To the end of the trail / Richard Hovey [electronic text]

VII

(This group, which has been called the last sonnets, was written with a dramatic sonnet sequence in mind.)

MAN AND CRAFTSMAN

TO MARNA.

TRUST not my words, for I can sing as sweet To any woman as I sing to you. Oh, pick me out a trull, a fright, a shrew, That I may praise her as an artist's feat And show how much my mastery is complete By making the impossible ring true! Yet I will not do this, which I might do, Nor lay no lying song at alien feet. — But you, if you would know me true indeed, Trust not my songs, albeit they do not lie; Try me by nothing but my naked soul, Try me by nothing but that deathless deed — For if I stood by you in act to die, I could not speak myself more clean and whole.

August, 1898.

MODELS

TO MARNA.

So memory and imagination bring Their beauty to my dreams — for some I knew, And some I guessed at, looking at the blue Of the elusive sea and wondering. Dear women with vain beauty vanishing,

I hold them for a moment in my view And try if I may catch some little clew To understand their mystery as I sing. Dear women loved in fancy or indeed, Dear loves and loves of dreams, I set them there To find one note of all they echo of; —But of such easel hours take thou no heed, No, though I stripped their flushing spirits bare. My models they, but only thou my love.

August, 1898.

THE LAST LOVE OF GAWAINE

You will betray me — oh, deny it not! What right have I, alas, to say you nay? I, traitor of ten loves, what shall I say To plead with you that I be not forgot? My love has not been squandered jot by jot In little loves that perish with the day. My treason has been ever to the sway Of queens; my faith has known no petty blot. You will betray me, as I have betrayed, And I shall kiss the hand that does me wrong. And oh, not pardon — I need pardon more — But in proud torment, grim and unafraid, Burn in my hell nor cease the bitter song Your beauty triumphs in forevermore.

July, 1898.

WHAT THOUGH YOU LOVE ME

WHAT though you love me? Have you no caprice Would kill my heart if I but knew of it? What kisses did you leave me to commit? Through the long nights and days I have no peace To think your hand may lie without release One little moment, somewhere, where you sit — You two — you and the other — fingers knit Together while all words an instant cease! Who he may be I know not — and I know You love me, yes, you love me; but my mind Is a dark wood where nightsome shadows start. My hand is nervous as with daggers — Oh! The jealousy that chokes and makes me blind! The brooding menace of my bitter heart!

July, 1898.

HURT ME

HURT me! For your dear sake I could be driven With whips of scorpions, and smile at Fate. Hurt me! It greatens me — it greatens even The love I have that is already great. If you were always dear and sweet and true, And came to me with kisses and delight, How could I show the love I have for you,

How could that love attain its highest height? Hurt me, and spare not! I am yours for joy, And yours a hundred fold, then, for despair. I would not change my rack for any toy That sleek Antinous tosses in the air. Ay, hurt me! For your sake I will endure To make my pain the page to your amour.

FALSE TRUTH

OH! stab me with denial of your love, But do not torture me in this slow hell Of thoughts I dare not tell the stars above, Of fears I dare not hear the night winds tell! If this be truth, oh! tell me any lie,And I will wear my heart upon my sleeve, Build me an altar where the words may lie And make it my religion to believe! But let it not be truth that you should give Accustomed kisses lest a robber lack, Not filch from Love his high prerogative That Mercy wear false ermine on her back! Let him be starved — and starve me if you will — But not for less than love smite love and kill!

August, 1898.

LOVE AND PITY

ARE you too tender-hearted to be true? True to your love, to me and your own soul? Will you for pity give what is love's due And leave love lorn and begging for a dole? Then pity is a thief, that steals love's purse To squander in dishonest charity; Then love is outcast, with the exile's curse Who sees his varlets loot his seigneury. Is love so hard it recks not where I lie, While pity melts at aught that he endures? I deserve nothing, save that you ensky No other with those vesper lips of yours — I deserve nothing; but your love of me Deserves of you the courage to be free.

August, 1898.

LOVE'S SILENCE.

I DO not ask your love as having rights Because of all there is between us two. Love has no rights, Love has but his delights, Which but delight because they are not due. The highest merit any man can prove Is not enough to merit what Love gives, And Love would lose its quality of love,

Lived it for any cause but that it lives. Therefore I do not plead my gentle thought, My foolish wisdom that would make you free. My sacrifice, my broken heart be nought, Even my great love itself, the best of me!Martyr of Love, I see no other way But to keep silence in your sight, and pray.

AU SEUIL

LE destin nous a pris de sa main forte,Il nous a pris en plein soleil, soudain,Il nous a pris avec son haut dédain Et il nous a montré la sombre porte Où nous ne pouvons qu'entrer. Il nous porte Jusqu'au seuil! — Maintenant, (oh lourde main!) Nous connaissons le secret du chemin Comme on connait l'âme d'une amie morte.

Au delà de ce seuil quel noir aux dents, Quel inconnu terrible nous attend? Peut-être — l'ame de l'homme est si folle! — On rencontrera le sourire d'un dieu Qui nous bénira de ses grands yeux bleus Et nous rassurera de ses mains molles.

GOULDSBORO, September, 1898.