Why is it I remember yet You, of all women one has met, In random wayfare, as one meets The chance romances of the streets, The Juliet of a night? I know Your heart holds many a Romeo. And I, who call to mind your face In so serene a pausing-place, Where the bright pure expanse of sea, The shadowy shore's austerity, Seem a reproach to you and me, I too have sought on many a breast The ecstasy of an unrest, I too have had my dreams, and met (Ah me!) how many a Juliet. Why is it, then, that I recall You, neither first nor last of all? For, surely as I see to-night The phantom of the lighthouse light, Against the sky, across the bay, Fade, and return, and fade away, So surely do I see your eyes Out of the empty night arise; Child, you arise and smile to me Out of the night, out of the sea, The Nereid of a moment there, And is it seaweed in your hair? O lost and wrecked, how long ago, Out of the drowning past, I know You come to call me, come to claim My share of your delicious shame. Child, I remember, and can tell One night we loved each other well, And one night's love, at least or most Is not so small a thing to boast. You were adorable, and I Adored you to infinity, That nupital night too briefly borne To the oblivion of morn. Ah! no oblivion, for I feel Your lips deliriously steal Along my neck, and fasten there; I feel the perfume of your hair, I feel your breast that heaves and dips Desiring my desirous lips, And that ineffable delight When souls turn bodies, and unite In the intolerable, the whole Rapture of the embodied soul. That joy was ours, we passed it by; You have forgotten me, and I Remember you thus strangely, won An instant from oblivion. And I, remembering, would declare That joy, not shame, is ours to share, Joy that we had the frank delight To choose the chances of one night, Out of vague nights, and days at strife, So infinitely full of life. What shall it profit me to know Your heart holds many a Romeo? Why should I grieve, though I forget How many another Juliet? Let us be glad to have forgot That roses fade, and loves are not, As dreams, immortal, though they seem Almost as real as a dream. It is for this I see you rise, A wraith, with starlight in your eyes, Where calm hours weave, for such a mood Solitude out of solitude; For this, for this, you come to me Out of the night, out of the sea. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A TRIBUTE OF GRASSES by HAMLIN GARLAND TO JOHN DONNE (2) by BEN JONSON BUCOLIC COMEDY: AUBADE by EDITH SITWELL SCURVY ENTERTAINMENT by ABU ABD ALLAH PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 62. AL-MUMIT by EDWIN ARNOLD ON F----- & S----- by WILLIAM BLAKE AFTERGLOW by CHARLES GRANGER BLANDEN ON MR. FREDERICK PORTER'S ROOM OF PICTURES, 1930 by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |