London Sonnets

Sometimes when I think of love I think of Mimi singing in Boheme, Just as the tune across the footlights came When we were young, my dear, at Covent Garden! Poor music, but before the senses harden Puccini’s made for boys and girls to wear Spite of sham passion and a poitrinaire. For if they looked and didn’t find the key At least they found the hearts of you and me. That sort of love age thinks of with a smile How innocent it was of truth and guile, How young perhaps and yet how half-divine And how imperishably yours and mine. You will not wonder nor will you reprove My thoughts of Mimi when I think of love.

II.

Sometimes when I think of love I see a boat upon a river, And the rushes suddenly shiver, Because of a perilous foot that treads The reeds and the flowers into their beds. Because of a music that shakes and begins A different music and conscious of sins A tune was old at the birth of the river A tune is asleep in the blood for ever Asleep in the blood and loving and hating The time and the hour for which it is waiting. Puccini yields to a sob in the throat A hand round the heart as note answers note With the music that wrenches and melts and grips The hands hot on hands, the lips close on lips Cruelly volleying clearer and stronger Till we are a boy and a girl no longer. And we struggle in vain as long as we can Hating and loving and welcoming Pan, And you are a woman and I am a man. And you will not wonder and cannot reprove If I hear Pan’s pipes when I think of love.

III.

Sometimes when I think of love I hear a heavy voice repeat “There’s a good doctor up the street.” And either it seems I am hard at hearing Or stupid perhaps or terribly fearing. For its late of a winter night and raining With cry of wind; or is something complaining? One lamp in the street and a leafless tree And a thing is moving that frightens me, With fingers that hover about my nape A shape like a hand and yet not a shape. Now all that we had in the past is over Each lover’s alone, the love from the lover. No comforting hand for me in the gloom, No voice of mine in the darkened room. Where is the music and where are the songs? For love has crept off ashamed of his wrongs. Poor love has gone off to rail at passion, And he will not wait for the night to fashion Out of pain and fear and anguish and danger, A lover strange with his love a stranger, And yet, as they were at the opera Incredibly close and familiar, Incredibly close as once on the river When each is a gift and each is a giver. Incredibly close and all they have hoarded Of life and of love in this moment rewarded. Rewarded! Has love in the darkness heard Of the little lost shadow, the small lost third? Love is returning--to find them alone, And if love be a sinner, who casts a stone? Shattered and beaten and blindingly sure Of love and themselves and strong to endure He finds them, by pain more lastingly crowned Than ever by joy and by laughter were bound Happier lovers and lovers untaunted By the shameful cries these lovers have haunted. If this be their love, who out of the pit Being a devil challenges it? In heaven assayed, in hell-fire priced Who casts the first stone? Not I, says Christ. You will not wonder nor will you reprove If I think of this, when I think of love.

IV.

Sometimes when I think of love I remember how you stooped down from heaven, Because they had told you I was unforgiven, To take half of the storm, and share the stripe An angel in hell with her guttersnipe. I am thinking then of your lighted face And your hands and the way your fingers lace As you sit quietly reading a book. Perhaps I move and you suddenly look Across the room and the soul in your eyes Is bright as it looks with the old surprise Changing for ever, for ever the same And you break my heart as you speak my name. You must not wonder, you will not reprove If sometimes I dare not think of love.

OLD.

So old, so changed, and odd Even as God, I am, so odd and old, That I am bitter cold In heart and limb Like him.

I might in heaven be, Even as He. So lonely and so rare Beyond the utmost prayer My spirit weighs, Dead days.

Or I might work in hell His miracle. Changing from joy to tears, To quiet all the years, With icy rod, Like God.

I might immortal be Even as He. Saying, as heaven saith, What Victory, Oh death, What sting can save, Oh grave?

As I, alone and dumb, What doth not come Ever, He waits to see And surely, waiting, he Must pray ah pray! to die Even as I.

THE SONG OF THE GAMBUCINOS.

The little houses in the street And the warm blinds at night, Outside the copper on his beat And the moon so white, so white.

They know what we shall never know, See what we cannot see, The steady lamplit ways that go To the quiet cemetery.

They have not any fear at all Of life and of its end. They hear church bells, their children call, Their wife and death their friend.

But for us the moon is white, so white It drowns us and it stings, And we must fly throughout the night Because of dangerous things.

FEBRUARY 14.

Let’s be done with talking, Words are half a snare, That fools use for stalking What was never there.

Let’s be done with weeping, Tears are but a sign That a doom is creeping On what was divine.

Why be broken-hearted? Time to break the heart If we should be parted And not care we part.

Dear, the wind is over In the world outside. I was once your lover, You were once my bride.

Let’s go out together. In the quiet air, We may find each other Waiting as we were.

PIERROT.

My friend Pierrot your sleeves are far too long. Look! I can hardly find at all your hands. And all your cotton tunic is cut wrong, And what your eyes mean no one understands.

Ah yes, Pierrette, my sleeves are far too long. Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot find my hands, But better so than Pierrot did you wrong By telling you what no one understands.

My friend Pierrot you fear to take the light, Look! I can hardly see at all your face. And what I see, Pierrot is very white. Are you afraid? Ashamed? or in disgrace?

Ah yes, Pierrette, I dare not take the light. Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot see my face. My candle died with love, and in the night Oh! Harlequin, Pierrette, is my disgrace.

My friend Pierrot it seems that things go ill With you. Look! I can hardly hear your word, And the dark shadow round grows darker still, And a new voice which is not yours is heard.

Ah yes, Pierrette, it seems that things go ill. Ah yes, Pierrette, you cannot hear my word. And the dark shadow which grows darker still Is death, Pierrette, of which you have not heard.

THE DEAD MAN IN THE POOL.

Only a glance it was, Only a word! What a romance it was All but absurd!

All but absurd, you see, Yes but not quite. There’s one more word you see “Death” we must write!

She had the knack of it --Less than a kiss, And for the lack of it Look he is this.

O what a king he was (Drowned in a pool), What a brave thing he was O what a fool!

While all the rest of us Struggle to fame, Here is the best of us Dead with his shame.

Shame? Oh I wonder now. What do you say? If you should blunder now Choose me your way!

If you’d thrown hope away; Well would you care Through life to grope a way? Or would you dare

Take up the lot of it Life, love and fame, Make a clean shot of it Into the flame?