Ina D. Coolbrith: Verses about Passion

‘Love is so old, ’ I said, ‘no more
Of him be said or sung’...
But since Love entered at my door-
Love how forever young!

I did not seek for Love, Love came to me...
But now that Love is mine I would not give
One lightest breath of it for all earth, sea,
Air-Heaven, might hold! Not that my soul might live!

For you ‘one little song to sing
That deep within your heart
May live, a sweet and sacred thing
From all the world apart.’

A song? -the rhythmic rapture of
A passion that endures! -
And one, alone, for you? Ah, Love,
When all my songs are yours!

God made the world and found it ‘good’.
An Angel Him beside
Wept softly, and, to question, said
‘For what Thou hast denied.’

‘And that? ’ God asked him tenderly,
‘What is the lack thereof? ’
‘Its Soul’- the Angle made reply
And God created Love.

For a love with a light that can fashion
A glory that knows not eclipse,
What voice, when its uttermost passion
Sets of silence the seal on the lips?

Lo, here on the leaves of the blossom
Behold it, in symbol and sign,
And I send it, a throb from my bosom,
Beloved, to thine!

A bird flies over the sea-
Over the golden sea,
With a message from me to thee,
O my beloved!

Swift to thy lattice bar,
My life, my beloved,
Under the morning-star
He shall rest where my soul-thoughts are,
O my beloved.

He shall ‘light in the viny rings;
At the window fastenings
He shall beat with his eager wings,
O my beloved.

And ah! for the wild, sweet note,
My dove, my beloved;
And O for the mad, sweet note
That shall float from his honeyed throat,
O love, my beloved!

(Song)

Love that came in with the morning
Is fled with the night!
Whither away?
Whither away?
Gone with nor word, with nor warning,
O lost, my Delight!

Into what soul-cleft or hollow
Art vanished from sight,
Out of the day,
Out of the day?
Where the feet of my dreams may not follow,
O lost, my Delight!

The joy, Love, the song and the laughter
Take wing with thy flight,
Forever and aye,
Forever and aye,
Where life, where not death may come after,
Lost, lost, my Delight!

Because the rose the bloom of blossoms is,
And queenliest in beauty and in grace,
The violet’s tender blue we love no less,
Or daisy, glancing up with shy, sweet face.

For all the music which the forest has,
The ocean waves, that crash upon the beach,
Still would we miss the whisper of the grass;
The hum of bees; the brooklet’s silver speech.

We would not have the timid wood-thrust mute
Because the bul-bul more divinely sings,
Nor lose the scarlet of dear robin’s throat,
For all the tropics’ flash of golden wings.

So do I think, though weak we be, and small,
Yet is there One whose care is none the less:
Who finds, perchance, some grain of worth in all,
Or loves us for our very humbleness!

What do I owe the years, that I should bring
Green leaves to crown the king?
Bloen, barren sands, the thistle, and the brier,
Dead hope, and mocked desire,
And sorrow, vast and pitiless as the sea:
These are their gifts to me.

What do I owe the years, that I should love
And sing the praise thereof?
Perhaps, the lark’s clear carol wakes with morn,
And winds amid the corn
Clash fairy cymbals; but I miss the joys,
Missing the tender voice-
Sweet as a throstle’s after April rain-
That may not sing again.

What do I owe the years, that I should greet
Their bitter, and not sweet,
With wine, and wit, and laughter? Rather thrust
The wine-cup to the dust!
What have they brought to me, these many years?
Silence and bitter tears.

Pleasant as sound of falling rain among
The summer leaves, and the sweet as after rain
The moist earth is when the sun shines again,
The measure and the music of his song.
Not to his muse, most gentle, may belong
The throb of passion, the wild pulse of pain;
Upon his perfect purity no stain;
And the world’s turmoil would but do him wrong.
But with a tender ministry he glides
Into our hearts, and like an angel guest
That presence evermore with us abides
With healing, strength; with comforting and rest.
O, bard beloved! the blessed labor thine
To show thine art how pure, and how divine.

He sang the New World’s song unto the Old:
The fading story of a fading race
Revived upon his lips in numbers bold,
Art without art, and grace untaught of grace.
With master hand that wakened and controlled,
The lyres of other lands he made his own,
And gave the added magic of his tone,
Their golden legends touched with finer gold.
Well won thy bays-and not alone the bays,
O, poet! great as is thy meed of praise,
Greater the love that follows after thee
To that new life, new land; where, with calm eyes,
And brow serene, there greets thee lovingly,
Thy Dante, in the gates of Paradise!

Just for a day to put my sorrow by!
Forget that summer dies, that roses die;
And the swift swallow, circling round the eaves,
Leaves us with falling leaves.

Forget the sky shall lose its gold; the sea
Grow white in tempest, and the long nights be
Forlorn of stars, and dreary with the rains
Beating against the panes.

Forget that change is, and the sorrow is;
That souls grow tired, and sweetest memories
In time turn bitter, and the one sure friend
Is death, that makes an end.

Just a day to put aside the years,
Washed clean of wrongs, of sins, of heavy tears;
And dream that life is fair, and love a truth,
And youth is always youth.

That if the swallow goes, ‘tis for a day,
To come again at dawn, with merrier lay,
Learned in the old fair lands, and the rose brings
New splendors with new springs.

That God is near, and Heaven near, and Death
So far the young heart scarcely reckoneth
The time by years and years; as now by days-
And the whole earth is praise.

And faith is as a spotless dove, with wings
Unclogged with doubt, with many questionings
Unansweared; and the heart not yet doth tire
Of its own vain desire.

Just for a day to pull all sad things by,
Forget that dreams are dead, that dreams must die-
Joy is a breath, and hope a star that sets;
Forget, as love forgets!

In olden days, a child, I trod thy Sands,
Thy sands unbuilded, rank with brush and briar
And blossom - chased the sea-foam on thy strands,
Young City of my love and my desire.

I saw thy barren hills against the skies,
I saw them topped with minaret and spire;
Wall upon wall thy myriad mansions rise,
Fair City of my love and desire.

With thee the Orient touched heart and hands,
The world-wide argosies lay at thy feet;
Queen of the queenliest land of all the lands -
Our sunset glory, regal, glad and sweet!

I saw thee in thine anguish tortured! prone!
Rent with the earth-throes, garmented in fire!
Each wound upon thy breast upon my own,
Sad City of my grief and my desire.

Gray wind-blown ashes, broken, toppling wall
And ruined hearth—are these thy funeral pyre?
Black desolation covering as a pall—
Is this the end—my love and my desire?

Nay! Strong, undaunted, thoughtless of despaire,
The will that builded thee shall build again,
And all thy broken promise spring more fair,
Thou mighty mother of as mighty men.

Thou wilt arise, invincible! supreme!
The world to voice thy glory never tire;
And song, unborn, shall chant no nobler theme—
Great City of my faith and my desire.

But I will see thee ever as of old!
Thy wraith of pearl, wall, minaret and spire,
Framed in the mists that veil thy Gate of Gold—
Lost City of my love and my desire.

The World sweeps by! It is the end of Time!
Nay, not the end, for Time can have no end:
A cycle of the illimitable chain
That makes the circle Eternity.
It is the Day foretold: that Judgement Day!
Mountains have melted and the seas exhaled:
The Word, respoken healed the Universe,
And, perfected, the Golden Globe swings on,
See, how the great hills marshal their white peaks!
The forests lift their plumes! Fields laugh to flower!
And the vast waters of the firmament
Pour back the mighty seas, void of their dead!
‘Tis Earth reborn; Eden re-blossoming;
Life conquering Death-A new Dawn quickening Space.

I, only-I, who am that Lucifer-
‘Star of the Morning, ’ once-once Lucifer,
Of all God’s sons bright and most beautiful’-
I vanquished, lost, without His Heaven stand,
Without the Earth He framed, and named so fair;
That golden Earth into its orbit swung
Beheld beside Him in Cretion’s morn-
I, Lucifer, who knew its perfect ways,
The Serpent I, within the Paradise
By me dflowered, through me outcast and lost.
But yet I failed! O blessed that I failed!
In that He failed not in the love that gave
The Love that died to save! Joy, that I failed!
The one sole joy illuminating all
The deeps on deeps of my supremest Hell.
For this I thank Thee, Father! -that I failed.

And I-That He bow down and worship me
My Kingdom offered-I! my Kingdom, I,
The arch-usurper! -never Kingdom mine,
But His, ten-million-fold! His who redeemed,
And right of Love, All King, All Conqueror!

Now to my bondage! Bound a thousand years!
Fit Thou the sin with juster punishment!
Make it the eons-freedom nevermore.
And what the bonds? Chains, fetters, gives and gyres?
Walls that unclose not, and the weight of the worlds?
Ah, lighter these than breath of Eden-air!
Than petals of its roses softer far!
The least slight cry of Thy least creature, God,
Voicing its pain, outweighs, outbinds them all-
Bonds not the hosts of all Thy heaven could break.

Yet-grant me one last ray of my lost Star-
My Syar! my Star! my Star, Thou God, my Star! -
Before the darkness whelm and cover me.
Stand forth, my Angels and Archangels, mine,
Once glorious host, so fallen, so wronged through me-
Yet not so wronged as I by Lucifer,
Mad with the supreme crime, the lust of power.
Mercy, Jehovah! Mercy, Thou, for these!
Their pardon-mine alone the punishment!
Is their an anguish deeper? make it mine! ...
Aye! -unto this I bow, this last, supreme-
His tender smile! His Love-my Brother, Christ!

Was it the sigh and shiver of the leaves?
Was it the murmer of the meadow brook,
That in and out the reeds and water weeds
Slipped silverly, and on their tremulous keys
Uttered her many melodies? Or voice
Of the far sea, red with the sunset gold,
That sang within her shining shores, and sang
Within the gate, that in the sunset shone
A gate of fire against the outer world?

For, ever as I turned the magic page
Of that old song the old, blind singer sang
Unto the world, when it and song were young—
The ripple of the reeds, or odorous,
Soft sigh of leaves, or voice of the far sea-
A mystical, low murmur, tremulous
Upon the wind, came in with musk of rose,
The salt breath of the waves, and far, faint smell
Of laurel up the slopes of Tamalpais....

“Am I less fair, am I less fair than these,
Daughters of far-off seas?

Daughters of far-off shores, - bleak, over-blown
With foam of fretful tides, with wail and moan
Of waves, that toss wild hands, that clasp and beat
Wild, desolate hands above the lonely sands,
Printed no more with pressure of their feet:
That chase no more the light feet flying swift
Up golden sands, nor lift
Foam fingers white unto their garment hem,
And flowing hair of them.

“For these are dead: the fair, great queens are dead!
The long hair’s gold a dust the wind bloweth
Wherever it may list;
The curved lips, that kissed
Heroes and kings of men, a dust that breath,
Nor speech, nor laughter, ever guickeneth;
And all the glory sped
From the large, marvelous eyes, the light whereof
Wrought wonder in their hearts, - desire, and love!
And wrought not any good:
But strife, and curses of the gods, and flood,
And fire and battle-death!
Am I less fair, less fair,
Because that my hands bear
Neither a sword, nor any flaming brand,
To blacken and make desolate my land,
But on my brows are leaves of olive boughs,
And in mine arms a dove!

“Sea-born and goddess, blossom of the foam
Pale Aphrodite, shadowy as a mist
Not any sun hath kissed!
Tawny of limb I roam,
The dusks of forests dark within my hair;
The far Yosemite,
For garment and for covering me,
Wove the white foam and mist,
The amber and the rose and amethyst
Of her wild fountains, shaken loose in air.
And I am of the hills and of the sea:
Strong with the strength of my great hills, and calm
With calm of the fair sea, whose billowy gold
Girdles the land whose queen and love I am!
Lo! Am I less than thou,
That with a sound of lyres, and harp-playing,
Not any voice doth sing
The beauty of mine eyelids and my brow?
Nor hymn in all my fair and gracious ways,
And lengths of golden days,
The measure and the music of my praise?

“Ah, what indeed is this
Old land beyond the seas, that ye should miss
For her the grace and majesty of mine?
Are not the fruits and vine
Fair on my hills, and in my vales the roses?
The palm-tree and the pine
Strike hands together under the same skies
In every wind that blows.
What clearer heavens can shine
Above the land whereon the shadow lies
Of her dead glory, and her slaughtered kings,

And lost, evanished gods?
Upon my fresh green sods
No king has walked to curse and desolate:
But in the valleys Freedom sits and sings,
And on ths heights above;
Upon her brows the leaves of olive boughs,
And in her arms a dove;
And the great hills are pure, undesecrate,
White with their snows untrod,
And mighty with the presence of their God!

“Harken, how many years
I sat alone, I sat alone and heard
Only the silence stirred
By wind and leaf, by clash of grassy spears,
And singing bird that called to singing bird.
Heard but the savage tongue
Of my brown savage children, that among
The hills and valleys chased the buck and doe,
And round the wigwam fires
Chanted wild songs of their wild savage sires,
And danced their wild, weird dances to and fro,
And wrought their beaded robes of buffalo.
Day following upon day,
Saw but the panther crouched upon the limb,
Smooth serpents, swift and slim,
Slip through the reeds and grasses, and the bear
Crush through his tangled lair
Of chapparal, upon the startled prey!

“Listen, how I have seen
Flash of strange fires in gorge and black ravine;
Heard the sharp clang of steel, that came to drain
The mountain’s golden vein-
And laughed and sang, and sang and laughed again,
Because that ‘now, ’ I said, ‘I shall be known!
I shall not set alone;
But reach my hands unto my sister lands!
And they? Will they not turn
Old, wondering dim eyes to me, and yearn-
Aye, they will yearn, in sooth,
To my glad beauty, and my glad fresh youth! ’

“What matters though the morn
Redden upon my singing fields of corn!
What matters though the wind’s unresting feet
Ripple the vales run with wine,
Ang on these hills of mine
The orchard boughs droop heavy with ripe fruit?
When with nor sound of lute
Nor lyre, doth any singer chant and sing
Me, in my life’s fair spring:
The matin song of me in my young day?
But all my lays and mountain to the farther hem
Of sea, and there be none to gather them.

“Lo! I have waited long!
How longer yet must my strung harp be dumb,
Ere its great master come?
Till the fair singer comes to wake the strong,
Rapt chords of it unto the new, glad song!


Him a diviner speech
My song-birds wait to teach:
The secrets of the field
My blossoms will not yeld
To other hands than his;
And, lingering for this,
My Laurels lend the glory of their boughs
To crown no narrower brows.
For on his lips must wisdom sit with youth,
And in his eyes, and on his lids thereof,
The light of a great love-
And on his forehead, truth! ”...

Was in the wind, or the soft sigh of leaves,
Or sound of singing waters? Lo, I looked,
And saw the silvery ripples of the brook,
The fruit upon the hills, the waving trees,
And mellow fields of harvest; saw the Gate
Burn in the sunset; the thin thread of mist
Creep white across the Saucelito hills;
Till the day darkened down the ocean rim,
The sunset purple slipped from Tamalpais,
And bay and sky were bright with sudden stars.