64424: To Poesy
Creators: name: Project Team, First World War Poetry Digital Archive
Publisher: name: University of Oxford
Year: 2024
Subjects: classificationCode: 430304
subject: British history
classificationCode: 430308
subject: European history (excl. British, classical Greek and Roman)
classificationCode: 430316
subject: International history

description: A thousand suppliants stand around thy throne,<br> Stricken with love for thee, O Poesy.<br> I stand among them, and with them I groan,<br> And stretch my arms for help. Oh, pity me!<br> No man (save them thou gav'st the right to ascend<br> And sit with thee, 'nointing with unction fine,<br> Calling thyself their servant and their friend)<br> Has loved thee with a purer love than mine.<br> For, as thou yieldest thy fair self so free<br> To Masters not a few, so wayward men<br> Give half their adoration up to thee,<br> Beseech another goddess guide their pen,<br> And with another muse their pleasure take.<br> Not so with me! I neither cease to love,<br> Nor am content to love but for the sake<br> Of passing pleasures caught from thee above.<br> For some will listen to thy trembling voice<br> Since in its mournful music warbling low,<br> Or in its measured chants, or bubbling joys<br> They hear beloved tunes of long ago.<br> And some are but enamoured of thy grace<br> And find it well to kneel to thee, and pray,<br> Because there oft-times play upon thy face<br> Smiles of an earthly maiden far away.<br> Before the eyes of all thou hast the power<br> To spread Elysium. Gorgeous memories<br> Of days far distant in the past can flower<br> Afresh beneath thy touch; yet not for these<br> Thy mighty spells I love and hymn thy name;<br> Nor yet because thou know'st the unseen road<br> Which leads unto the awful halls of Fame,<br> Where, midst the heap�d honours, thine the load<br> Most richly prized, of all the crowns the best!<br> No! not for these I long to win thee, Sweet!<br> No more is this my fervent, hopeless quest---<br> To stand among the great ones there, to meet<br> The bards of old and greet them as my peers.<br> O impious thought! O I am mad to ask<br> E'en that their voice may ever reach my ears.<br> Yet show thou me the task,<br> That shall, as years advance, give power and skill,<br> Firm hands; an eye which takes all beauty in,<br> That I may woo thee thus, if thus thy will.<br> Ah, gladly would I on such task begin<br> But that I know this learning must be bought<br> With gold as well as toil, and gold I lack.<br> What then? Dost bid me first seek out the Court<br> Where this world's wretched god, the money-sack,<br> Doles out his favours to the cringing herd,<br> There slave for him awhile to earn his pelf?<br> E'en should I leave him soon, my heart is stirred<br> With glorious fear and trembles in itself,<br> When I look forth upon the vasty seas<br> Of learning to be travelled o'er.<br> I fain<br> Would know the hills, the founts, the very trees,<br> Where sang the Greeks of old. I would have plain<br> Before my vision, heroes, poets, kings,<br> Hear their clear accents; then observe where trod<br> E'en mythic men; yea, next on Hermes' wings<br> Would mount Olympus and discern each god.<br> All this to speed my suit with Poesy<br> Meseems must do; and far, far more than this;<br> In divers tongues my thoughts must flow out free;<br> And, in my own tongue, with no word amiss,<br> For all its writers must be known to me.<br> My hand must wield the critic's weapons, too,<br> To save myself, or strike an enemy.<br> Oh grant that this long training ne'er undo<br> My simple, ardent love! Throw early dews<br> Of inspiration oft-times on my brow.<br> Let them fall suddenly and darkly as thou choose,<br> Uncertain, fitful as the thunder-drops<br> Which sprinkle us then cease, to splash once more<br> Rapidly round, still pausing for long stops,<br> Not knowing if to vent their heavy store<br> Upon the parching ground, or wait awhile<br> Till hasty travelling winds bring increased worth.<br> But as at last the concentrated pile<br> Of seething vapours flings its might to earth<br> In spurts of fire and rain, and to the ground<br> Flashes its energy, yields up its very soul,<br> So, midst long triumph-roars of awful sound,<br> Flash thou thy soul to me at last, and roll<br> Torrential streams of thought upon my brain,<br> So give, yea give Thyself to me<br> At last.<br> We shall be happy, thou and I. In me<br> Thou'lt find a jealous guardian of thy charms,<br> A doting master, leaving all to be<br> Ever with thee, ever in thine arms.<br> Forget my youth, forget my ignorance,<br> Spurn not my lowliness, and lack of friends<br> Who might help on my progress and perchance<br> Present me fearless at the throne where bends<br> Full timidly my lonely being now.<br> Friends' service would be naught if thine own hand<br> Uplifted me; do not thine eyes endow<br> Far brighter wealth than books, and far more grand?<br> Then come! Come with a rushing impulse swift,<br> Or draw near slowly, gently, so it be<br> Never to part.<br> Round us the world may drift,<br> Some with scoffs and frowns, with laughter some:<br> Their hateful mockery I shall not heed.<br> How could I feel ashamed to stand with one<br> Who deigns to stoop and be my life's high meed?<br> Yet if I would not for its jeering shun<br> The world, no more would I parade its courts<br> To change those jeers to applause by showing men<br> Thy power. Publicity but poorly sorts<br> My sacred joy, if thou should'st guide my pen.<br> Loath would I be to show my exceeding bliss<br> Even to closest friends. But all unseen,<br> And far from men's gaze would I feel thy kiss;<br> No witness save the speechless star-lamps keen<br> When thou stoop'st over me. No eye<br> But Cynthia's look on us, when through the night<br> We sit alone, our faces pressing nigh,<br> Quietly shining in her quiet light.