―

I have seen in holy places

Where the incense rises faintly,

And the priest the chalice raises,

Lilies in the altar vases,

       Not for me.

Leave untouched each garden tree,

Kings and queens of flower-land.

When the summer evening closes,

Lovers may-be hand in hand

There will seek for crimson roses,

There will bind their wreaths and posies

       Merrily.

From the corn-fields where we met

Pluck me poppies white and red;

Bind them round my weary brain,

Strew them on my narrow bed,

Numbing all the ache and pain.―

I shall sleep nor wake again,

       But forget.

~

Enough

When all my words were said,

When all my songs were sung,

I thought to pass among

The unforgotten dead,

A Queen of ruth to reign

With her, who gathereth tears

From all the lands and years,

The Lesbian maid of pain;

That lovers, when they wove

The double myrtle-wreath,

Should sigh with mingled breath

Beneath the wings of Love:

‘How piteous were her wrongs,

Her words were falling dew,

All pleasant verse she knew,

But not the Song of songs.’

Yet now, O Love, that you

Have kissed my forehead, I

Have sung indeed, can die,

And be forgotten too.

~

There Was One Who Walked In Shadow

There was one who walked in shadow,

   There was one who walked in light:

But once their way together lay,

   Where sun and shade unite,

In the meadow of the lotus,

   In the meadow of the rose,

Where fair with youth and clear with truth

   The Living River flows.

Scarcely summer stillness breaking,

   Questions, answers, soft and low—

The words they said, the vows they made,

   None but the willows know.

Both have passed away for ever

   From the meadow and the stream;

Past their waking, past their breaking

   The sweetness of that dream.

One along the dusty highway

   Toiling counts the weary hours,

And one among its shining throng

   The world has crowned with flowers.

Sometimes perhaps amid the gardens,

   Where the noble have their part,

Though noon’s o’erhead, a dew-drop’s shed

   Into a lily’s heart.

This I know, till one heart reaches

   Labour’s sum, the restful grave,

Will still be seen the willow-green,

   And heard the rippling wave.

~

A Sea Song

In the days before the high tide

Swept away the towers of sand

Built with so much care and labour

By the children of the land,

Pale, upon the pallid beaches,

Thirsting, on the thirsty sands,

Ever cried I to the Distance,

Ever seaward spread my hands.

See, they come, they come, the ripples,

Singing, singing fast and low,

Meet the longing of the sea-shores,

Clasp them, kiss them once, and go.

‘Stay, sweet Ocean, satisfying

All desires into rest—’

Not a word the Ocean answered,

Rolling sunward down the west.

Then I wept: ‘Oh, who will give me

To behold the stable sea,

On whose tideless shores for ever

Sounds of many waters be?’

~

Methought, Through Many Years And Lands

Methought, through many years and lands,

I sped along an arrowy flood,

That leapt and lapt my face and hands,

I knew not were it fire or blood.

I saw no sun in any place;

A ghastly glow about me spread,

Unlike the light of nights and days,

From out the depth where writhe the dead.

I passed―their fleshless arms uprose

To draw me to the depths beneath:

My eyes forgot the power to close,

As other men’s, in sleep or death.

I saw the end of every sin;

I weighed the profit and the cost;

I felt Eternity begin,

And all the ages of the lost.

The Crucifix was on my breast;

I pressed the nails against my side;

And unto Him, Who knew no rest

For thirty years, I turned and cried:

‘Sweet Lord! I say not, give me ease;

Do what Thou wilt, Thou doest good;

And all Thy saints went up to peace,

In crowns of fire or robes of blood.’

~

We hurry on, nor passing note

We hurry on, nor passing note

The rounded hedges white with May;

For golden clouds before us float

To lead our dazzled sight astray.

We say, ‘they shall indeed be sweet

‘The summer days that are to be’—

The ages murmur at our feet

The everlasting mystery.

We seek for Love to make our own,

But clasp him not for all our care

Of outspread arms; we gain alone

The flicker of his yellow hair

Caught now and then through glancing vine,

How rare, how fair, we dare not tell;

We know those sunny locks entwine

With ruddy-fruited asphodel.

A little life, a little love,

Young men rejoicing in their youth,

A doubtful twilight from above,

A glimpse of Beauty and of Truth,—

And then, no doubt, spring-loveliness

Expressed in hawthorns white and red,

The sprouting of the meadow grass,

But churchyard weeds about our head.

~

Homo Factus Est

Come to me, Belovèd,

Babe of Bethlehem;

Lay aside Thy Sceptre

And Thy Diadem.

Come to me, Belovèd;

Light and healing bring;

Hide my sin and sorrow

Underneath Thy wing.

Bid all fear and doubting

From my soul depart,

As I feel the beating

Of Thy Human Heart.

Look upon me sweetly

With Thy Human Eyes

With Thy Human Finger

Point me to the skies.

Safe from earthly scandal

My poor spirit hide

In the utter stillness

Of Thy wounded Side.

Guide me, ever guide me,

With Thy piercèd Hand,

Till I reach the borders

Of the pleasant land.

Then, my own Belovèd,

Take me home to rest;

Whisper words of comfort;

Lay me on Thy Breast.

Show me not the Glory

Round about Thy Throne;

Show me not the flashes

Of Thy jewelled Crown.

Hide me from the pity

Of the Angels’ Band,

Who ever sing Thy praises,

And before Thee stand.

Hide me from the glances

Of the Seraphin,―

They, so pure and spotless,

I, so stained with sin.

Hide me from St. Michael

With his flaming sword:―

Thou can’st understand me,

O my Human Lord!

Jesu, my Belovèd,

Come to me alone;

In Thy sweet embraces

Make me all Thine own.

By the quiet waters,

Sweetest Jesu, lead;

‘Mid the virgin lilies,

Purest Jesu, feed.

Only Thee, Belovèd,

Only Thee, I seek.

Thou, the Man Christ Jesus,

Strength in flesh made weak.

~

Sister Death

My sister Death! I pray thee come to me

Of thy sweet charity,

And be my nurse but for a little while;

I will indeed lie still,

And not detain thee long, when once is spread,

Beneath the yew, my bed:

I will not ask for lillies or for roses;

But when the evening closes,

Just take from any brook a single knot

Of pale Forget-me-not,

And lay them in my hand, until I wake,

For his dear sake;

(For should he ever pass and by me stand,

He might understand―) 

Then heal the passion and the fever

With one cool kiss, for ever.

~

From Sappho

Thou liest dead,―lie on: of thee

No sweet remembrances shall be,

Who never plucked Pierian rose,

Who never chanced on Anterôs.

Unknown, unnoticed, there below

Through Aides’ houses shalt thou go

Alone,―for never a flitting ghost

Shall find in thee a lover lost.

~

The Shrine 

There is a shrine whose golden gate

Was opened by the Hand of God;

It stands serene, inviolate,

Though millions have its pavement trod;

As fresh, as when the first sunrise

Awoke the lark in Paradise.

‘Tis compassed with the dust and toil

Of common days, yet should there fall

A single speck, a single soil

Upon the whiteness of its wall,

The angels’ tears in tender rain

Would make the temple theirs again.

Without, the world is tired and old,

But, once within the enchanted door,

The mists of time are backward rolled,

And creeds and ages are no more;

But all the human-hearted meet

In one communion vast and sweet.

I enter―all is simply fair,

Nor incense-clouds, nor carven throne

But in the fragrant morning air

A gentle lady sits alone;

My mother―ah! whom should I see

Within, save ever only thee?

~

He Would Have His Lady Sing

Sing me the men ere this

Who, to the gate that is

A cloven pearl uprapt,

The big white bars between

With dying eyes have seen

The sea of jasper, lapt

About with crystal sheen;

And all the far pleasance

Where linkèd Angels dance,

With scarlet wings that fall

Magnifical, or spread

Most sweetly over-head,

In fashion musical,

Of cadenced lutes instead.

Sing me the town they saw

Withouten fleck or flaw,

Aflame, more fine than glass

Of fair Abbayes the boast,

More glad than wax of cost

Doth make at Candlemas

The Lifting of the Host:

Where many Knights and Dames,

With new and wondrous names,

One great Laudaté Psalm

Go singing down the street;―

‘Tis peace upon their feet,

In hand ’tis pilgrim palm

Of Goddes Land so sweet:―

Where Mother Mary walks

In silver lily stalks,

Star-tirèd, moon-bedight;

Where Cecily is seen,

With Dorothy in green,

And Magdalen all white,

The maidens of the Queen.

Sing on―the Steps untrod,

The Temple that is God,

Where incense doth ascend,

Where mount the cries and tears

Of all the dolorous years,

With moan that ladies send

Of durance and sore fears:―

And Him who sitteth there,

The Christ of purple hair,

And great eyes deep with ruth,

Who is of all things fair

That shall be, or that were,

The sum, and very truth.

Then add a little prayer,

That since all these be so,

Our Liege, who doth us know,

Would fend from Sathanas,

And bring us, of His grace,

To that His joyous place:

So we the Doom may pass,

And see Him in the Face.