Poems by Arthur Symons

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A Winter Dirge



The heath has withered on the moor,
Here at the wan sea's edge
I hear the thundering breakers roar;
Against: the tortured hedge
I lean and hear the wind that wails
As if a child had cried.
Far off I see the shifting sails
That strive with wind and tide.
And, stranger than all human speech
Or any woman's sigh,
I hear the waves beat on the beach
And the sea-gull's cry.

Poems by Arthur Symons

Autumn



There is so little wind at all,
The last leaves cling, and do not fall
From the bare branches’ ends; I sit
Under a tree and gaze at it,
A slender web against the sky,
Where a small grey cloud goes by;
I feel a speechless happiness
Creep to me out of quietness.

What is it in the earth, the air,
The smell of autumn, or the rare
And half reluctant harmonies
The mist weaves out of silken skies,
What is it shuts my brain and brings
These sleepy dim awakenings,
Till I and all things seem to be

Poems by Arthur Symons

Dreams In Rome



What is it that sings a sleepy tune in my head?
Some faint old forgotten moon that is dead?
I will arise, for the dreams are about my bed.

O is it in vain, is it in vain I have come?
Dark was the road in coming, and white the foam.
Is there no rest for me here? are there dreams in Rome?

Poems by Arthur Symons

Gipsy Love



The gipsy tents are on the down,
The gipsy girls are here;
And it's O to be off and away from the town
With a gipsy for my dear!

We'd make our bed in the bracken
With the lark for a chambermaid;
The lark would sing us awake in the morning,
Singing above our head.

We'd drink the sunlight all day long
With never a house to bind us;
And we'd only flout in a merry song
The world we left behind us....

Read more of the poem

Poems by Arthur Symons

Love and Sleep



I have laid sorrow to sleep;
Love sleeps.
She who oft made me weep
Now weeps.

I loved, and have forgot,
And yet
Love tells me she will not
Forget.

She it was bid me go;
Love goes
By what strange ways, ah! no
One knows.

Because I cease to weep,
She weeps.
Here by the sea in sleep,
Love sleeps.

Poems by Arthur Symons

O, water, voice of my heart...



O water, voice of my heart, crying in the sand,
All night long crying with a mournful cry,
As I lie and listen, and cannot understand
The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea,
O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I?
All night long the water is crying to me.

Unresting water, there shall never be rest
Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail,
And the fire of the end begin to burn in the west;
And the heart shall be weary and wonder and cry like the sea,
All life long crying without avail,
As the water all night long is crying to me.

Poems by Arthur Symons

Sleep



What is good for fever, except sleep?
What is good for love, but to forget?
Bury love deep,
Deeper than sound sleep,
And let
Fever drowse a little, and the heart forget.

Time shall heal fever, if death come not;
What shall heal love, except only death?
Though joy be forgot,
If death quiet not
Thy breath,
Time shall waken sorrow in the heart till death.

Poems by Arthur Symons

The Blind Heart



Be still, O hunger of heart, and let pity speak:
Her soul is a wandering bird, and its wings are weak,
Pier heart is a little flame, it pants at a sigh:
blind and pitiless heart, it is love going by.

If I had only pity, and a little rest,
Peace as a rose would blossom again in my breast;
If I had only patience, and let love free,
As a bird to its nest, my love would come to me.

But I have neither patience nor pity at all,
And I hold her heart in my hand, and I let it fall;
I hold the joy of my life in my heart, and I seem
As one who walks and lament in a mournful dream.

Poems by Arthur Symons

The Coming Of Spring: Madrid



Spring is come back, and the little voices are calling,
The birds are calling, the little green buds on the trees,
A song in the street, and an old and sleepy tune;
All the sounds of the spring are falling, falling,
Gentle as rain, on my heart, and I hear all these
As a sick man hears men talk from the heart of a swoon.

The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises,
The earth renews its magical youth at a breath,
And the whole world whispers a well-known, secret thing;
And I hear, but the meaning has faded out of the voices;
Something has died in my heart: is it death or sleep?
I know not, but I have forgotten the meaning of spring.

Poems by Arthur Symons

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