The Voice of Melancholy

The Voice of Melancholy written by Walter de la Mare

Poems (1906)

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"Return from out thy stillness, though the dust
Lie thick upon thy earthly beauty, though
The ever-wandering shapes of Night creep through
Youth's fallen tabernacle! Now in a long
Surge of recurrent light the days swing by,
Soundless above thine ears once musical,
Unnumbered by a heart expert in love.
Unmarked by those fall'n princes once thine eyes. —
Oh, what defeat, bright warrior, what disgrace.
To fret entwinW in the bindweed's root,
And rot like manna, lovelier than the rose!
Once thou would'st turn thy face enriched with smiles,
Thy lips a thought asunder, and thy hair
Shining within the sun's magnificent ray;
Stand would'st thou like a beacon by deep seas:—
All light, all excellence, all joy, gone now;
Even the classic beauty of thy face
Melted like snow ; dark as a moon eclipsed;
Never to bright'n again 'neath endless night. ..."
So did I brood, unanswered and alone,
Crying, "Return, return!" O simple fool!
What would'st thou out of the deep grave should rise?
What, from amid death's cypresses, awake;
Heave up the sod; press back the fruited boughs;
And lift his eyes across the tombs on thee?
Would love burn there, or measureless reproach?
Would Life's bright mantle, stiff with idiot pomp,
Lie easy on shoulders whence a shroud had fall'n?
Would Morn's shrill nightingale above his brows
Ring sweet on ears long-sealed in echoless peace?
Would those grey hands caress earth's tarnish'd orb,
And those still feet be amorous of spurs?
And that unutterably ag^d head,
Darken'd with pansies fadeless, changeless, still,
How would it don again youth's triple crown.
Piercing the keenlier as its roses die?
Nay, but the very wind that stirred his hair
Would seem a tempest to sleep deep as his;
And the perplex&d galaxy of the stars
Intolerable cressets to his eyes.
Accustomed to a night as dark as his;
And the pale dew of daisied turf at dawn
The wine of madness to lips dry as his.
Oh, with what shuddering would those atoms meet I
With what a burning sluggardry that blood
Creep thro' its long disused channels from
The roaring chaos of his heart ! What grief
Would wildly ring in the first words he said I
What sad astonishment besteep that brain,
And tears more pitiable than infancy's
Blur the estrange beauty of the dawn!
Leave thou his memory, as his dust, at rest;
Nor burden peace with lamentable cries!
There lurks no shadow in the crypt of death;
Nor any shadow in the height of heaven:
Beyond the survey of the dark earth gone
He bides encloistered ev'n from love's surmise.
Cry then no more, "Return, return!" — no more!
Thy thoughts are shallow, thy experience brief;
Whence learnedst thou of the riches of the grave?

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