AFTER

A little time for laughter, A little time to sing, A little time to kiss and cling, And no more kissing after.

A little while for scheming Love's unperfected schemes; A little time for golden dreams, Then no more any dreaming.

A little while 'twas given To me to have thy love; Now, like a ghost, alone I move About a ruined heaven.

A little time for speaking Things sweet to say and hear; A time to seek, and find thee near, Then no more any seeking.

A little time for saying Words the heart breaks to say; A short sharp time wherein to pray, Then no more need of praying;

But long, long years to weep in, And comprehend the whole Great grief that desolates the soul, And eternity to sleep in.

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]

AFTER SUMMER

We'll not weep for summer over,-- No, not we: Strew above his head the clover,-- Let him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying, Shed their tears There upon him, where he's lying With his peers.

Unto some of them he proffered Gifts most sweet; For our hearts a grave he offered,-- Was this meet?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished In his wrath,-- All the lovely dreams we cherished Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, Far apart, Sundered wide as seas can sunder Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows That were ours,-- Bitter nights, more bitter morrows; Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness, Saying, "See, These are yours, in place of gladness,-- Gifts from me"?

Nay, the rest that will be ours Is supreme,-- And below the poppy flowers Steals no dream.

Philip Bourke Marston [1850-1887]

ROCOCO

Take hand and part with laughter; Touch lips and part with tears; Once more and no more after, Whatever comes with years.

We twain shall not remeasure The ways that left us twain; Nor crush the lees of pleasure From sanguine grapes of pain.

We twain once well in sunder, What will the mad G.o.ds do For hate with me, I wonder, Or what for love with you?

Forget them till November, And dream there's April yet, Forget that I remember, And dream that I forget.

Time found our tired love sleeping, And kissed away his breath; But what should we do weeping, Though light love sleep to death?

We have drained his lips at leisure, Till there's not left to drain A single sob of pleasure, A single pulse of pain.

Dream that the lips once breathless Might quicken if they would; Say that the soul is deathless; Dream that the G.o.ds are good; Say March may wed September, And time divorce regret; But not that you remember, And not that I forget.

We have heard from hidden places What love scarce lives and hears: We have seen on fervent faces The pallor of strange tears: We have trod the wine-vat's treasure, Whence, ripe to steam and stain, Foams round the feet of pleasure The blood-red must of pain.

Remembrance may recover And time bring back to time The name of your first lover, The ring of my first rhyme: But rose-leaves of December The frosts of June shall fret, The day that you remember, The day that I forget.

The snake that hides and hisses In heaven we twain have known; The grief of cruel kisses, The joy whose mouth makes moan; The pulses' pause and measure, Where in one furtive vein Throbs through the heart of pleasure The purpler blood of pain.

We have done with tears and treasons And love for treason's sake; Room for the swift new seasons, The years that burn and break, Dismantle and dismember Men's days and dreams, Juliette; For love may not remember, But time will not forget.

Life treads down love in flying, Time withers him at root; Bring all dead things and dying, Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit, Where, crushed by three days' pressure Our three days' love lies slain; And earlier leaf of pleasure, And latter flower of pain.

Breathe close upon the ashes, It may be flame will leap; Unclose the soft close lashes, Lift up the lids and weep.

Light love's extinguished ember, Let one tear leave it wet For one that you remember And ten that you forget.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

RONDEL

These many years since we began to be, What have the G.o.ds done with us? what with me, What with my love? They have shown me fates and fears, Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea, Grief a fixed star, and joy a vane that veers, These many years.

With her, my Love,--with her have they done well?

But who shall answer for her? who shall tell Sweet things or sad, such things as no man hears?

May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell, From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheres, These many years!

But if tears ever touched, for any grief, Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf, Deep double sh.e.l.ls where through the eye-flower peers, Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief, Brief tears and bright, for one who gave her tears These many years!

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

THE OBLATION

Ask nothing more of me, sweet; All I can give you I give.

Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet: Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar.

All things were nothing to give Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you, sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of your wings as they soar, Trodden by chance of your feet.

I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet: He that hath more, let him give; He that hath wings, let him soar; Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]