Poems (1870): Mixed Proofs 1869-1870, 1881, Princeton/Troxell Copy Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 Used with permission of Princeton University. From the Princeton University Library, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections. All rights reserved. Redistribution or republication in any medium requires express written consent from Princeton University Library. Permissions inquiries should be addressed to Associate University Librarian, Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library. Poems. Dante Gabriel Rossetti F. S. Ellis Strangeways and Walden London 1869 November - 1870 March This is a mixed set of the proofs for the first edition; two leaves from other printings are randomly included. 208 (Second Trial Book), [v] (1881 Poems, [xii], 1-10, 255-256, 255-256 (second issue), [un] (WMR's notes), [i-ii] (first issue, first state), i-ii (second issue), 23-26, 41-42, 67-68, 83-86, 101-102, 107-108, 113-114, 119-122, 121-124 (first issue, first state), 123-124 (revise), 135-144 (first issue, first state), 143-144 (revise), 143-144 (duplicate revise), 145-146 (first issue, first state), 153-154 (first issue, second state), 161-162 (revise, first issue, first state), 161-162 (first issue, first state), 163-164 (revise, first issue, first state), 163-166, [175-176], [175-176] (revise, first issue, first state), 177-178 (first issue, first state), 181-182, 185-186 (first issue, second state), 187-188 (first issue, first state), 187-190, 197-198, 207-208, 215-218, 221-224 (first issue, second state), 223-224 (revise, first issue, second state), 225-228 (first issue, second state), 227-228 (revise, first issue, second state), 237-238 (second issue), 239-240 (first issue, first state), 239-240 (first issue, second state), 241-244 (first issue, first state), 243-244 (first issue, second state), 243-250 (first issue, first state), 249-250 (first issue, second state), 251-252 (first issue, first state), 251-252 (first issue, second state), 253-254 (first issue, first state). DGR The mixed character of the materials obviates a standard collation. The collation does not include the pages at the front and at the end containing H. B. Forman's notes and transcripts. DGR Princeton University Library, Troxell Collection 23306 Originally H. B Forman's copy 8 point; 5.5 point leading 24 crown octavo, 18.6 x. 12.2 cm Commentary
Introduction

This is a copy of proofs for the first edition of DGR's 1870 <xref doc="a.1-1870.raw"> <hi rend="i"> Poems</hi> </xref> . It is a mixed set showing his very latest revisions to various texts, as well as his efforts to re-order the sequence of the poems from the order they had in the proofs to the quite different order they would have in the first edition. These proofs show that the proofs for the <xref doc="a.1-1870.1stedn.rad">First Edition</xref> went through three printing stages: the first issue (in two separate states) and the second issue (apparently in one state only).

The pages that here represent First Edition proofs, first issue, first state (i.e., proofs pulled in around 1 March 1870) show that these are the earliest setting, and that the pages represent a true first state of the First Edition proof. The copies of the First Edition proofs in all other libraries represent the second state of the proof. This first state has mixed within it revises of individual sheets that DGR called for as well as some duplicate proof pages. Also gathered in this miscellaneous proof are many pages from the first issue, second state of the First Edition proofs. These were printed off early in March, before the 7th. The latter are distinguished here by DGR's pencil corrections, whereas the first state of the proofs are characteristically marked by DGR in ink. Finally, two leaves from a distinct second issue appear in this collection.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

This proof went through several revisions before it was ready to serve as printer's copy for the first edition (see Fredeman, Correspondence 70.45-70.82 ), and certain of the changes proved quite significant. Most important was the addition of <xref doc="a.24-1869.raw">“The Wine of Circe”</xref> and <xref doc="a.21-1869.raw">“The Stream's Secret”</xref> , and the rearrangement of many poems in all three sections of the book. Notable is the replacement of <xref doc="a.30-1869.s219.raw">“Troy Town”</xref> by <xref doc="a.1-1847.s244.raw">“The Blessed Damozel”</xref> as the opening poem of the volume. <xref doc="a.44-1869.raw"> <hi rend="i">The House of Life</hi> </xref> sequence changed slightly during the revision process, and the sonnets in particular were increased to fifty (there are forty-six in the sequence in this proof). The four additional sonnets to the sequence were: <xref doc="a.4-1870.raw">“The Love-Letter”</xref> , <xref doc="a.13-1870.raw">“Barren Spring”</xref> , <xref doc="a.7-1870.raw">“Love-Sweetness”</xref> and <xref doc="a.15-1870.raw">“He and I”</xref> . DGR also made significant revisions to the <xref doc="a.8a-1850.raw"> <hi rend="i">Sonnets for Pictures and Other Sonnets</hi> </xref> section of the book.

Printing History

This is the first prepublication state of the 1870 <xref doc="a.1-1870.raw"> <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> </xref> where the lineation was changed from 29 per page to 24 per page.

Pictorial

Especially notable on these proofs is DGR's drawing for an ornamented title page for this edition. The design was never used so that the proof page in this document is the only instance of the design that survives.

Historical

Literary

When the prepublication printings of the 1870 <xref doc="a.1-1870.raw"> <hi rend="i">Poems</hi> </xref> reached this state, the basic form of the book and sequences of poetical materials were very near their final forms.

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

Troxell, “The Trial Books” , 188-189. Fraser, “The Rossetti Collection of Janet Camp Troxell” , 164. Keane, “D. G. Rossetti's Poems 1870” , 205-207.

higher on the page DGR's note to the printer, very faintly written near the top of this page, specifies a new placement of the dedication. Put closer DGR's note to the printer, very faintly written within the dedication on the left, uses brackets in order to specify a change in spacing, deleting the unwanted line spaces around “These Poems” . roman [?] DGR's note to the printer very faintly written in the right margin, requests a change in the typeface used to present “These Poems” . TO WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI. These Poems, TO SO MANY OF WHICH, SO MANY YEARS BACK, HE GAVE THE FIRST BROTHERLY HEARING, ARE NOW AT LAST DEDICATED.

[Many poems in this volume were written between 1847 and 1853. Others are of recent date, and a few belong to the intervening period. It has been thought unnecessary to specify the earlier work, as nothing is included which the author does not believe to be matured to the measure of his powers believes to be immature.]

I must see revise of this DGR's note to the printer This is a proof page from the 1881 New Edition of DGR's Poems. TO WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI, THESE POEMS, TO SO MANY OF WHICH, SO MANY YEARS BACK, HE GAVE THE FIRST BROTHERLY HEARING, ARE NOW AT LAST DEDICATED. 1870-1881.

B1 <hi rend="c">POEMS.</hi>

----- <hi rend="c">THE BLESSED DAMOZEL</hi>. The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift, For a service meetly worn; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Herseemed she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years. . . . Yet now, and in this place, Surely she leaned o'er me—her hair Fell all about my face. . . . Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) It was the rampart of God's house That she was standing on; By God built over the sheer depth The which is Space begun; So high, that looking downward thence She scarce could see the sun. It lies in Heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge. x x x Three Xs have been added between stanzas 9 and 10. There are also marks at the beginning and end of stanza 10 whose printing significance is unknown. Heard hardly, some of her new friends Amid their loving games Spake evermore among themselves Their virginal chaste names; And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames. And still she bowed herself and stooped Out of the circling charm; Until her bosom must have made The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove Within the gulf to pierce Its path; and now she spoke as when The stars sang in their spheres. The sun was gone now; the curled moon Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf; and now She spoke through the still weather. x x x Three Xs have been added between stanzas 11 and 12. There are also marks at the beginning and end of stanza 12 whose printing significance is unknown.. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had when they sang together. (Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not her accents there, Fain to be hearkened? When those bells Possessed the mid-day air, Strove not her steps to reach my side Down all the echoing stair?) ‘I wish that he were come to me, For he will come,’ she said. ‘Have I not prayed in Heaven?—on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid? ‘When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand and go with him To the deep wells of light; We will step down as to a stream, And bathe there in God's sight. ‘We two will stand beside that shrine, Occult, withheld, untrod, x x x Three Xs have been added between stanzas 15 and 16. There are also marks with unknown printing significance at the beginning and end of stanza 16, in line 99 before the word "But", and at the end of line 102. Whose lamps are stirred continually With prayer sent up to God; And see our old prayers, granted, melt Each like a little cloud. ‘We two will lie i'the shadow of That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Is sometimes felt to be, While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His Name audibly. ‘And I myself will teach to him, I myself, lying so, The songs I sing here; which his voice Shall pause in, hushed and slow, And find some knowledge at each pause, Or some new thing to know.’ (Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st! Yea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift To endless unity The soul whose likeness with thy soul Was but its love for thee?) ‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys. ‘Circlewise sit they, with bound locks And foreheads garlanded; Into the fine cloth white like flame Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead. ‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abashed or weak: And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. ‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles: x x x Three Xs have been added between stanzas 23 and 24. There are also marks at the beginning and end of stanza 24 whose printing significance is unknown. And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles. ‘There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me:— Only to live as once on earth With Love,—only to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he.’ She gazed and listened and then said, Less sad of speech than mild,— ‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased. The light thrilled towards her, fill'd With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres: And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) There are several markings to the printer. See document image. <hi rend="c">LOVE'S NOCTURN.</hi> Master of the murmuring courts Where the shapes of sleep convene!— Lo! my spirit here exhorts All the powers of thy demesne For their aid to woo my queen. What reports Yield thy jealous courts unseen? Vaporous, unaccountable, Dreamland lies forlorn of light, Hollow like a breathing shell. Ah! that from all dreams I might Choose one dream and guide its flight! I know well What her sleep should tell to-night. There the dreams are multitudes: Some whose buoyance waits not sleep, Deep within the August woods; Some that hum while rest may steep Weary labour laid a-heap; Interludes, Some, of grievous moods that weep. Poets' fancies all are there: There the elf-girls flood with wings Valleys full of plaintive air; There breathe perfumes; there in rings Whirl the foam-bewildered springs; Siren there Winds her dizzy hair and sings. Thence the one dream mutually Dreamed in bridal unison, Less than waking ecstasy; Half-formed visions that make moan In the house of birth alone; And what we At death's wicket see, unknown. But for mine own sleep, it lies In one gracious form's control, Fair with honorable eyes, Lamps of an auspicious soul: O their glance is loftiest dole, Sweet and wise, Wherein Love descries his goal. Reft of her, my dreams are all Clammy trance that fears the sky: Changing footpaths shift and fall; From polluted coverts nigh, Miserable phantoms sigh; Quakes the pall, And the funeral goes by. Master, is it soothly said That, as echoes of man's speech Far in secret clefts are made, So do all men's bodies reach Shadows o'er thy sunken beach,— Shape or shade In those halls pourtrayed of each? Pages 11-15 not in this proof. <hi rend="c">DANTIS TENEBRĘ.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">In Memory of my Father.</hi>) And did'st thou know indeed, when at the font Together with thy name thou gav'st me his, That also on thy son must Beatrice Decline her eyes according to her wont, Accepting me to be of those that haunt The vale of magical sweet dark mysteries Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt Trembles in music? This is that steep land Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new height Seem piled to climb. These things I understand: For here, where day still soothes my lifted face, On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night. There is an indecipherable note very lightly written at the top of the page, concluding with the number "244". Also, the words "For a Drawing" have been added beneath the title. <hi rend="c">SAINT LUKE THE PAINTER. <lb/> <add>(<hi rend="u">For a Drawing</hi>.)</add> </hi> Give honour unto Luke Evangelist; For he it was (the aged legends say) Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray. Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist Of devious symbols: but soon having wist How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day Are symbols also in some deeper way, She looked through these to God and was God's priest. And if, past noon, her toil began to irk, And she sought talismans, and turned in vain To soulless self-reflections of man's skill,— Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still Kneel in the latter grass to pray again, Ere the night cometh and she may not work. <hi rend="c">DANTIS TENEBRĘ.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">In Memory of my Father.</hi>) And did'st thou know indeed, when at the font Together with thy name thou gav'st me his. That also on thy son must Beatrice Decline her eyes according to her wont, Accepting me to be of those that haunt The vale of magical sweet mysteries Where to the hills her poet's foot-track lies And wisdom's living fountain to his chaunt Trembles in music? This is that steep land Where he that holds his journey stands at gaze Tow'rd sunset, when the clouds like a new height Seem piled to climb. These things I understand: For here, where day still soothes my lifted face, On thy bowed head, my father, fell the night. <hi rend="c">SAINT LUKE THE PAINTER.</hi> Give honour unto Luke Evangelist; For he it was (the aged legends say) Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray. Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist Of devious symbols: but soon having wist How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day Are symbols also in some deeper way, She looked through these to God and was God's priest. And if, past noon, her toil began to irk, And she sought talismans, and turned in vain To soulless self-reflections of man's skill,— Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still Kneel in the latter grass to pray again, Ere the night cometh and she may not work. This is a page with WMR's textual notes.

Next come several Leaves from the Poems as published, & a few from the Ballads and Sonnets.

Arranged according to the pagination, as far as manageable.

Each leaf has some correction by DGR.

W. M. Rossetti

 lower down Directions to the printer to realign the title. higher up Directions to the printer to realign the publisher's imprint at the bottom of the page. [clean ?] Possibly directions to the printer to delete the ornament in the center of the page. POEMS Dante Gabriel Rossetti. London: F. S. Ellis, 33 King Street, Covent Garden. 1870.

London: Strangeways and Walden, Printers, Castle St. Leicester Sq. DGR's design for an ornament for this title page is uniquely present on this page. POEMS BYDante Gabriel Rossetti. London: F. S. Ellis, 33 King Street, Covent Garden. 1870. London: Strangeways and Walden, Printers, Castle St. Leicester Sq.

This is page 23 of the First Edition Proof. Make the setting right DGR's note to the printer regarding the left margin text alignment. As though the shaft the string forsook, The cymbals clashed, the chariots shook, And there was life in Nineveh? On London stones our sun anew The beast's recovered shadow threw. (No shade that plague of darkness knew, No light, no shade, while older grew By ages the old earth and sea.) Lo thou! could all thy priests have shown Such proof to make thy godhead known? From their dead Past thou liv'st alone; And still thy shadow is thine own Even as of yore in Nineveh. That day whereof we keep record, When near thy city-gates the Lord Sheltered his Jonah with a gourd, This sun, (I said) here present, pour'd Even thus this shadow that I see. This shadow has been shed the same From sun and moon,—from lamps which came For prayer,—from fifteen days of flame, The last, while smouldered to a name Sardanapalus' Nineveh. Within thy shadow, haply, once Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons Smote him between the altar-stones: Or pale Semiramis her zones Of gold, her incense brought to thee, In love for grace, in war for aid: . . . . Ay, and who else? . . . . till 'neath thy shade Within his trenches newly made Last year the Christian knelt and pray'd— Not to thy strength—in Nineveh.* Now, thou poor god, within this hall Where the blank windows blind the wall From pedestal to pedestal, The kind of light shall on thee fall Which London takes the day to be: While school-foundations in the act Of holiday, three files compact, Shall learn to view thee as a fact Connected with that zealous tract: ‘Rome,—Babylon and Nineveh.’

*During the excavations, the Tiyari workmen held their ser-vices in the shadow of the great bulls. ( <hi rend="i">Layard's ‘Nineveh,’</hi> ch ix.)

Deemed they of this, those worshippers, When, in some mythic chain of verse Which man shall not again rehearse, The faces of thy ministers Yearned pale with bitter ecstasy? Greece, Egypt, Rome,—did any god Before whose feet men knelt unshod Deem that in this unblest abode Another scarce more unknown god Should house with him, from Nineveh? Ah! in what quarries lay the stone From which this pigmy pile has grown, Unto man's need how long unknown, Since thy vast temples, court and cone, Rose far in desert history? Ah! what is here that does not lie All strange to thine awakened eye? Ah! what is here can testify (Save that dumb presence of the sky) Unto thy day and Nineveh? Why, of those mummies in the room Above, there might indeed have come Setting DGR's note to the printer regarding the left margin text alignment. One out of Egypt to thy home, An alien. Nay, but were not some Of these thine own ‘antiquity?’ And now,—they and their gods and thou All relics here together,—now Whose profit? whether bull or cow, Isis or Ibis, who or how, Whether of Thebes or Nineveh? The consecrated metals found, And ivory tablets, underground, Winged teraphim and creatures crown'd, When air and daylight filled the mound, Fell into dust immediately. And even as these, the images Of awe and worship,—even as these,— So, smitten with the sun's increase, Her glory mouldered and did cease From immemorial Nineveh. The day her builders made their halt, Those cities of the lake of salt Stood firmly 'stablished without fault, Made proud with pillars of basalt, With sardonyx and porphyry. Pages 27-40 not in this proof. One line less to be printed on this page and so on DGR's note to the printer Carry this line to next page DGR's note to the printer for line 15 of the text 320 Penciled number at the bottom of the page. <hi rend="c">AVE.</hi> Mother of the Fair Delight, Thou handmaid perfect in God's sight, Now sitting fourth beside the Three, Thyself a woman-Trinity,— Being a daughter borne to God, Mother of Christ from stall to rood, And wife unto the Holy Ghost:— Oh when our need is uttermost, Think that to such as death may strike Thou once wert sister sisterlike! Thou headstone of humanity, Groundstone of the great Mystery, Fashioned like us, yet more than we! Mind'st thou not (when June's heavy breath Warmed the long days in Nazareth,) That eve thou didst go forth to give Thy flowers some drink that they might live One faint night more amid the sands? Far off the trees were as pale wands Against the fervid sky: the sea Sighed further off eternally As human sorrow sighs in sleep. Then suddenly the awe grew deep, As of a day to which all days Were footsteps in God's secret ways: Until a folding sense, like prayer, Which is, as God is, everywhere, Gathered about thee; and a voice Spake to thee without any noise, Being of the silence:—‘Hail,’ it said, ‘Thou that art highly favourčd; The Lord is with thee here and now; Blessed among all women thou.’ Ah! knew'st thou of the end, when first That Babe was on thy bosom nurs'd?— Or when He tottered round thy knee Did thy great sorrow dawn on thee?— And through His boyhood, year by year Pages 43-66 not in this proof. A stumbling clatter as of horse hemmed round. Then, when she saw me hurry out of doors, My gun slung at my shoulder and my knife Stuck in my girdle, she smoothed down my hair And laughed to see me look so brave, and leaped Up to my neck and kissed me. She was still A child; and yet that kiss was on my lips So hot all day where the smoke shut us in. For now, being always with her, the first love I had—the father's, brother's love—was changed, I think, in somewise; like a holy thought Which is a prayer before one knows of it. The first time I perceived this, I remember, Was once when after hunting I came home Weary, and she brought food and fruit for me, And sat down at my feet upon the floor Leaning against my side. But when I felt Her sweet head reach from that low seat of hers So high as to be laid upon my heart, I turned and looked upon my darling there And marked for the first time how tall she was And my heart beat with so much violence Under her cheek, I thought she could not choose But wonder at it soon and ask me why; And so I bade her rise and eat with me. And when, remembering all and counting back The time, I made out fourteen years for her And told her so, she gazed at me with eyes As of the sky and sea on a grey day, And drew her long hands through her hair, and asked me If she was not a woman; and then laughed: And as she stooped in laughing, I could see Beneath the growing throat the breasts half globed Like folded lilies deepset in the stream. Yes, let me think of her as then; for so Her image, Father, is not like the sights Which come when you are gone. She had a mouth Made to bring death to life,—the underlip Sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself. Her face was ever pale, as when one stoops Over wan water; and the dark crisped hair And the hair's shadow made it paler still:— Deep-serried locks, the darkness of the cloud Where the moon's gaze is set in eddying gloom. Pages 69-82 not in this proof. For look you, when she stirs her hand, it shows The little hilt of horn and pearl,—even such A dagger as our women of the coast Twist in their garters. Father, I have done: And from her side now she unwinds the thick Dark hair; all round her side it is wet through, But like the sand at Iglio does not change. Now you may see the dagger clearly. Father, I have told all: tell me at once what hope Can reach me still. For now she draws it out Slowly, and only smiles as yet: look, Father, She scarcely smiles: but I shall hear her laugh Soon, when she shows the crimson blade to God. Before this put Dante at Verona page 108 DGR's note to the printer A comma and an em dash have been omitted and replaced my a semi-colon in line 9. <hi rend="c">JENNY.</hi>

‘Vengeance of Jenny's case! Fie on her! Never name her, child!’—(Mrs. Quickly.)

 Lazy laughing languid Jenny, Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea, Whose head upon my knee to-night Rests for a while, as if grown light With all our dances and the sound To which the wild tunes spun you round: Fair Jenny mine, the thoughtless queen Of kisses which the blush between Could hardly make much daintier,— ; Whose eyes are as blue skies, whose hair Is countless gold incomparable: Fresh flower, scarce touched with signs that tell Of Love's exuberant hotbed:—Nay, Poor flower left torn since yesterday Until to-morrow leave you bare; Poor handful of bright spring-water The em dash in line 17 has been deleted and replaced by a semi-colon. Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face— ; Poor shameful Jenny, full of grace Thus with your head upon my knee;— Whose person or whose purse may be The lodestar of your reverie? This room of yours, my Jenny, looks A change from mine so full of books, Whose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth, So many captive hours of youth,— The hours they thieve from day and night To make one's cherished work come right, And leave it wrong for all their theft, Even as to-night my work was left: Until I vowed that since my brain And eyes of dancing seemed so fain, My feet should have some dancing too:— And thus it was I met with you. Well, I suppose 'twas hard to part, For here I am. And now, sweetheart, You seem too tired to get to bed. It was a careless life I led When rooms like this were scarce so strange Not long ago. What breeds the change,— The many aims or the few years? Because to-night it all appears Something I do not know again. The cloud's not danced out of my brain,— The cloud that made it turn and swim While hour by hour the books grew dim. Why, Jenny, as I watch you there,— For all your wealth of loosened hair, Your silk ungirdled and unlac'd And warm sweets open to the waist, All golden in the lamplight's gleam,— You know not what a book you seem, Half-read by lightning in a dream! How should you know, my Jenny? Nay, And I should be ashamed to say:— Poor beauty, so well worth a kiss! But while my thought runs on like this With wasteful whims more than enough, I wonder what you're thinking of. If of myself you think at all, What is the thought?—conjectural Pages 87-100 not in this proof. Though all the memory's long outworn Of many a double-pillowed morn. I think I see you when you wake, And rub your eyes for me, and shake My gold, in rising, from your hair, A Danaė for a moment there. Jenny, my love rang true! for still Love at first sight is vague, until That tinkling makes him audible. And must I mock you to the last, Ashamed of my own shame,—aghast Because some thoughts not born amiss Rose at a poor fair face like this? Well, of such thoughts so much I know: In my life, as in hers, they show, By a far gleam which I may near, A dark path I can strive to clear. Only one kiss. Goodbye, my dear. <hi rend="c">THE PORTRAIT.</hi> This is her picture as she was: It seems a thing to wonder on, As though mine image in the glass Should tarry when myself am gone. I gaze until she seems to stir,— Until mine eyes almost aver That now, even now, the sweet lips part To breathe the words of the sweet heart:— And yet the earth is over her. Alas! even such the thin-drawn ray That makes the prison-depths more rude,— The drip of water night and day Giving a tongue to solitude. Yet this, of all love's perfect prize, Remains; save what, in mournful guise, Pages 103-106 not in this proof. Even than the old gaze tenderer: While hopes and aims long lost with her Stand round her image side by side, Like tombs of pilgrims that have died About the Holy Sepulchre. Put this before Jenny page 84 DGR's note to the printer <hi rend="c">DANTE AT VERONA</hi> ‘Yea, thou shalt learn how salt his food who fares Upon another's bread,—how steep his path Who treadeth up and down another's stairs.’ <hi rend="i">(Div. Com. Parad.</hi> xvii.) ‘Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice.’ <hi rend="i">(Div. Com. Purg.</hi> xxx.) Of Florence and of Beatrice Servant and singer from of old, O'er Dante's heart in youth had toll'd The knell that gave his Lady peace; And now in manhood flew the dart Wherewith his City pierced his heart. Yet if his Lady's home above Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul; And if his City held control To cast the body forth to rove, The soul could soar from earth's vain throng, And Heaven and Hell fulfil the song. 84 The printed page number "113" has been lightly crossed out in pencil and the number "84" has been written in either pencil or light ink. I But at this court, peace still must wrench Her chaplet from the teeth of war: By day they held high watch afar, At night they cried across the trench; And still, in Dante's path, the fierce Gaunt soldiers wrangled o'er their spears. But vain seemed all the strength to him, As golden convoys sunk at sea Whose wealth might root out penury: Because it was not, limb with limb, Knit like his heart-strings round the wall Of Florence, that her face ill pride might fall. Yet in the tiltyard, when the dust Cleared from the sundered press of knights Ere yet again it swoops and smites, He almost deemed his longing must Find force to wield that multitude And hurl that strength the way he would. How should he move them,—fame and gain On all hands calling them at strife? He still might find but his one life To give, by Florence counted vain; One heart the false hearts made her doubt; One voice she heard once and cast out. Oh! if his Florence could but come, A lily-sceptered damsel fair, As her own Giotto painted her On many shields and gates at home,— A lady crowned, at a soft pace Riding the lists round to the dais Till where Can Grande rules the lists, As young as Truth, as calm as Force, She draws her rein now, while her horse Bows at the turn of the white wrists; And when each knight within his stall Gives ear, she speaks and tells them all All the foul tale,—truth sworn untrue And falsehood's triumph. All the tale? Great God! and must she not prevail To fire them ere they heard it through,— And hand achieve ere heart could rest That high adventure of her quest? Pages 115-118 not in this proof. 95 The printed page number "119" has been lightly crossed out in pencil and the number "95" has been written in either pencil or light ink. To mark his ‘Viva Cane!’ scare The foe's shut front, till it would reel All blind with shaken points of steel. But there were places—held too sweet For eyes that had not the due veil Of lashes and clear lids—as well In favour as his saddle-seat: Breath of low speech he scorned not there Nor light cool fingers in his hair. Yet if the child whom the sire's plan Made free of a deep treasure-chest Scoffed it with ill-conditioned jest,— We may be sure too that the man Was not mere thews, nor all content With lewdness swathed in sentiment. So you may read and marvel not That such a man as Dante—one Who, while Can Grande's deeds were done, Had drawn his robe round him and thought— Divide DGR marks a missing division between received stanzas 40-41 Now at the same guest-table far'd Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard.* Through leaves and trellis-work the sun Left the wine cool within the glass,— They feasting where no sun could pass: And when the women, all as one, Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, It was a comely thing, we know. But Dante recked not of the wine; Whether the women stayed or went, His visage held one stern intent: And when the music had its sign To breathe upon them for more ease, Sometimes he turned and bade it cease. And as he spared not to rebuke The mirth, so oft in council he To bitter truth bore testimony: And when the crafty balance shook Well poised to make the wrong prevail, Then Dante's hand would turn the scale.

* Uguccione della Faggiuola, Dante's former protector, was now his fellow-guest at Verona.

 97 The printed page number "121" has been lightly crossed out in pencil and the number "97" has been written in either pencil or light ink. H Printer adds the signature mark by hand And if some envoy from afar Sailed to Verona's sovereign port For aid or peace, and all the court Fawned on its lord, ‘the Mars of war, Sole arbiter of life and death,’— Be sure that Dante saved his breath. And Can La Scala marked askance These things, accepting them for shame And scorn, till Dante's guestship came To be a peevish sufferance: His host sought ways to make his days Hateful; and such have many ways. There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts; Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout In Folly's horny tympanum Such things as make the wise man dumb. Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so, One day when Dante felt perplex'd If any day that could come next Were worth the waiting for or no, And mute he sat amid their din,— Can Grande called the Jester in. Rank words, with such, are wit's best wealth Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept Twittering with clustered heads, except Some few that took their trains by stealth And went. Can Grande shook his hair And smote his thighs and laughed i' the air. Then, facing on his guest, he cried,— ‘Say, Messer Dante, how it is I get out of a clown like this More than your wisdom can provide.’ And Dante: ‘'Tis man's ancient whim That still his like seems good to him.’ Also a tale is told, how once, At clearing tables after meat, Piled for a jest at Dante's feet Were found the dinner's well-picked bones; So laid, to please the banquet's lord, By one who crouched beneath the board. And if some envoy from afar Sailed to Verona's sovereign port For aid or peace, and all the court Fawned on its lord, ‘the Mars of war, Sole arbiter of life and death,’—! Be sure that Dante saved his breath. And Can La Scala marked askance These things, accepting them for shame And scorn, till Dante's guestship came To be a peevish sufferance: His host sought ways to make his days Hateful; and such have many ways. There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts; Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout In Folly's horny tympanum Such things as make the wise man dumb. Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so, One day when Dante felt perplex'd If any day that could come next In received line 288, the "igh" in "thighs" has been underlined in pen, and there is a small check mark in the left margin. Also, in the right margin beside received line 298, the letters "tr" have been written in pen and then crossed-out in a lighter ink or pencil. Were worth the waiting for or no, And mute he sat amid their din,— Can Grande called the Jester in. Rank words, with such, are wit's best wealth Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept Twittering with clustered heads, except Some few that took their trains by stealth And went. Can Grande shook his hair And smote his thighs and laughed i' the air. Then, facing on his guest, he cried,— ‘Say, Messer Dante, how it is I get out of a clown like this More than your wisdom can provide.’ And Dante: ‘'Tis man's ancient whim That still his like seems good to him.’! Also a tale is told, how once, At clearing tables after meat, Piled for a jest at Dante's feet Were found the diner's dinner's well-picked bones; So laid, to please the banquet's lord, By one who crouched beneath the board. Then smiled Can Grande to the rest:— ‘Our Dante's tuneful mouth indeed Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed!’ ‘Fair host of mind e,’ replied the guest, ‘So many bones you'd not descry If so it chanced the dog were I.’* But wherefore should we turn the grout In a drained cup, or be at strife From the worn garment of a life To rip the twisted ravel out? Good needs expounding; but of ill Each hath enough to guess his fill. They named him Justicer-at-Law: Each month to bear the tale in mind Of hues a wench might wear unfin'd And of the load an ox might draw; To cavil in the weight of bread And to see purse-thieves gibbeted.

* ‘ Messere, voi non vedreste tant 'ossa se cane io fossi.’ The point of the reproach is difficult to render, depending as it does on the literal meaning of the name Cane.

 And when his spirit wove the spell (From under-even to over-noon In converse with itself alone,) As high as Heaven, as low as Hell,— He would be summoned and must go: For had not Gian stabbed Giacomo? Therefore the bread he had to eat Seemed brackish, less like corn than tares; And the rush-strown accustomed stairs Each day were steeper to his feet; And when the night-vigil was done, His brows would ache to feel the sun. Nevertheless, when from his kin There came the tidings how at last In Florence a decree was pass'd Whereby all banished folk might win Free pardon, so a fine were paid And act of public penance made,— This Dante writ in answer thus, Words such as these: ‘That clearly they In Florence must not have to say,— 99 The printed page number "123" has been lightly crossed out in pencil and the number "99" has been written in either pencil or light ink. Then smiled Can Grande to the rest:— ‘Our Dante's tuneful mouth indeed Lacks not the gift on flesh to feed!’ ‘Fair host of mind e,’ replied the guest, ‘So many bones you'd not descry If so it chanced the dog were I.’* But wherefore should we turn the grout In a drained cup, or be at strife From the worn garment of a life To rip the twisted ravel out? Good needs expounding; but of ill Each hath enough to guess his fill. They named him Justicer-at-Law: Each month to bear the tale in mind Of hues a wench might wear unfin'd And of the load an ox might draw; To cavil in the weight of bread And to see purse-thieves gibbeted.

* ‘ Messere, voi non vedreste tant 'ossa se cane io fossi.’ The point of the reproach is difficult to render, depending as it does on the literal meaning of the name Cane.

 And when his spirit wove the spell (From under even to over-noon In converse with itself alone,) As high as Heaven, as low as Hell,— He would be summoned and must go: For had not Gian stabbed Giacomo? Therefore the bread he had to eat Seemed brackish, less like corn than tares; And the rush-strown accustomed stairs Each day were steeper to his feet; And when the night-vigil was done, His brows would ache to feel the sun. Nevertheless, when from his kin There came the tidings how at last In Florence a decree was pass'd Whereby all banished folk might win Free pardon, so a fine were paid And act of public penance made,— This Dante writ in answer thus, Words such as these: ‘That clearly they In Florence must not have to say,— ‘Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore, Sister Helen, And I'll play without the gallery door.’ ‘Aye, let me rest,—I'll lie on the floor, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘Here high up in the balcony, Sister Helen, The moon flies face to face with me.’ ‘Aye, look and say whatever you see, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘Outside it's merry in the wind's wake, Sister Helen; In the shaken trees the chill stars shake.’ ‘Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘I hear a horse-tread, and I see, Sister Helen, Three horsemen that ride terribly.’ ‘Little brother, whence come the three, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, Sister Helen, And one draws nigh, but two are afar.’ ‘Look, look, do you know them who they are, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Who should they be, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘Oh, it's Weir Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white mane on the blast.’ ‘The hour has come, has come at last, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘He has made a sign and called Halloo! Sister Helen, And he says that he would speak with you.’ ‘Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, Sister Helen, That Weir Keith of Ewern's like to die.’ ‘And he and thou, and thou and I, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘For three days now he has lain abed, Sister Helen, And he prays in torment to be dead.’ ‘The thing may chance, if he have prayed, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘But he has not ceased to cry to-day, Sister Helen, That you should take your curse away.’ ‘My prayer was heard,—he need but pray, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘But he says, till you take back your ban, Sister Helen, His soul would pass, yet never can.’ ‘Nay then, shall I slay a living man, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, A living soul, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘But he calls for ever on your name, Sister Helen, And says that he melts before a flame.’ ‘My heart for his pleasure fared the same, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Here's Weir Keith of Westholm riding fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white plume on the blast.’ ‘The hour, the sweet hour I forecast, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, Sister Helen; But his words are drowned in the wind's course.’ ‘Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, A word ill heard, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Oh he says that Weir Keith of Ewern's cry, Sister Helen, Is ever to see you ere he die.’ ‘He sees me in earth, in moon and sky, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Earth, moon and sky, between Hell and Heaven!) The type for the right single quote at the end of the fifth line appears broken here. ‘He sends a ring and a broken coin, Sister Helen, And bids you mind the banks of Boyne.’ ‘What else he broke will he ever join, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Oh, never more, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘He yields you these and craves full fain, Sister Helen, You pardon him in his mortal pain.’ ‘What else he took will he give again, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, No more again, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘He calls your name in an agony, Sister Helen, That even dead Love must weep to see.’ ‘Hate, born of Love, is blind as he, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Oh it's Weir Keith of Weir Keith now that rides fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white hair on the blast.’ ‘The short short hour will soon be past, Litle brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘He looks at me and he tries to speak, Sister Helen, But oh! his voice is sad and weak!’ ‘What here should the mighty Baron seek, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Oh his son still cries, if you forgive, Sister Helen, The body dies but the soul shall live.’ ‘Fire shall forgive me as I forgive, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive, Sister Helen, To save his dear son's soul alive.’ ‘Nay, flame cannot slay it, it shall thrive, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘He cries to you, kneeling in the road, Sister Helen, To go with him for the love of God!’ ‘The way is long to his son's abode, Little brother.’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, Sister Helen! More loud than the vesper-chime it fell.’ ‘No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Alas! but I fear the heavy sound, Sister Helen; Is it in the sky or in the ground?’ ‘Say, have they turned their horses round, Little brother?’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘They have raised the old man from his knee, Sister Helen, And they ride in silence hastily.’ ‘More fast the naked soul doth flee, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, Sister Helen, And weary sad they look by the hill.’ ‘But he they mourne is Keith of Ewern's sadder still, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, Sister Helen, And the flames are winning up apace!’ ‘Yet here they burn but for a space, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd, Sister Helen? Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?’ ‘A soul that's lost as mine is lost, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!) Can you make the alteration below, and let me have today substitutes of this sheet for the copies sent yesterday DGR's note to the printer requesting a revise of this sheet ‘Alas! but I fear the heavy sound, Sister Helen; Is it in the sky or in the ground?’ ‘Say, have they turned their horses round, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘They have raised the old man from his knee, Sister Helen, And they ride in silence hastily.’ ‘More fast the naked soul doth flee, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, Sister Helen, And weary sad they look by the hill.’ ‘But Keith of Ewern's is sadder still, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, Sister Helen, And the flames are winning up apace!’ ‘Yet here they burn but for a space, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd, Sister Helen? Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?’ ‘A soul that's lost as mine is lost, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Alas! but I fear the heavy sound, Sister Helen; Is it in the sky or in the ground?’ ‘Say, have they turned their horses round, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?) ‘They have raised the old man from his knee, Sister Helen, And they ride in silence hastily.’ ‘More fast the naked soul doth flee, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, Sister Helen, And weary sad they look by the hill.’ ‘But Keith of Ewern's is sadder still, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, Sister Helen, And the flames are winning up apace!’ ‘Yet here they burn but for a space, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!) ‘Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd, Sister Helen? Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?’ ‘A soul that's lost as mine is lost, Little brother!’ (O Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven!) Before this put The Stream's Secret DGR's note to the printer at the top of the page, written in pencil and then crossed out. L <hi rend="c">STRATTON WATER.</hi> ‘O have you seen the Stratton flood That's great with rain to-day? It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands, Full of the new-mown hay. ‘I led your hounds to Hutton bank To bathe at early morn: They got their bath by Borrowbrake Above the standing corn.’ Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands Looked up the western lea; The rook was grieving on her nest, The flood was round her tree. Over the castle-wall Lord Sands Looked down the eastern hill: The stakes swam free among the boats, The flood was rising still. ‘What's yonder far below that lies So white against the slope?’ ‘O it's a sail o' your bonny barks The waters have washed up. ‘But I have never a sail so white, And the water's not yet there.’ ‘O it's the swans o' your bonny lake The rising flood doth scare.’ ‘The swans they would not hold so still, So high they would not win.’ ‘O it's Joyce my wife has spread her smock And fears to fetch it in.’ ‘Nay, knave, it's neither sail nor swans, Nor aught that you can say; For though your wife might leave her smock, Herself she'd bring away.’ Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair, The court, and yard, and all; The kine were in the byre that day, The nags were in the stall. Pages 147-152 not in this proof. This page and its verso are from the second state of the First Edition proofs. ‘And oh!’ she said, ‘it's well this way That I thought to have fared,— Not to have lighted at the kirk But stopped in the kirkyard. ‘For it's oh and oh I prayed to God, Whose rest I hoped to win, That when to-night at your board-head You'd bid the feast begin, This water past your window-sill Might bear my body in.’ Now make the white bed warm and soft And greet the merry morn. The night the mother should have died The young son shall be born. Before this put The Stream's Secret DGR's note to the printer <hi rend="c">THE CARD-DEALER.</hi> Could you not drink her gaze like wine? Yet though its splendour swoon Into the silence languidly As a tune into a tune, Those eyes unravel the coiled night And know the stars at noon. The gold that's heaped beside her hand, In truth rich prize it were; And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows With magic stillness there; And he were rich who should unwind That woven golden hair. Around her, where she sits, the dance Now breathes its eager heat; Pages 155-160 not in this proof. Stet DGR's directions to the printer in pencil in the upper right corner of the page. M <hi rend="c">A NEW YEAR'S BURDEN.</hi> Along the grass sweet airs are blown Our way this day in Spring. Of all the songs that we have known Now which one shall we sing? Not that, my love, ah no!— Not this, my love? why, so!— Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go. The grove is all a pale frail mist, The new year sucks the sun. Of all the kisses that we kissed Now which shall be the one? Not that, my love, ah no!— Not this, my love?—heigh-ho For all the sweets that all the winds can blow! The branches cross above our eyes, The skies are in a net: And what's the thing beneath the skies We two would most forget? Not birth, my love, no, no,— Not death, my love, no, no,— The love once ours, but ours long hours ago. <hi rend="c">EVEN SO.</hi> So it is, my dear. All such things touch secret strings For heavy hearts to hear. So it is, my dear. Very like indeed: Sea and sky, afar, on high, Sand and strewn seaweed,— Very like indeed. But the sea stands spread As one wall with the flat skies, Where the lean black craft like flies Seem well-nigh stagnated, Soon to drop off dead. Seemed it so to us When I was thine and thou wast mine, And all these things were thus, But all our world in us? Could we be so now? Not if all beneath heaven's pall Lay dead but I and thou, Could we be so now! M Type a size larger like the other titles DGR's note to the printer on the type for the title. <hi rend="c">A NEW YEAR'S BURDEN.</hi> Along the grass sweet airs are blown Our way this day in Spring. Of all the songs that we have known Now which one shall we sing? Not that, my love, ah no!— Not this, my love? why, so!— Yet both were ours, but hours will come and go. The grove is all a pale frail mist, The new year sucks the sun. Of all the kisses that we kissed Now which shall be the one? Not that, my love, ah no!— Not this, my love?—heigh-ho For all the sweets that all the winds can blow! The branches cross above our eyes, The skies are in a net: And what's the thing beneath the skies We two would most forget? Not birth, my love, no, no,— Not death, my love, no, no,— The love once ours, but ours long hours ago. Type a size larger like opposite title DGR's note to the printer on the type for the title <hi rend="c">EVEN SO.</hi> So it is, my dear. All such things touch secret strings For heavy hearts to hear. So it is, my dear. Very like indeed: Sea and sky, afar, on high, Sand and strewn seaweed,— Very like indeed. But the sea stands spread As one wall with the flat skies, Where the lean black craft like flies Seem well-nigh stagnated, Soon to drop off dead. Seemed it so to us When I was thine and thou wast mine, And all these things were thus, But all our world in us? Could we be so now? Not if all beneath heaven's pall Lay dead but I and thou, Could we be so now! Stet There are faint, indecipherable pencil notes to the printer which have been crossed out, and DGR writes "Stet". <hi rend="c">AN OLD SONG ENDED.</hi> ‘How should I your true love know From another one?’ ‘By his cockle-hat and staff And his sandal-shoon.’ ‘And what signs have told you now That he hastens home?’ ‘Lo! the spring is nearly gone, He is nearly come.’ ‘For a token is there nought, Say, that he should bring?’ ‘He will bear a ring I gave And another ring.’ ‘How may I, when he shall ask, Tell him who lies there?’ ‘Nay, but leave my face unveiled And unbound my hair.’ ‘Can you say to me some word I shall say to him?’ ‘Say I'm looking in his eyes Though my eyes are dim.’ <hi rend="c">THE SEED OF DAVID.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">Inscription for a Picture.</hi>*) Christ sprang from David shepherd, and even so From David king; being born of high and low. The shepherd lays his crook, the king his crown, Here at Christ's feet, and high and low bow down. And high and low, Christ's self is shown here; even Christ the Good Shepherd, Christ the King of Heaven.

* A Triptych. In the centre, the Adoration: at the two sides, David as shepherd and David as king.

 <hi rend="c">AN OLD SONG ENDED.</hi> ‘How should I your true love know From another one?’ ‘By his cockle-hat and staff And his sandal-shoon.’ ‘And what signs have told you now That he hastens home?’ ‘Lo! the spring is nearly gone, He is nearly come.’ ‘For a token is there nought, Say, that he should bring?’ ‘He will bear a ring I gave And another ring.’ ‘How may I, when he shall ask, Tell him who lies there?’ ‘Nay, but leave my face unveiled And unbound my hair.’ ‘Can you say to me some word I shall say to him?’ ‘Say I'm looking in his eyes Though my eyes are dim.’ This and the next following inscription, though not sonnets, seemed to fall best into the present section DGR's note added at the bottom of the page, then cancelled. Stet DGR first marked the excision of "Inscription" in the subtitle, but then restored the original text. <hi rend="c">THE SEED OF DAVID.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">Inscription for a Picture.</hi>*) Christ sprang from David shepherd, and even so From David king; being born of high and low. The shepherd lays his crook, the king his crown, Here at Christ's feet, and high and low bow down. And high and low, Christ's self is shown here; even Christ the Good Shepherd, Christ the King of Heaven.

* A Triptych. In the centre, the Adoration: at the two sides, David as shepherd and David as king.

 Type a size larger like opposite title DGR's note to the printer on the type for the title. Stet DGR first marked the excision of "Inscription" in the subtitle, but then restored the original text. <hi rend="c">ASPECTA MEDUSA.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">Inscription for a Drawing.</hi>) Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed, Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's head: Till o'er a fount he held it, bade her lean, And mirrored in the wave was safely seen That death she lived by. Let not thine eyes know Any forbidden thing itself, although It once should save as well as kill; but be Its shadow upon life enough for thee. <hi rend="c">THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="sc">Franēois Villon, 1450.</hi>) Tell me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman? Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere,— She whose beauty was more than human? . . . But where are the snows of yester-year? Where's Héloise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From Love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine? . . . But where are the snows of yester-year? Pages 167-174 not in this proof. This page and its verso make up a duplicate proof sheet. [?] There is a faint, indecipherable note written to the left of the printed text. <hi rend="c">SONNETS AND SONGS,</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="i">Towards a Work to be called</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">‘THE HOUSE OF LIFE.’</hi>

[The first twenty-six sonnets and the seven first songs treat of love. These and the others would belong to sepa-rate sections of the projected work.]

 <hi rend="c">SONNETS AND SONGS,</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="i">Towards a Work to be called</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">‘THE HOUSE OF LIFE.’</hi>

[The first twenty-eight six sonnets and the seven first songs treat of love. These and the others would belong to sepa-rate sections of the projected work.]

 N <hi rend="isc">SONNET I.</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">BRIDAL BIRTH.</hi> As when desire, long darkling, dawns, and first The mother looks upon the newborn child, Even so my Lady stood at gaze and smiled When her soul knew at length the Love it nursed. Born with her life, creature of poignant thirst And exquisite hunger, at her heart Love lay Quickening in darkness, till a voice that day Cried on him, and bonds of birth were burst. Now, shielded in his wings, our faces yearn Together, as his fullgrown feet now range The grove, and his warm hands our couch prepare: Till to his song our bodiless souls in turn Be born his children, when Death's nuptial change Leaves us for light the halo of his hair. Too close together DGR's note to the printer in margin beside the sestet. <hi rend="isc">SONNET II</hi>.<del> <lb/> <hi rend="c">FLAMMIFERA.</hi> </del> <add>Love's Redemption</add> O Thou who at Love's hour ecstatically Unto my lips dost evermore present The body and blood of Love in sacrament; Whom I have neared and felt thy breath to be The inmost incense of his sanctuary; Who without speech hast owned him, and intent Upon his will, thy life with mine hast blent, And murmured o'er the cup, Remember me!— O what from thee the grace, for me the prize, And what to Love the glory,—when the whole Of the deep stair thou tread'st to the dim shoal And weary water of the place of sighs, And there dost work deliverance, as thine eyes Draw up my prisoned spirit to thy soul! Pages 179-180 not in this proof. This leaf and the following leaf are both from the second state of the First Edition proofs. 193 Printer's numeration for the first edition <hi rend="isc">SONNET V</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">NUPTIAL SLEEP.</hi> At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart: And as the last slow sudden drops are shed From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled, So singly flagged the pulses of each heart. Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start Of married flowers to either side outspread From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red, Fawned on each other where they lay apart. Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams, And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away. Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day; Till from some wonder of new woods and streams He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay. Too low in the page DGR's note to the printer. <hi rend="isc">SONNET VI</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">SUPREME SURRENDER.</hi> To all the spirits of love that wander by Along the love-sown fallowfield of sleep My lady lies apparent; and the deep Calls to the deep; and no man sees but I. The bliss so long afar, at length so nigh, Rests there attained. Methinks proud Love must weep When Fate's control doth from his harvest reap The sacred hour for which the years did sigh. First touched, the hand now warm around my neck Taught memory long to mock desire: and lo! Across my breast the abandoned hair doth flow, Where one shorn tress long stirred the longing ache: And next the heart that trembled for its sake Lies the queen-heart in sovereign overthrow. <hi rend="isc">SONNET IX</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">THE PORTRAIT.</hi> O Lord of all compassionate control, O Love! let this my Lady's picture glow Under my hand to praise her name, and show Even of her inner self the perfect whole: That he who seeks her beauty's furthest goal, Beyond the light that the sweet glances throw And refluent wave of the sweet smile, may know The very sky and sea-line of her soul. Lo! it is done. Above the long lithe throat The mouth's mould testifies of voice and kiss, The shadowed eyes remember and foresee. Her face is made her shrine. Let all men note That in all years (O Love, thy gift is this!) They that would look on her must come to me. Before this put The Love Letter DGR's note to the printer <hi rend="isc">SONNET X</hi> <add>I</add>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">THE BIRTH-BOND.</hi> Have you not noted, in some family Where two were born of a first marriage-bed, How still they own their gracious bond, though fed And nursed on the forgotten breast and knee?— How to their father's children they shall be In act and thought of one goodwill; but each Shall for the other have, in silence speech, And in a word complete community? Even so, when first I saw you, seemed it, love, That among souls allied to mine was yet One nearer kindred than life hinted of. O born with me somewhere that men forget, And though in years of sight and sound unmet, Known for my soul's birth-partner well enough! Put this line out to meet the one marked DGR's note to the printer regarding the alignment of line 8 with line 5. <hi rend="isc">SONNET XI</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">A DAY OF LOVE.</hi> Those envied places which do know her well, And are so scornful of this lonely place, Even now for once are emptied of her grace: Nowhere but here she is: and while Love's spell From his predominant presence doth compel All alien hours, an outworn populace, The hours of Love fill full the echoing space With sweet confederate music favorable. Now many memories make solicitous The delicate love-lines of her mouth, till, lit With quivering fire, the words take wing from it; As here between our kisses we sit thus Speaking of things remembered, and so sit Speechless while things forgotten call to us. This leaf is from the second state of the First Edition proofs. <hi rend="isc">SONNET XII</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">LOVE'S BAUBLES.</hi> I stood where Love in brimming armfuls bore Slight wanton flowers and foolish toys of fruit: And round him ladies thronged in warm pursuit, Fingered and lipped and proffered the strange store: And from one hand the petal and the core Savoured of sleep; and cluster and curled shoot Seemed from another hand like shame's salute,— Gifts that I felt my cheek was blushing for. At last Love bade my Lady give the same: And as I looked, the dew was light thereon; And as I took them, at her touch they shone With inmost heaven-hue of the heart of flame. And then Love said: ‘Lo! when the hand is hers, Follies of love are love's true ministers.’ <hi rend="isc">SONNET XI</hi> <add>I</add>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">A DAY OF LOVE.</hi> THOSE envied places which do know her well, And are so scornful of this lonely place, Even now for once are emptied of her grace: Nowhere but here she is: and while Love's spell From his predominant presence doth compel All alien hours, an outworn populace, The hours of Love fill full the echoing space With sweet confederate music favorable. Now many memories make solicitous The delicate love-lines of her mouth, till, lit With quivering fire, the words take wing from it; As here between our kisses we sit thus Speaking of things remembered, and so sit Speechless while things forgotten call to us. Before this print M.S. Love's Sweetness DGR's note to the printer <hi rend="isc">SONNET XI</hi> <add>V</add> <del>I</del>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">LOVE'S BAUBLES.</hi> I stood where Love in brimming armfuls bore Slight wanton flowers and foolish toys of fruit: And round him ladies thronged in warm pursuit, Fingered and lipped and proffered the strange store: And from one hand the petal and the core Savoured of sleep; and cluster and curled shoot Seemed from another hand like shame's salute,— Gifts that I felt my cheek was blushing for. At last Love bade my Lady give the same: And as I looked, the dew was light thereon; And as I took them, at her touch they shone With inmost heaven-hue of the heart of flame. And then Love said: ‘Lo! when the hand is hers, Follies of love are love's true ministers.’ <hi rend="isc">SONNET X</hi> <add>V</add> <del>III</del>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">WINGED HOURS.</hi> Each hour until we meet is as a bird That wings from far his gradual way along The rustling covert of my soul,—his song Still loudlier trilled through leaves more deeply stirr'd: But at the hour of meeting, a clear word Is every note he sings, in Love's own tongue; Yet, Love, thou know'st the sweet strain suffers wrong, Through our contending kisses oft unheard. What of that hour at last, when for her sake No wing may fly to me nor song may flow; When, wandering round my life unleaved, I know The bloodied feathers scattered in the brake, And think how she, far from me, with like eyes Sees through the untuneful bough the wingless skies? Too low in the page DGR's note to the printer <hi rend="isc">SONNET </hi> <del>XIV</del>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">LIFE-IN-LOVE.</hi> Not in thy body is thy life at all But in this lady's lips and hands and eyes; Through these she yields thee life that vivifies What else were sorrow's servant and death's thrall. Look on thyself without her, and recall The waste remembrance and forlorn surmise That lived but in a dead-drawn breath of sighs O'er vanished hours and hours eventual. Even so much life hath the poor tress of hair Which, stored apart, is all love hath to show For heart-beats and for fire-heats long ago; Even so much life endures unknown, even where, 'Mid change the changeless night environeth, Lies all that golden hair undimmed in death. Pages 191-196 not in this proof. Too low in the page DGR's note to the printer <hi rend="isc">SONNET XXI</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">DEATH-IN-LOVE.</hi> There came an image in Life's retinue That had Love's wings and bore his gonfalon: Fair was the web, and nobly wrought thereon, O soul-sequestered face, thy form and hue! Bewildering sounds, such as Spring wakens to, Shook in its folds; and through my heart its power Sped trackless as the immemorable hour When birth's dark portal groaned and all was new. But a veiled woman followed, and she caught The banner round its staff, to furl and cling,— Then plucked a feather from the bearer's wing, And held it to his lips that stirred it not, And said to me, ‘Behold, there is no breath: I and this Love are one, and I am Death.’ <hi rend="isc">SONNETS XXII., XXIII., XXIV., XXV</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">WILLOWWOOD.</hi> I. I SAT with Love upon a woodside well, Leaning across the water, I and he; Nor ever did he speak nor looked at me, But touched his lute wherein was audible The certain secret thing he had to tell: Only our mirrored eyes met silently In the low wave; and that sound came to be The passionate voice I knew; and my tears fell. And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew hers; And with his foot and with his wing-feathers He swept the spring that watered my heart's drouth. Then the dark ripples spread to waving hair, And as I stooped, her own lips rising there Bubbled with brimming kisses at my mouth. <hi rend="isc">SONNET XXXI</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">THE HILL SUMMIT.</hi> This feast-day of the sun, his altar there In the broad west has blazed for vesper-song; And I have loitered in the vale too long And gaze now a belated worshipper. Yet may I not forget that I was 'ware, So journeying, of his face at intervals Transfigured where the fringed horizon falls,— A fiery bush with coruscating hair. And now that I have climbed and won this height, I must tread downward through the sloping shade And travel the bewildered tracks till night. Yet for this hour I still may here be stayed And see the gold air and the silver fade And the last bird fly into the last light. Before this put Barren Spring. DGR's note to the printer <hi rend="isc">Sonnets XXXII. XXXIII. XXXIV</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">THE CHOICE.</hi> I. Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt die. Surely the earth, that's wise being very old, Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, and hold Thy sultry hair up from my face; that I May pour for thee this yellow wine, brim-high, Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold. We'll drown all hours: thy song, while hours are toll'd, Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky. Now kiss, and think that there are really those, My own high-bosomed lady, who increase Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way! Through many days they toil; then comes a day They die not,—never having lived,—but cease; And round their narrow lips the mould falls close. Pages 209-214 not in this proof. <hi rend="isc">SONNET XXXIX</hi>. <lb/>‘<hi rend="c">RETRO ME, SATHANA.</hi>’ Get thee behind me. Even as, heavy-curled, Stooping against the wind, a charioteer Is caught snatched from out his chariot by the hair, So shall Time be; and as the void car, hurled Abroad by reinless steeds, even so the world: Yea, even as chariot-dust upon the air, It shall be sought and not found anywhere. Get thee behind me, Satan. Oft unfurled, Thy perilous wings can beat and break like lath Much mightiness of men to win thee praise. Leave these weak feet to tread in narrow ways. Thou still, upon the broad vine-sheltered path, Mayst wait the turning of the phials of wrath For certain years, for certain months and days. <hi rend="isc">SONNET XL</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">LOST ON BOTH SIDES.</hi> As when two men have loved a woman well, Each hating each, through Love's and Death's deceit; Since not for either this stark marriage-sheet And the long pauses of this wedding-bell; Yet o'er her grave the night and day dispel At last their feud forlorn, with cold and heat; Nor other than dear friends to death may fleet The two lives left that most of her can tell:— So separate hopes, which in a soul had wooed The one same Peace, strove with each other long, And Peace before their faces perished since: So through that soul, in restless brotherhood, They roam together now, and wind among Its bye-streets, knocking at the dusty inns. <hi rend="isc">SONNET XLI</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">THE SUN'S SHAME.</hi> Beholding youth and hope in mockery caught From life; and mocking pulses that remain When the soul's death of bodily death is fain; Honour unknown, and honour known unsought; And penury's sedulous self-torturing thought On gold, whose master therewith buys his bane; And longed-for woman longing all in vain For lonely man with love's desire distraught; And wealth, and strength, and power, and pleasantness, Given unto bodies of whose souls men say, None poor and weak, slavish and foul, as they:— Beholding these things, I behold no less The blushing morn and blushing eve confess The shame that loads the intolerable day. After this put A Superscription page 221 and M.S. He & I DGR's note to the printer. <hi rend="isc">SONNET XLII</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">RUN AND WON.</hi> Around the vase of Life at your slow pace He has not crept, but turned it with his hands, And all its sides already understands. There, girt, one breathes alert for some great race; Whose road runs far by sands and fruitful space; Who laughs, yet through the jolly throng has pass'd; Who weeps, nor stays for weeping; who at last, A youth, stands somewhere crowned, with silent face. And he has filled this vase with wine for blood, With blood for tears, with spice for burning vow, With watered flowers for buried love most fit; And would have cast it shattered to the flood, Yet in Fate's name has kept it whole; which now Stands empty till his ashes fall in it. Pages 219-220 not in this proof. Put this after Run & Won page 218 DGR's note to the printer. <hi rend="isc">SONNET XLV</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">A SUPERSCRIPTION.</hi> Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through thy soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,— Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. Before this put M.S. He & I DGR's note to the printer, cancelled <hi rend="isc">SONNET XLVI</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">THE ONE HOPE.</hi> When vain all desire at last and vain all regret Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain, What shall assuage the unforgotten pain And teach the unforgetful to forget? Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long unmet,— Or may the soul at once in a green plain Stoop through the spray of some sweet life-fountain And cull the dew-drenched flowering amulet? Ah! when the wan soul in that golden air Between the scriptured petals softly blown Peers breathless for the gift of grace unknown, Let no such joys as other souls count fair But only the one Hope's one name be there,— Not less nor more, but even that word alone. Make 2 pages of this DGR's note to the printer; the change was never made. <hi rend="c">LOVE-LILY.</hi> Between the hands, between the brows, Between the lips of Love-Lily, A spirit is born whose birth endows My blood with fire to burn through me; Who breathes upon my gazing eyes, Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear, At whose least touch my colour flies, And whom my life grows faint to hear. Within the voice, within the heart, Within the mind of Love-Lily, A spirit is born who lifts apart His tremulous wings and looks at me; Who on my mouth his finger lays, And shows, while whispering lutes confer, That Eden of Love's watered ways Whose winds and spirits worship her. Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice, Kisses and words of Love-Lily,— Oh! bid me with your joy rejoice Till riotous longing rest in me! Ah! let not hope be still distraught, But find in her its gracious goal, Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought Nor Love her body from her soul. <hi rend="c">FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED.</hi> Peace in her chamber, wheresoe'er It be, a holy place: The thought still brings my soul such grace As morning meadows wear. Whether it still be small and light, A maid's who dreams alone, As from her orchard-gate the moon Its ceiling showed at night: Or whether, in a shadow dense As nuptial hymns invoke, Innocent maidenhood awoke To married innocence: There still the thanks unheard await The unconscious gift bequeathed; And there my soul this hour has breathed An air inviolate. This must be 2 pages [?] DGR's note to the printer, cancelled. Stet DGR's note to the printer. <hi rend="c">LOVE-LILY.</hi> Between the hands, between the brows, Between the lips of Love-Lily, A spirit is born whose birth endows My blood with fire to burn through me; Who breathes upon my gazing eyes, Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear, At whose least touch my colour flies, And whom my life grows faint to hear. Within the voice, within the heart, Within the mind of Love-Lily, A spirit is born who lifts apart His tremulous wings and looks at me; Who on my mouth his finger lays, And shows, while whispering lutes confer, That Eden of Love's watered ways Whose winds and spirits worship her. Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice, Kisses and words of Love-Lily,— Oh! bid me with your joy rejoice Till riotous longing rest in me! Ah! let not hope be still distraught, But find in her its gracious goal, Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought Nor Love her body from her soul. <hi rend="c">FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED.</hi> Peace in her chamber, wheresoe'er It be, a holy place: The thought still brings my soul such grace As morning meadows wear. Whether it still be small and light, A maid's who dreams alone, As from her orchard-gate the moon Its ceiling showed at night: Or whether, in a shadow dense As nuptial hymns invoke, Innocent maidenhood awoke To married innocence: There still the thanks unheard await The unconscious gift bequeathed; And there my soul this hour has breathed An air inviolate. Make 2 pages of this DGR's note to the printer; the change was never made. 360 Number of unknown significance at the bottom of the page. Q <hi rend="c">PLIGHTED PROMISE.</hi> In a soft-complexioned sky, Fleeting rose and kindling grey, Have you seen Aurora fly At the break of day? So my maiden, so my plighted may Blushing cheek and gleaming eye Lifts to look my way. Where the inmost leaf is stirred With the heart-beat of the grove, Have you heard a hidden bird Cast her note above? So my lady, so my lovely love, Echoing Cupid's prompted word, Makes a tune thereof. Have you seen, at heaven's mid-height, In the moon-wrack's ebb and tide, Venus leap forth burning white, Dian pale and hide? So my bright breast-jewel, so my bride, One sweet night, when fear takes flight, Shall leap against my side. <hi rend="c">SUDDEN LIGHT.</hi> I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. You have been mine before,— How long ago I may not know: But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore. Then, now,—perchance again! . . . . O round mine eyes your tresses shake! Shall we not lie as we have lain Thus for Love's sake, And sleep, and wake, yet never break the chain? Make 2 pages of this DGR's note to the printer; the change was never made. <hi rend="c">A LITTLE WHILE.</hi> A little while a little love The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; And I have heard the night-wind cry And deemed its speech mine own. A little while a little love The scattering autumn hoards for us Whose bower is not yet ruinous Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. Only across the shaken boughs We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, And deep in both our hearts they rouse One wail for thee and me. A little while a little love May yet be ours who have not said The word it makes our eyes afraid To know that each is thinking of. Not yet the end: be our lips dumb In smiles a little season yet: I'll tell thee, when the end is come, How we may best forget. <hi rend="c">THE SONG OF THE BOWER.</hi> Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free. Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber, Oh! the last time, and the hundred before: Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember, Yet something that sighs from him passes the door. Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower, What does it find there that knows it again? There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower, Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. Ah! yet what shelter is still shed above it,— What waters still image its leaves torn apart? Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it, And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart. What were my prize, could I enter thy bower, This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn? This to be 2 pages 2 stanzas on [?] page DGR's note to the printer; the change was never made. Stet DGR's note to the printer <hi rend="c">A LITTLE WHILE.</hi> A little while a little love The hour yet bears for thee and me Who have not drawn the veil to see If still our heaven be lit above. Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; And I have heard the night-wind cry And deemed its speech mine own. A little while a little love The scattering autumn hoards for us Whose bower is not yet ruinous Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. Only across the shaken boughs We hear the flood-tides seek the sea, And deep in both our hearts they rouse One wail for thee and me. A little while a little love May yet be ours who have not said The word it makes our eyes afraid To know that each is thinking of. Not yet the end: be our lips dumb In smiles a little season yet: I'll tell thee, when the end is come, How we may best forget. <hi rend="c">THE SONG OF THE BOWER.</hi> Say, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free. Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber, Oh! the last time, and the hundred before: Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember, Yet something that sighs from him passes the door. Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower, What does it find there that knows it again? There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower, Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. Ah! yet what shelter is still shed above it,— What waters still image its leaves torn apart? Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it, And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart. What were my prize, could I enter thy bower, This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn? Pages 229-236 not in this proof. This page and its verso comprise a leaf from the second issue of the proofs for the First Edition. II. And thou, O Life, the lady of all bliss, With whom, when our first heart beat full and fast, I wandered till the haunts of men were pass'd, And in fair places found all bowers amiss Till only woods and waves might hear our kiss, While to the winds all thought of Death we cast:— Ah! Life, and must I have from thee at last No smile to greet me and no babe but this? Lo! Love, the child once ours; and Song, whose hair Blew like a flame and blossomed like a wreath; And Art, whose eyes were worlds by God found fair; These o'er the book of Nature mixed their breath With neck-twined arms, as oft we watched them there: And did these die that thou mightst bear me Death? <hi rend="isc">SONNET L</hi>. <lb/> <hi rend="c">THE ONE HOPE.</hi> When all desire at last and all regret Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain, What shall assuage the unforgotten pain And teach the unforgetful to forget? Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long unmet,— Or may the soul at once in a green plain Stoop through the spray of some sweet life-fountain And cull the dew-drenched flowering amulet? Ah! when the wan soul in that golden air Between the scriptured petals softly blown Peers breathless for the gift of grace unknown,— Let no such joys as other souls count fair Ah! let no other written spell soe'er But only the one Hope's one name be there,— Not less nor more, but even that word alone. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="sc">FOR</hi> <lb/>‘<hi rend="c">OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS</hi>’<lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Leonardo Da Vinci.</hi> Mother, is this the darkness of the end, The Shadow of Death? and is that outer sea Infinite imminent Eternity? And does the death-pang by man's seed sustain'd In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he Blesses the dead with his hand silently To his long day which hours no more offend? Mother of grace, the pass is difficult, Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through. Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols, Whose peace abides in the dark avenue Amid the bitterness of things occult. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="sc">FOR</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">A VENETIAN PASTORAL</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Giorgione.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">In the Louvre.</hi>) WATER, for anguish of the solstice:—nay, But dip the vessel slowly,—nay, but lean And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in Reluctant. Hush! Beyond all depth away The heat lies silent at the brink of day: Now trails the hand upon the viol-string That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, Sad with the whole of pleasure. Her eyes stray In sunshine; from her mouth the pipe will creep And leave it pouting; shadowed here, the grass Is cool against her naked side. Let be:— Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, Nor name this ever. Be it as it was,— Life touching lips with Immortality. <hi rend="sc">FOR</hi> <lb/>‘<hi rend="c">OUR LADY OF THE ROCKS.</hi>’<lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Leonardo Da Vinci.</hi> Mother, is this the darkness of the end, The Shadow of Death? and is that outer sea Infinite imminent Eternity? And does the death-pang by man's seed sustain'd In Time's each instant cause thy face to bend Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he Blesses the dead with his hand silently To his long day which hours no more offend? Mother of grace, the pass is difficult, Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through. Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols, Whose peace abides in the dark avenue Amid the bitterness of things occult. DGR corrects the running head by deleting an unknown puncuation mark and adding a period. <hi rend="sc">FOR</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">A VENETIAN PASTORAL</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Giorgione.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">In the Louvre.</hi>) Water, for anguish of the solstice:—nay, But dip the vessel slowly,—nay, but lean And hark how at its verge the wave sighs in Reluctant. Hush! Beyond all depth away The heat lies silent at the brink of day: Now trails the hand the hand trails upon the viol-string That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray Her eyes now; from whose mouth the slim pipes creep And leave it pouting; while the shadowed grass Is cool against her naked side? Let be:— Say nothing now unto her lest she weep, Nor name this ever. Be it as it was,— Life touching lips with Immortality. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. R <hi rend="sc">FOR</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="c">AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Andrea Mantegna.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">In the Louvre.</hi>) Scarcely, I think; yet it indeed may be The meaning reached him, when this music rang Clear through his frame, a sweet possessive pang, And he beheld these rocks and that ridged sea. But I believe that, leaning tow'rds them, he Just felt their hair carried across his face As each girl passed him; nor gave ear to trace How many feet; nor bent assuredly His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought To know the dancers. It is bitter glad Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it, A secret of the wells of Life: to wit:— The heart's each pulse shall keep the sense it had With all, though the mind's labour run to nought. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="sc">FOR</hi> <lb/>‘<hi rend="c">RUGGIERO AND ANGELICA</hi>’<lb/> <hi rend="sc">By Ingres.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">Two Sonnets.</hi>) I. A remote sky, prolonged to the sea's brim: One rock-point standing buffeted alone, Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, Hell-birth of geomaunt and teraphim: A knight, and a winged creature bearing him, Reared at the rock: a woman fettered there, Leaning into the hollow with loose hair And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt: Under his lord the griffin-horse ramps blind With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem Thrills in the roaring of those jaws; behind, That evil length of body chafes at fault. She doth not hear nor see—she knows of them. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. II. Clench thine eyes now,—'tis the last instant, girl: Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take One breath for all: thy life is keen awake,— Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee?—or the waves that curl And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache? Or was it his the champion's blood to flake Thy flesh?—or thine own blood's anointing, girl? Now, silence: for the sea's is such a sound As irks not silence; and except the sea, All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her: and she, Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, Again a woman in her nakedness. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="c">MARY'S GIRLHOOD.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Picture.</hi>) This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. Unto God's will she brought devout respect, Profound simplicity of intellect, And supreme patience. From her mother's knee Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity; Strong in grave peace; in pity circumspect. So held she through her girlhood; as it were An angel-watered lily, that near God Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home, She woke in her white bed, and had no fear At all,—yet wept till sunshine, and felt awed: Because the fulness of the time was come. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. After this print put The Wine of Circe DGR's note to the printer II. Clench thine eyes now,—'tis the last instant, girl: Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take One breath for all: thy life is keen awake,— Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee?—or the waves that curl And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache? Or was it his the champion's blood to flake Thy flesh?—or thine own blood's anointing, girl? Now, silence: for the sea's is such a sound As irks not silence; and except the sea, All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her: and she, Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, Again a woman in her nakedness. From this point print in following order:

Mary's Girlhood Nazarene The Passover Mary Magdalene St. Luke the Painter Lilith Sibylla Palmifera Venus Cassandra (1) Ditto (2) Pandora &c. &c

DGR's directions to the printer at the top of the page. From this page print in following order:

Mary's Girlhood St. Luke the Painter The Passover Mary Magdalene St. Luke the Painter Lilith Sibylla Palmifera Venus Pandora Cassandra Venus Pandora Cassandra (2 sonnets) Venus & &

DGR's directions to the printer, written in two columns at the bottom of the page, then cancelled. <del> <hi rend="c">MARY'S GIRLHOOD.</hi> </del> <add>Mary Nazarene</add> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Picture.</hi>) This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. Unto God's will she brought devout respect, Profound simplicity of intellect, And supreme patience. From her mother's knee Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity; Strong in grave peace; in pity circumspect. So held she through her girlhood; as it were An angel-watered lily, that near God Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home, She woke in her white bed, and had no fear At all,—yet wept till sunshine, and felt awed: Because the fulness of the time was come. After this print The Wine of Circe DGR's note to the printer II. Clench thine eyes now,—'tis the last instant, girl: Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take One breath for all: thy life is keen awake,— Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl Of its foam drenched thee?—or the waves that curl And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache? Or was it his the champion's blood to flake Thy flesh?—or thine own blood's anointing, girl? Now, silence: for the sea's is such a sound As irks not silence; and except the sea, All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her: and she, Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound, Again a woman in her nakedness. From this point print in following order:

Mary's Girlhood The Passover Mary Magdalene St. Luke the Painter Lilith Sibylla Palmifera Venus Cassandra (1) Ditto (2) Pandora &c. &c

DGR's directions to the printer <hi rend="c">MARY'S GIRLHOOD.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Picture.</hi>) This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. Unto God's will she brought devout respect, Profound simplicity of intellect, And supreme patience. From her mother's knee Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity; Strong in grave peace; in pity circumspect. So held she through her girlhood; as it were An angel-watered lily, that near God Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home, She woke in her white bed, and had no fear At all,—yet wept till sunshine, and felt awed: Because the fulness of the time was come. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="c">VENUS.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Picture.</hi>) She hath the apple in her hand for thee, Yet almost in her heart would hold it back; She muses, with her eyes upon the track Of that which in thy spirit they can see. Haply, ‘Behold, he is at peace,’ saith she; ‘Alas! the apple for his lips,—the dart That follows its brief sweetness to his heart,— The wandering of his feet perpetually!’ A little space her glance is still and coy; But if she give the fruit that works her spell, Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy. Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe fortell And her far seas moan as a single shell, And her grove glow with love-lit fires of Troy. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="c">LILITH.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Picture.</hi>) Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told (The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,) That, ere the snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive, And her enchanted hair was the first gold. And still she sits, young while the earth is old, And, subtly of herself contemplative, Draws men to watch the bright net she can weave, Till heart and body and life are in its hold. The rose and poppy are her flowers; for where Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare? Lo! as that youth's eyes burned at thine, so went Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent, And round his heart one strangling golden hair. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="c">SIBYLLA PALMIFERA.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Picture.</hi>) Under the arch of Life, where love and death, Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe, I drew it in as simply as my breath. Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath, The sky and sea bend on thee,—which can draw, By sea or sky or woman, to one law, The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath. This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise Thy voice and hand shake still,—long known to thee By flying hair and fluttering hem,—the beat Following her daily of thy heart and feet, How passionately and irretrievably, In what fond flight, how many ways and days! &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="c">PANDORA.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Picture.</hi>) What of the end, Pandora? Was it thine, The deed that set these fiery pinions free? Ah! wherefore did the Olympian consistory In its own likeness make thee half divine? Was it that Juno's brow might stand a sign For ever? and the mien of Pallas be A deadly thing? and that all men might see In Venus' eyes the gaze of Proserpine? What of the end? These beat their wings at will, The ill-born things, the good things turned to ill,— Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited. Aye, hug the casket now! Whither they go Thou mayst not dare to think: nor canst thou know If Hope still pent there be alive or dead. &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="c">MARY MAGDALENE AT THE DOOR OF <lb/>SIMON THE PHARISEE.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Drawing.</hi>*) ‘Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair? Nay, be thou all a rose,—wreath, lips, and cheek. Nay, not this house,—that banquet-house we seek; See how they kiss and enter; come thou there. This delicate day of love we two will share Till at our ear love's whispering night shall speak. What, sweet one,—hold'st thou still the foolish freak? Nay, when I kiss thy feet they'll leave the stair.’ ‘Oh loose me! See'st thou not my Bridegroom's face That draws me to Him? For His feet my kiss, My hair, my tears He craves to-day:—and oh! What words can tell what other day and place Shall see me clasp those blood-stained feet of His? He needs me, calls me, loves me: let me go!’

*In the drawing Mary has left a festal procession, and is ascending by a sudden impulse the steps of the house where she sees Christ. Her lover has followed her and is trying to turn her back.

 &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="c">THE PASSOVER IN THE HOLY FAMILY.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Drawing.</hi>*) Here meet together the prefiguring day And day prefigured. ‘Eating, thou shalt stand, Feet shod, loins girt, thy road-staff in thine hand, With blood-stained door and lintel,’—did God say By Moses' mouth in ages passed away. And now, where this poor household doth comprise At Paschal-Feast two kindred families,— Lo! the slain lamb confronts the Lamb to slay. The pyre is piled. What agony's crown attained, What shadow of death the Boy's fair brow subdues Who holds that blood wherewith the porch is stained By Zachary the priest? John binds the shoes He deemed himself not worthy to unloose; And Mary culls the bitter herbs ordained.

*The scene is in the house-porch, where Christ holds a bowl of blood from which Zacharias is sprinkling the posts and lintel. Joseph has brought the lamb and Elizabeth lights the pyre. The shoes which John fastens and the bitter herbs which Mary is gather-ing form part of the ritual.

 This to come under Mary Mag- dalene in a single line of small caps DGR's directions to the printer for the last 7 words of the title. <hi rend="c">MARY MAGDALENE <hi rend="i">AT THE DOOR OF</hi> <lb/> <hi rend="i">SIMON THE PHARISEE.</hi> </hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Drawing.</hi>*) ‘Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine hair? Nay, be thou all a rose,—wreath, lips, and cheek. Nay, not this house,—that banquet-house we seek; See how they kiss and enter; come thou there. This delicate day of love we two will share Till at our ear love's whispering night shall speak. What, sweet one,—hold'st thou still the foolish freak? Nay, when I kiss thy feet they'll leave the stair.’ ‘Oh loose me! See'st thou not my Bridegroom's face That draws me to Him? For His feet my kiss, My hair, my tears He craves to-day:—and oh! What words can tell what other day and place Shall see me clasp those blood-stained feet of His? He needs me, calls me, loves me: let me go!’

*In the drawing Mary has left a festal procession, and is ascending by a sudden impulse the steps of the house where she sees Christ. Her lover has followed her and is trying to turn her back.

 <hi rend="c">THE PASSOVER IN THE HOLY FAMILY.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">For a Drawing.</hi>*) Here meet together the prefiguring day And day prefigured. ‘Eating, thou shalt stand, Feet shod, loins girt, thy road-staff in thine hand, With blood-stained door and lintel,’—did God say By Moses' mouth in ages passed away. And now, where this poor household doth comprise At Paschal-Feast two kindred families,— Lo! the slain lamb confronts the Lamb to slay. The pyre is piled. What agony's crown attained, What shadow of death the Boy's fair brow subdues Who holds that blood wherewith the porch is stained By Zachary the priest? John binds the shoes He deemed himself not worthy to unloose; And Mary culls the bitter herbs ordained.

*The scene is in the house-porch, where Christ holds a bowl of blood from which Zacharias is sprinkling the posts and lintel. Joseph has brought the lamb and Elizabeth lights the pyre. The shoes which John fastens and the bitter herbs which Mary is gather-ing form part of the ritual.

 &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. <hi rend="c">CASSANDRA.</hi> <lb/>(<hi rend="i">Two Sonnets for a Drawing.*</hi>) I. Rend, rend thine hair, Cassandra: he will go. Yea, rend thy garments, wring thine hands, and cry From Troy still towered to the unreddened sky. See, all but she that bore thee mock thy woe:— He most whom that fair woman arms, with show Of wrath on her bent brows; for in this place This hour thou bad'st all men in Helen's face The ravished ravishing prize of Death to know. What eyes, what ears hath sweet Andromache, Save for her Hector's form and step; as tear On tear makes salt the warm last kiss he gave? He goes. Cassandra's words beat heavily Like crows above his crest, and at his ear Ring hollow in the shield that shall not save.

*The subject shows Cassandra prophesying among her kindred, as Hector leaves them for his last battle. They are on the platform of a fortress, from which the Trojan troops are marching out. Helen is arming Paris; Priam soothes Hecuba; and Andromache holds the child to her bosom.

 &c. DGR deletes part of the running head. II. ‘O Hector, gone, gone, gone! O Hector, thee Two chariots wait, in Troy long bless'd and curs'd; And Grecian spear and Phrygian sand athirst Crave from thy veins the blood of victory. Lo! long upon our hearth the brand had we, Lit for the roof-tree's ruin: and to-day The ground-stone quits the wall,—the wind hath way,— And higher and higher the wings of fire are free. O Paris, Paris! O thou burning brand, Thou beacon of the sea whence Venus rose, Lighting thy race to shipwreck! Even that hand Wherewith she took thine apple let her close Within thy curls at last, and while Troy glows Lift thee her trophy to the sea and land.’ <hi rend="c">CASSANDRA.</hi> <lb/>(<del> <hi rend="i">Two Sonnets f</hi> </del> <add>F</add> <hi rend="i">or a Drawing.*</hi>) I. Rend, rend thine hair, Cassandra: he will go. Yea, rend thy garments, wring thine hands, and cry From Troy still towered to the unreddened sky. See, all but she that bore thee mock thy woe:— He most whom that fair woman arms, with show Of wrath on her bent brows; for in this place This hour thou bad'st all men in Helen's face The ravished ravishing prize of Death to know. What eyes, what ears hath sweet Andromache, Save for her Hector's form and step; as tear On tear makes salt the warm last kiss he gave? He goes. Cassandra's words beat heavily Like crows above his crest, and at his ear Ring hollow in the shield that shall not save.

*The subject shows Cassandra prophesying among her kindred, as Hector leaves them for his last battle. They are on the platform of a fortress, from which the Trojan troops are marching out. Helen is arming Paris; Priam soothes Hecuba; and Andromache holds the child to her bosom.

 II. ‘O Hector, gone, gone, gone! O Hector, thee Two chariots wait, in Troy long bless'd and curs'd; And Grecian spear and Phrygian sand athirst Crave from thy veins the blood of victory. Lo! long upon our hearth the brand had we, Lit for the roof-tree's ruin: and to-day The ground-stone quits the wall,—the wind hath way,— And higher and higher the wings of fire are free. O Paris, Paris! O thou burning brand, Thou beacon of the sea whence Venus rose, Lighting thy race to shipwreck! Even that hand Wherewith she took thine apple let her close Within thy curls at last, and while Troy glows Lift thee her trophy to the sea and land.’ FOR PICTURES &c. DGR alters part of the running head. after this put Sonnets only DGR's directions to the printer. <hi rend="c">ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NATIONS.</hi> Not that the earth is changing, O my God! Nor that the seasons totter in their walk,— Not that the virulent ill of act and talk Seethes ever as a winepress ever trod,— Not therefore are we certain that the rod Weighs in thine hand to smite thy world; though now Beneath thine hand so many nations bow, So many kings:—not therefore, O my God!— But because Man is parcelled out in men Even thus; because, for any wrongful blow, No man not stricken asks, ‘I would be told Why thou dost strike;’ but his heart whispers then, ‘He is he, I am I.’ By this we know That the earth falls asunder, being old. FOR PICTURES &c. DGR alters part of the running head. <hi rend="c">ON THE ‘VITA NUOVA’ OF DANTE.</hi> As he that loves oft looks on the dear form And guesses how it grew to womanhood, And gladly would have watched the beauties bud And the mild fire of precious life wax warm:— So I, long bound within the threefold charm Of Dante's love sublimed to heavenly mood, Had marvelled, touching his Beatitude, How grew such presence from man's shameful swarm. At length within this book I found pourtrayed Newborn that Paradisal Love of his, And simple like a child; with whose clear aid I understood. To such a child as this, Christ, charging well his chosen ones, forbade Offence: ‘for lo! of such my kingdom is.’