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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO LUCREZIA, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Pause we within the sunset, love
Last Line: This barrier -- thy loveliness!
Subject(s): Eyes; Love; Time; Youth


Pause we within the sunset, love;
Rare is such time -- so lovely and so passionless --
And sweeter far than when the proud, gold morning
Withers the dew with scorn and in his youth.
Pause here and let me speak
As lover never spoke to one he loved.
How clear the west, unpinionable, and all gold,
As tho' to cleanse us for the coming of the stars!
Now even we are worthy of the truth; --
I, to lay bare, and thou, to hear.
But yet, the words may stab; nor am I brave --
So, pr'ythee, turn from me thine eyes,
Nor let me see thy perilous, curved mouth,
Crimson as flame, and cold as blooms at dawn.
So. (My words seem shackled --
Sluggish with frosty truth). . . .

That moment long ago when thee I saw,
And straight the whole world 'came invisible,
That time of passionate oblivion,
Once seemed to me the incarnation time
Of love, the heaven-sent, the Paraclete!
Thus have I told thee; thus believed.
But, ignorant, I lied.
No spirit of the Lord anointed paused
Within the portals of my heart on hallowed feet.
Not that, but some young god,
With blown, bright hair and fillet golden, came,
And, stretching forth the blossoming rod of beauty,
Upon me wrought a pagan spell.
Not love, not love, -- nor then, nor now!
If Christ should halt beside this spot to touch my hand,
It would not be to claim my soul as friend;
But I should hear the sound of fearful things
That rush into the sea.
This fierce obsession of my waking hours,
This visioning that makes night ecstasy,
It is not love. And this the proof. --
Ah, heart's desire, should thy strong beauty fail
As fails the beauty of the fields,
Or foam blown where the seas are beachless,
To me long, sweet forgetfulness would come,
And summer's ease, once known, now long ago.

Thy words are music rich within mine ear,
But yet, I listen not if there be meaning in them.
Thine eyes, like winter seas,
Dim grey, with thought of green and fear of blue,
Thy listening eyes, immeasurably still --
Oh, are they still with dreams, and sleep
Deeper than waking? Or with the drowse
Of inner lassitude and sheer vacuity of soul?
I dare not guess,
But, careless, drink their cool, Circean sorcery.
Hast thou a heart? I cannot say;
For, where it may not be I once did watch
A thought surge, flaming all thy wintry white
To blossoming spring.
Mayhap, thy soul twines deep with God's.
Mayhap . . . I know
Thy body's whiteness and old Grecian grace . . .
As to one seeking glimpse of the huge sea,
Might come as hindrance on the slopes
An almond tree,
Leaning in ecstasy of petalled beauty, so
Betwixt thy soul and mine riseth alway
This barrier -- thy loveliness!





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