THE JAMES JOYCE COLLECTION - 5 Books in One Edition. James Joyce
dew lies
Like a veil on my head.
My fair one, my fair dove, Arise, arise!
XV
From dewy dreams, my soul, arise, From love’s deep slumber and from death, For lo! the trees are full of sighs Whose leaves the morn admonisheth.
Eastward the gradual dawn prevails Where softly-burning fires appear, Making to tremble all those veils Of grey and golden gossamer.
While sweetly, gently, secretly, The flowery bells of morn are stirred And the wise choirs of faery
Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.
XVI
O cool is the valley now
And there, love, will we go For many a choir is singing now
Where Love did sometime go.
And hear you not the thrushes calling, Calling us away?
O cool and pleasant is the valley And there, love, will we stay.
XVII
Because your voice was at my side I gave him pain,
Because within my hand I held
Your hand again.
There is no word nor any sign
Can make amend—
He is a stranger to me now
Who was my friend.
XVIII
O Sweetheart, hear you
Your lover’s tale; A man shall have sorrow
When friends him fail.
For he shall know then
Friends be untrue And a little ashes
Their words come to.
But one unto him
Will softly move
And softly woo him
In ways of love.
His hand is under
Her smooth round breast; So he who has sorrow
Shall have rest.
XIX
Be not sad because all men
Prefer a lying clamour before you: Sweetheart, be at peace again— Can they dishonour you?
They are sadder than all tears;
Their lives ascend as a continual sigh.
Proudly answer to their tears:
As they deny, deny.
XX
In the dark pine-wood
I would we lay,
In deep cool shadow
At noon of day.
How sweet to lie there,
Sweet to kiss,
Where the great pine-forest
Enaisled is!
Thy kiss descending
Sweeter were
With a soft tumult
Of thy hair.
O unto the pine-wood
At noon of day
Come with me now,
Sweet love, away.
XXI
He who hath glory lost, nor hath Found any soul to fellow his, Among his foes in scorn and wrath Holding to ancient nobleness, That high unconsortable one— His love is his companion.
XXII
Of that so sweet imprisonment
My soul, dearest, is fain— Soft arms that woo me to relent
And woo me to detain.
Ah, could they ever hold me there Gladly were I a prisoner!
Dearest, through interwoven arms By love made tremulous, That night allures me where alarms Nowise may trouble us; But sleep to dreamier sleep be wed Where soul with soul lies prisoned.
XXIII
This heart that flutters near my heart My hope and all my riches is, Unhappy when we draw apart
And happy between kiss and kiss: My hope and all my riches—yes!— And all my happiness.
For there, as in some mossy nest The wrens will divers treasures keep, I laid those treasures I possessed Ere that mine eyes had learned to weep.
Shall we not be as wise as they
Though love live but a day?
XXIV
Silently she’s combing,
Combing her long hair Silently and graciously,
With many a pretty air.
The sun is in the willow leaves
And on the dapplled grass, And still she’s combing her long hair Before the looking-glass.
I pray you, cease to comb out,
Comb out your long hair, For I have heard of witchery
Under a pretty air,
That makes as one thing to the lover Staying and going hence, All fair, with many a pretty air And many a negligence.
XXV
Lightly come or lightly go:
Though thy heart presage thee woe, Vales and many a wasted sun,
Oread let thy laughter run, Till the irreverent mountain air Ripple all thy flying hair.
Lightly, lightly—ever so:
Clouds that wrap the vales below At the hour of evenstar
Lowliest attendants are; Love and laughter song-confessed When the heart is heaviest.
XXVI
Thou leanest to the shell of night, Dear lady, a divining ear.
In that soft choiring of delight What sound hath made thy heart to fear?
Seemed it of rivers rushing forth From the grey deserts of the north?
That mood of thine
Is his, if thou but scan it well, Who a mad tale bequeaths to us
At ghosting hour conjurable— And all for some strange name he read In Purchas or in Holinshed.
XXVII
Though I thy Mithridates were,
Framed to defy the poison-dart, Yet must thou fold me unaware
To know the rapture of thy heart, And I but render and confess
The malice of thy tenderness.
For