Panthea

Panthea

　　Nay¹， let us walk from fire unto fire，

　　From passionate² pain to deadlier delight， -

　　I am too young to live without desire，

　　Too young art thou to waste this summer night

　　Asking those idle questions which of old

　　Man sought of seer and oracle³， and no reply was told.

　　For， sweet， to feel is better than to know，

　　And wisdom is a childless heritage，

　　One pulse of passion - youth's first fiery⁴ glow， -

　　Are worth the hoarded⁵ proverbs of the sage⁶：

　　Vex⁷ not thy soul with dead philosophy，

　　Have we not lips to kiss with， hearts to love and eyes to see！

　　Dost thou not hear the murmuring nightingale，

　　Like water bubbling from a silver jar，

　　So soft she sings the envious⁸ moon is pale，

　　That high in heaven she is hung so far

　　She cannot hear that love-enraptured tune⁹， -

　　Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist， yon late and labouring

　　moon.

　　White lilies， in whose cups the gold bees dream，

　　The fallen snow of petals¹⁰ where the breeze

　　Scatters¹¹ the chestnut¹² blossom， or the gleam

　　Of boyish limbs in water， - are not these

　　Enough for thee， dost thou desire more？

　　Alas¹³！ the Gods will give nought¹⁴ else from their eternal store.

　　For our high Gods have sick and wearied grown

　　Of all our endless sins， our vain endeavour

　　For wasted days of youth to make atone¹⁵

　　By pain or prayer or priest， and never， never，

　　Hearken they now to either good or ill，

　　But send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will.

　　They sit at ease， our Gods they sit at ease，

　　Strewing¹⁶ with leaves of rose their scented¹⁷ wine，

　　They sleep， they sleep， beneath the rocking trees

　　Where asphodel and yellow lotus twine¹⁸，

　　Mourning the old glad days before they knew

　　What evil things the heart of man could dream， and dreaming do.

　　And far beneath the brazen¹⁹ floor they see

　　Like swarming²⁰ flies the crowd of little men，

　　The bustle²¹ of small lives， then wearily

　　Back to their lotus-haunts they turn again

　　Kissing each others' mouths， and mix more deep

　　The poppy-seeded draught²² which brings soft purple-lidded sleep.

　　There all day long the golden-vestured sun，

　　Their torch-bearer， stands with his torch ablaze²³，

　　And， when the gaudy²⁴ web of noon is spun²⁵

　　By its twelve maidens²⁶， through the crimson²⁷ haze²⁸

　　Fresh from Endymion's arms comes forth²⁹ the moon，

　　And the immortal³⁰ Gods in toils³¹ of mortal passions swoon.

　　There walks Queen Juno through some dewy mead³²，

　　Her grand white feet flecked with the saffron dust

　　Of wind-stirred lilies， while young Ganymede

　　Leaps in the hot and amber-foaming must，

　　His curls all tossed， as when the eagle bare

　　The frightened boy from Ida through the blue Ionian air.

　　There in the green heart of some garden close

　　Queen Venus with the shepherd at her side，

　　Her warm soft body like the briar rose

　　Which would be white yet blushes at its pride，

　　Laughs low for love， till jealous Salmacis

　　Peers through the myrtle-leaves and sighs for pain of lonely bliss³³.

　　There never does that dreary³⁴ north-wind blow

　　Which leaves our English forests bleak³⁵ and bare，

　　Nor ever falls the swift white-feathered snow，

　　Nor ever doth the red-toothed lightning dare

　　To wake them in the silver-fretted night

　　When we lie weeping for some sweet sad sin， some dead delight.

　　Alas！ they know the far Lethaean spring，

　　The violet-hidden waters well they know，

　　Where one whose feet with tired wandering

　　Are faint and broken may take heart and go，

　　And from those dark depths cool and crystalline

　　Drink， and draw balm， and sleep for sleepless³⁷ souls， and anodyne³⁸.

　　But we oppress our natures， God or Fate

　　Is our enemy， we starve and feed

　　On vain repentance³⁹ - O we are born too late！

　　What balm for us in bruised⁴⁰ poppy seed

　　Who crowd into one finite pulse of time

　　The joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of infinite crime.

　　O we are wearied of this sense of guilt⁴¹，

　　Wearied of pleasure's paramour despair，

　　Wearied of every temple we have built，

　　Wearied of every right， unanswered prayer，

　　For man is weak； God sleeps： and heaven is high：

　　One fiery-coloured moment： one great love； and lo！ we die.

　　Ah！ but no ferry-man with labouring pole

　　Nears his black shallop to the flowerless strand⁴²，

　　No little coin of bronze can bring the soul

　　Over Death's river to the sunless land，

　　Victim and wine and vow⁴³ are all in vain，

　　The tomb is sealed； the soldiers watch； the dead rise not again.

　　We are resolved into the supreme⁴⁴ air，

　　We are made one with what we touch and see，

　　With our heart's blood each crimson sun is fair，

　　With our young lives each spring-impassioned tree

　　Flames into green， the wildest beasts that range

　　The moor⁴⁵ our kinsmen⁴⁶ are， all life is one， and all is change.

　　With beat of systole and of diastole

　　One grand great life throbs⁴⁷ through earth's giant heart，

　　And mighty⁴⁸ waves of single Being roll

　　From nerveless germ to man， for we are part

　　Of every rock and bird and beast and hill，

　　One with the things that prey⁴⁹ on us， and one with what we kill.

　　From lower cells of waking life we pass

　　To full perfection； thus the world grows old：

　　We who are godlike now were once a mass

　　Of quivering purple flecked with bars of gold，

　　Unsentient or of joy or misery⁵⁰，

　　And tossed in terrible tangles⁵¹ of some wild and wind-swept sea.

　　This hot hard flame with which our bodies burn

　　Will make some meadow blaze with daffodil，

　　Ay！ and those argent breasts of thine will turn

　　To water-lilies； the brown fields men till

　　Will be more fruitful for our love to-night，

　　Nothing is lost in nature， all things live in Death's despite.

　　The boy's first kiss， the hyacinth's first bell，

　　The man's last passion， and the last red spear

　　That from the lily leaps， the asphodel

　　Which will not let its blossoms blow for fear

　　Of too much beauty， and the timid shame

　　Of the young bridegroom at his lover's eyes， - these with the same

　　One sacrament are consecrate⁵²， the earth

　　Not we alone hath passions hymeneal，

　　The yellow buttercups that shake for mirth

　　At daybreak know a pleasure not less real

　　Than we do， when in some fresh-blossoming wood，

　　We draw the spring into our hearts， and feel that life is good.

　　So when men bury us beneath the yew⁵³

　　Thy crimson-stained mouth a rose will be，

　　And thy soft eyes lush bluebells⁵⁴ dimmed with dew，

　　And when the white narcissus wantonly

　　Kisses the wind its playmate some faint joy

　　Will thrill our dust， and we will be again fond maid and boy.

　　And thus without life's conscious torturing pain

　　In some sweet flower we will feel the sun，

　　And from the linnet's throat will sing again，

　　And as two gorgeous-mailed snakes will run

　　Over our graves， or as two tigers creep

　　Through the hot jungle where the yellow-eyed huge lions sleep

　　And give them battle！ How my heart leaps up

　　To think of that grand living after death

　　In beast and bird and flower， when this cup，

　　Being filled too full of spirit， bursts for breath，

　　And with the pale leaves of some autumn day

　　The soul earth's earliest conqueror⁵⁵ becomes earth's last great

　　prey.

　　O think of it！ We shall inform ourselves

　　Into all sensuous⁵⁶ life， the goat-foot Faun，

　　The Centaur⁵⁷， or the merry bright-eyed Elves

　　That leave their dancing rings to spite the dawn

　　Upon the meadows， shall not be more near

　　Than you and I to nature's mysteries， for we shall hear

　　The thrush's heart beat， and the daisies grow，

　　And the wan³⁶ snowdrop sighing for the sun

　　On sunless days in winter， we shall know

　　By whom the silver gossamer⁵⁸ is spun，

　　Who paints the diapered fritillaries，

　　On what wide wings from shivering pine to pine the eagle flies.

　　Ay！ had we never loved at all， who knows

　　If yonder daffodil had lured⁵⁹ the bee

　　Into its gilded⁶⁰ womb， or any rose

　　Had hung with crimson lamps its little tree！

　　Methinks no leaf would ever bud in spring，

　　But for the lovers' lips that kiss， the poets' lips that sing.

　　Is the light vanished from our golden sun，

　　Or is this daedal-fashioned earth less fair，

　　That we are nature's heritors， and one

　　With every pulse of life that beats the air？

　　Rather new suns across the sky shall pass，

　　New splendour come unto the flower， new glory to the grass.

　　And we two lovers shall not sit afar，

　　Critics of nature， but the joyous⁶¹ sea

　　Shall be our raiment， and the bearded star

　　Shoot arrows at our pleasure！ We shall be

　　Part of the mighty universal whole，

　　And through all aeons mix and mingle⁶² with the Kosmic Soul！

　　We shall be notes in that great Symphony

　　Whose cadence⁶³ circles through the rhythmic⁶⁴ spheres，

　　And all the live World's throbbing⁶⁵ heart shall be

　　One with our heart； the stealthy creeping years

　　Have lost their terrors now， we shall not die，

　　The Universe itself shall be our Immortality⁶⁶.