Read Complete Works of James Joyce Online
Authors: Unknown
After the tribulation of dark stri
f
e
After the tribulation of dark strife,
And all the ills of the earth, crying for my release.
Why is the truth so hidden and the land of dreams so far,
That the feet of the climber fail on the upward way;
Although in the purple distance burns a red-gold star,
There are briers on the mountain and the weary feet have bled.
The homesteads and the fireglow bid him stay:
And the burden of his body is like a burden of lead.
Told sublimely in the langua
g
e
Told sublimely in the language
Which the shining angels knew.
Tearless choirs of joyful servants,
Sounding cymbals, brazen shawms,
Distant hymns of myriad planets,
Heavenly maze of full-voiced psalms.
Only, when the heart is peaceful,
When the soul is moved to love,
May we hearken to those voices
Starry singing from above.
Love that I can give you, la
d
y
Love that I can give you, lady
Ah, that they haven’t, lady
Lady witchin’, lady mine.
O, you say that I torment you
With my verses, lady mine
Faith! the best I had I sent you,
Don’t be laughin’, lady mine,
I am foolish to be hopin’
That you left your window open,
... Wind thine arms round me, woman of sorcery,
While the lascivious music murmurs afar:
I will close mine eyes, and dream as I dance with thee,
And pass away from the world where my sorrows are.
Faster and faster! strike the harps in the hall!
Woman, I fear that this dance is the dance of death!
Faster! — ah, I am faint. . . and, ah, I fall.
The distant music mournfully murmureth.
Where none murmureth,
Let all grieving cease
And fade as a breath,
And come the final peace
Which men call death.
Joy and sorrow
Pass away and be fled,
Welcome the morrow
Lord, thou knowest my misery,
See the gifts which I have brought,
Sunshine on a dying face
Stricken flowers, seldom sought.
See the pale moon, the sunless dawn
Of my fainting feebleness;
But only shed thy dew on me
And I shall teem in fruitfulness.
Thunders and sweeps along
The roadway. The rain is strong
And the tide of it lays all pain.
I am in no idle passion
That my threadbare coat is torn,
And quaint of fashion.
My humour is devil-may-care,
As the labourer’s song upborne
On the quiet air.
Though there is no resurrection from the pa
s
t
Though there is no resurrection from the past,
It matters not, for one pure thing I see,
On which no stain, no shadow has been cast.
I see the image of my love unclouded,
Like a white maiden in some hidden place,
In a bright cloak, woven of my hopes, enshrouded,
And looking at me with a smiling face.
I do not care for an honourable mention
And I have sat amid the turbulent cro
w
d
And I have sat amid the turbulent crowd,
And have assisted at their boisterous play;
I have unbent myself and shouted loud,
And been as blatant and as coarse as they.
I have consorted with vulgarity
And am indelibly marked with its fell kiss,
Meanly I lived upon casual charity
Eagerly drinking of the dregs of bliss.
Gorse-flower makes but sorry dini
n
g
— Gorse-flower makes but sorry dining,
Mulberries make no winecups full,
Grass-threads lacing and entwining
Weave no linen by the waters -
Said the mother to her daughters.
The sisters viewed themselves reclining,
Heeding not, undutiful.
The first girl wished for spinning,
And she asked a spindle of gold;
The second sister wished to weave,