Lionel Pigot Johnson

Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not so, Dark Angel! triumph over me: Lonely, unto the Lone I go; Divine, to the Divinity.

I fight thee, in the Holy Name! Yet, what thou dost, is what God saith: Tempter! should I escape thy flame, Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death:The second Death, that never dies, That cannot die, when time is dead: Live Death, wherein …

Thou art the whisper in the gloom, The hinting tone, the haunting laugh: Thou art the adorner of my tomb, The minstrel of mine epitaph.

The ardour of red flame is thine, And thine the steely soul of ice: Thou poisonest the fair design Of nature, with unfair device.Apples of ashes, golden bright; Waters of bitterness, how sweet! O banquet of a foul delight,

Through thee, the gracious Muses turn, To Furies, O mine Enemy! And all the things of beauty burn With flames of evil ecstasy.Because of thee, the land of dreams Becomes a gathering place of fears: Until tormented slumber seems

Dark Angel, with thine aching lust To rid the world of penitence: Malicious Angel, who still dost My soul such subtile violence!

King, tried in fires of woe! Men hunger for thy grace: And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face. Yet, when the city sleeps; When all the cries are still: The stars and heavenly deeps

Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world‘s employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy.

Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends.

Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies?

Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing.

Now from the broken tower, what solemn bell still tolls, Mourning what piteous death? Answer, O saddened souls! Who mourn the death of beauty and the death of grace.

Imageries of dreams reveal a gracious age

What comes now? The earth awaits What fierce wonder from the skies? Thunder, trampling through the night? Morning, with illustrious eyes? Morning, from the springs of light: Thunder, round Heaven's opening gates..

The winds are sometimes sad to me, The starry spaces, full of fear; Mine is the sorrow on the sea, And mine the sigh of places drear. Some players upon plaintive strings Publish their wistfulness abroad; I have not spoken of these things,

Ill times may be; she hath no thought of time: She reigns beside the waters yet in pride. Rude voices cry: but in her ears the chime Of full, sad bells brings back her old springtide. Like to a queen in pride of place, she wears The …