Sonnets

Sidney, in whom the heyday of romanceCame to its precious and most perfect flower,Whether you tourneyed with victorious lanceOr brought sweet roundelays to Stella's bower,I give myself some credit for the wayI have kept clean of what enslaves and lowers,Shunned the ideals of our present dayAnd studied those that were esteemed in yours;For, turning from the mob that buys SuccessBy sacrificing all Life's better part,Down the free roads of human happinessI frolicked, poor of purse but light of heart,And lived in strict devotion all alongTo my three idols--Love and Arms and Song.

Not that I always struck the proper meanOf what mankind must give for what they gain,But, when I think of those whom dull routineAnd the pursuit of cheerless toil enchain,Who from their desk-chairs seeing a summer cloudRace through blue heaven on its joyful courseSigh sometimes for a life less cramped and bowed,I think I might have done a great deal worse;For I have ever gone untied and free,The stars and my high thoughts for company;Wet with the salt-spray and the mountain showers,I have had the sense of space and amplitude,And love in many places, silver-shoed,Has come and scattered all my path with flowers.

Why should you be astonished that my heart,Plunged for so long in darkness and in dearth,Should be revived by you, and stir and startAs by warm April now, reviving Earth?I am the field of undulating grassAnd you the gentle perfumed breath of Spring,And all my lyric being, when you pass,Is bowed and filled with sudden murmuring.I asked you nothing and expected less,But, with that deep, impassioned tendernessOf one approaching what he most adores,I only wished to lose a little spaceAll thought of my own life, and in its placeTo live and dream and have my joy in yours.

If I was drawn here from a distant place,'Twas not to pray nor hear our friend's address,But, gazing once more on your winsome face,To worship there Ideal Loveliness.On that pure shrine that has too long ignoredThe gifts that once I brought so frequentlyI lay this votive offering, to recordHow sweet your quiet beauty seemed to me.Enchanting girl, my faith is not a thingBy futile prayers and vapid psalm-singingTo vent in crowded nave and public pew.My creed is simple: that the world is fair,And beauty the best thing to worship there,And I confess it by adoring you.

Seeing you have not come with me, nor spentThis day's suggestive beauty as we ought,I have gone forth alone and been contentTo make you mistress only of my thought.And I have blessed the fate that was so kindIn my life's agitations to includeThis moment's refuge where my sense can findRefreshment, and my soul beatitude.Oh, be my gentle love a little while!Walk with me sometimes. Let me see you smile.Watching some night under a wintry sky,Before the charge, or on the bed of pain,These blessed memories shall revive againAnd be a power to cheer and fortify.

Oh, you are more desirable to meThan all I staked in an impulsive hour,Making my youth the sport of chance, to beBlighted or torn in its most perfect flower;For I think less of what that chance may bringThan how, before returning into fire,To make my dearest memory of the thingThat is but now my ultimate desire.And in old times I should have prayed to herWhose haunt the groves of windy Cyprus were,To prosper me and crown with good successMy will to make of you the rose-twined bowlFrom whose inebriating brim my soulShall drink its last of earthly happiness.

There have been times when I could storm and plead,But you shall never hear me supplicate.These long months that have magnified my needHave made my asking less importunate,For now small favors seem to me so greatThat not the courteous lovers of old timeWere more content to rule themselves and wait,Easing desire with discourse and sweet rhyme.Nay, be capricious, willful; have no fearTo wound me with unkindness done or said,Lest mutual devotion make too dearMy life that hangs by a so slender thread,And happy love unnerve me before MayFor that stern part that I have yet to play.

Oh, love of woman, you are known to beA passion sent to plague the hearts of men;For every one you bring felicityBringing rebuffs and wretchedness to ten.I have been oft where human life sold cheapAnd seen men's brains spilled out about their earsAnd yet that never cost me any sleep;I lived untroubled and I shed no tears.Fools prate how war is an atrocious thing;I always knew that nothing it impliedEqualled the agony of sufferingOf him who loves and loves unsatisfied.War is a refuge to a heart like this;Love only tells it what true torture is.

Well, seeing I have no hope, then let us part;Having long taught my flesh to master fear,I should have learned by now to rule my heart,Although, Heaven knows, 'tis not so easy near.Oh, you were made to make men miserableAnd torture those who would have joy in you,But I, who could have loved you, dear, so well,Take pride in being a good loser too;And it has not been wholly unsuccess,For I have rescued from forgetfulnessSome moments of this precious time that flies,Adding to my past wealth of memoryThe pretty way you once looked up at me,Your low, sweet voice, your smile, and your dear eyes.

I have sought Happiness, but it has beenA lovely rainbow, baffling all pursuit,And tasted Pleasure, but it was a fruitMore fair of outward hue than sweet within.Renouncing both, a flake in the fermentOf battling hosts that conquer or recoil,There only, chastened by fatigue and toil,I knew what came the nearest to content.For there at least my troubled flesh was freeFrom the gadfly Desire that plagued it so;Discord and Strife were what I used to know,Heartaches, deception, murderous jealousy;By War transported far from all of these,Amid the clash of arms I was at peace.

Apart sweet women (for whom Heaven be blessed),Comrades, you cannot think how thin and blueLook the leftovers of mankind that rest,Now that the cream has been skimmed off in you.War has its horrors, but has this of good --That its sure processes sort out and bindBrave hearts in one intrepid brotherhoodAnd leave the shams and imbeciles behind.Now turn we joyful to the great attacks,Not only that we face in a fair fieldOur valiant foe and all his deadly tools,But also that we turn disdainful backsOn that poor world we scorn yet die to shield --That world of cowards, hypocrites, and fools.

Clouds rosy-tinted in the setting sun,Depths of the azure eastern sky between,Plains where the poplar-bordered highways run,Patched with a hundred tints of brown and green, --Beauty of Earth, when in thy harmoniesThe cannon's note has ceased to be a part,I shall return once more and bring to theseThe worship of an undivided heart.Of those sweet potentialities that waitFor my heart's deep desire to fecundateI shall resume the search, if Fortune grants;And the great cities of the world shall yetBe golden frames for me in which to setNew masterpieces of more rare romance.