It perseveres if grief be all its view,
And squanders gems for which no mortal thanks,
And blesses when self as sacrifice it burns.
And squanders gems for which no mortal thanks,
And blesses when self as sacrifice it burns.
Stefan George - Selections from His Works and Others
I
FAR from the harbour's noise,
Lies the sun-kissed shore,
Where billows sink to rest--
Hope slips softly away.
There, a wind from the sea
Stirs the arched waves up,
Rearing high, they break.
Thus doth anguish surge!
Still louder the breakwater sounds,
And hissing it beats the surf
Up to the sand-dune heights.
And thus doth passion moan.
59
? II
MY child came home,
The sea-breeze in his hair still blows,
His gait still bears
The traveller's proven fear and youthful glee.
From salty spray
The brown tint of his glowing cheek still rough;
Fruit quickly ripe,
'Neath foreign suns in scorching airs and heat.
His look is grave,
--Yea from thejsecret that I never knew--
And slightly glazed,
Since to our winter from the spring he came.
So fully bloomed
The bud, that almost dazed I looked thereon,
Denying myself
That mouth which chose another mouth to kiss.
Mine arms enfold
That, which unswayed by me grew up and bloomed
To other worlds:
Mine own, and yet so infinitely far.
60
? Ill
LOVE calls not worthy him whoe'er renounced . . .
It perseveres if grief be all its view,
And squanders gems for which no mortal thanks,
And blesses when self as sacrifice it burns.
Dearest! the only path you know to joy
Grows dark through my approach: that never lot
Confound you, which betrays itself so soon
Against desire, I wrench myself away.
Sweetest! yea more than this, that never breath
Should mar your virgin sport, to exile I
Depart, and doubly suffering, only this
Mine anguish speaks with me, and this poor song.
61
? BEHOLD the crossways .
We are at the end.
Eve descended . . . .
This is the end.
A moment's wandering
Whom maketh tired?
For me too long though,
Pain maketh tired.
Hands extended:
Thou heedest not?
FAR from the harbour's noise,
Lies the sun-kissed shore,
Where billows sink to rest--
Hope slips softly away.
There, a wind from the sea
Stirs the arched waves up,
Rearing high, they break.
Thus doth anguish surge!
Still louder the breakwater sounds,
And hissing it beats the surf
Up to the sand-dune heights.
And thus doth passion moan.
59
? II
MY child came home,
The sea-breeze in his hair still blows,
His gait still bears
The traveller's proven fear and youthful glee.
From salty spray
The brown tint of his glowing cheek still rough;
Fruit quickly ripe,
'Neath foreign suns in scorching airs and heat.
His look is grave,
--Yea from thejsecret that I never knew--
And slightly glazed,
Since to our winter from the spring he came.
So fully bloomed
The bud, that almost dazed I looked thereon,
Denying myself
That mouth which chose another mouth to kiss.
Mine arms enfold
That, which unswayed by me grew up and bloomed
To other worlds:
Mine own, and yet so infinitely far.
60
? Ill
LOVE calls not worthy him whoe'er renounced . . .
It perseveres if grief be all its view,
And squanders gems for which no mortal thanks,
And blesses when self as sacrifice it burns.
Dearest! the only path you know to joy
Grows dark through my approach: that never lot
Confound you, which betrays itself so soon
Against desire, I wrench myself away.
Sweetest! yea more than this, that never breath
Should mar your virgin sport, to exile I
Depart, and doubly suffering, only this
Mine anguish speaks with me, and this poor song.
61
? BEHOLD the crossways .
We are at the end.
Eve descended . . . .
This is the end.
A moment's wandering
Whom maketh tired?
For me too long though,
Pain maketh tired.
Hands extended:
Thou heedest not?
