Classic Poetry Series Arthur Symons - poems - Publication Date: 2012 Publisher: Poemhunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive Arthur Symons(28 February 1865 – 22 January 1945) Arthur William Symons, was a British poet, critic and magazine editor. <b>Life</b> Born in Milford Haven, Wales, of Cornish parents, Symons was educated privately, spending much of his time in France and Italy. In 1884–1886 he edited four of Bernard Quaritch's <a href=" His first volume of verse, Days and Nights (1889), consisted of dramatic monologues. His later verse is influenced by a close study of modern French writers, of <a href=" In 1892, The Minister's Call, Symons's first play, was produced by the Independent Theatre Society – a private club – to avoid censorship by the Lord Chamberlain's Office. In 1902 Symons made a selection from his earlier verse, published as Poems. He translated from the Italian of Gabriele D'Annunzio The Dead City (1900) and The Child of Pleasure (1898), and from the French of Émile Verhaeren The Dawn (1898). To The Poems of <a href=" www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 1 A Brother Of The Battuti Shed, sinful flesh, these tears of blood, For all thy vileness all too few; Wash out, O holy healing flood, The sins that always in God's view Stand as a mountain day and night, A mountain growing up from hell; Smite, deluge of my torments, smite Upon the burrowing base, and swell Up, upward to the very brow. Shall God no mercy have for me When thou art shaken, even thou, Hurled down and cast into the sea? No mercy? Yea, doth God require These cruel pangs, and all in vain To save me from the flaming fire? Shall all my blood pour forth like rain, Nor fructify the barren sod, Nor cleanse my scarlet sins like wool, Nor turn the burning wrath of God? Lo, all these years my hours are full Of sorer suffering than of old His martyrs bore, that triumphed still, Gained grace, and heard the harps of gold, And saw the city on the hill. I have not tasted flesh, nor fed On dainty fare, nor known the touch Of joyous wine, nor bitten bread, Save mouldy, and of that not much, Sour crusts, with water old and stale, And herbs and roots; no rest I take Save when these vile limbs faint and fail, But roaming all the night awake I think on my exceeding sin. God knows I take no rest at all, Who haply, resting not, shall win The final goal before I fall. Yea, and not these alone; yea, these Might all men do for heaven; but I, In suns that scorch, in moons that freeze, www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 2 About my shuddering shoulders ply This biting scourge of knotted cord, And shout to feel the blood run down. Wilt thou not think on this, dear Lord? Yea, when the jewels of thy crown Thou countest up remembering, Wilt thou not, Lord, remember this,- That is not, Lord, a little thing,- And let me see thy heaven of bliss? O Lord, my Love, my Life, my Love, I swoon in ecstasy divine; Take, take my blood and drink thereof, A drink-offering of costly wine Poured out into a sacred cup; Take, take my blood poured freely out And drain the winepress' fruitage up. O Lord, I parch with burning drought, I, whom the streams may not refresh; Give me, my Lord, my Love, give me Thy spirit, as I give my flesh A living sacrifice to thee. Arthur Symons www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 3 A Litany Of Lethe O Lethe, hidden waters never dry, We, all we weary and heavy-laden, cry, O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! --All we have sinnèd, and yet the scars remain. --And we, all we had sorrow.--And we had pain. O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! Thou that dost flow from Death to Death through Sleep, Whose waters are the tears of those that weep, O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! Thou that dost bring sweet peace to hospitals, And to the captive openest prison-walls, O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! Thou that dost loose the soul from murdered Truth, And youth from yesterday, and age from youth, O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! Thou from lost love remembered sett'st us free From hopeless love, a lorn eternity; O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! Thou from repentance tak'st the sting, from vice The memory of a forfeit Paradise; O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! Thou in our grief dost hide from us no less The anguish of remembered happiness; O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! Thou that dost lay alike on all thy spell, And free the saint from heaven, the wretch from hell, O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! Bring, bring soft sleep, and close all eyes for us, Sleep without dreams, and peace oblivious; O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 4 We, all we weary and heavy-laden, cry, Too tired to live, and yet too weak to die, O Lethe, let us find thee and forget! Arthur Symons www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 5 A Winter's Night The pale moon shining from a pallid sky Lit half the street, and over half she laid Her folded mantle; through the dark-browed shade White windows glittered, each a watchful eye. The dim wet pavement lit irregularly With shimmering streaks of gaslight, faint and frayed, Shone luminous green where sheets of glass displayed Long breadths of faded blinds mechanically. the night was very still; above, below, No sound, no breath, no change in anything; Only, across the squares of damp lit street, Shooting a mocking double from his feet, With vague uncertain steps went to and fro A solitary shadow wandering. Arthur Symons www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 6 Airs For The Lute I When the sobbing lute complains, Grieving for an ancient sorrow, This poor sorrow that remains Fain would borrow, To give pleading unto sorrow, Those uncapturable strains. All, that hands upon the lute Helped the voices to declare, Voices mute But for this, might I not share, If, alas, I could but suit Hand and voice unto the lute? II If time so sweetly On true according viols make Her own completely The lawless laws of turn and shake; How should I doubt then Love, being tuned unto your mood, Should bring about then True time and measure of your blood? III Why are you sorrowful in dreams? I am sad in the night; The hours till morning are white, I hear the hours' flight All night in dreams. Why do you send me your dreams? For an old love's sake; I dream if I sleep or wake, And shall but one heart ache, For the sake of dreams? Pray that we sleep without dreams! Ah, love, the only way www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 7 To put sorrow away, Night or day, night or day, From the way of dreams! IV Strange, to remember tears! Yet I know that I wept; And those hopes and those fears, Strange, were as real as tears! What's this delicate pain, Twilight-coloured and grey? Odour-like through my brain Steals a shadowy pain. What's this joy in the air? Musical as the leaves, When the white winds are there, Faint joy breathes in the air. Arthur Symons www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 8 Alla Dogana Night, and the silence of the night, In Venice; far away, a song; As if the lyric water made Itself a serenade; As if the water's silence were a song Sent up into the night. Night, a more perfect day, A day of shadows luminous, Water and sky at one, at one with us; As if the very peace of night, The older peace than heaven or light, Came down into the day. Arthur Symons www.PoemHunter.com - The World's Poetry Archive 9