The Palace Of Art
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
I said, O Soul, make merry and carouse,
Dear soul, for all is well.
A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnishd brass
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass
Suddenly scaled the light.
Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
In her high palace there.
And while the world runs round and round, I said,
Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade
Sleeps on his luminous ring.
To which my soul made answer readily:
Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
So royal-rich and wide.
* * * * *
Four courts I made, East, West and South and North,
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth
A flood of fountain-foam.
And round the cool green courts there ran a row
Of cloisters, branchd like mighty woods,
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
Of spouted fountain-floods.
And round the roofs a gilded gallery
That lent broad verge to distant lands,
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
Dipt down to sea and sands.
From those four jets four currents in one swell
Across the mountain streamd below
In misty folds, that floating as they fell
Lit up a torrent-bow.
And high on every peak a statue seemd
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
A cloud of incense of all odour steamd
From out a golden cup.
So that she thought, And who shall gaze upon
My palace with unblinded eyes,
While this great bow will waver in the sun,
And that sweet incense rise?
For that sweet incense rose and never faild,
And, while day sank or mounted higher,
The light aërial gallery, golden-raild,
Burnt like a fringe of fire.
Likewise the deep-set windows, staind and traced,
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
From shadowd grots of arches interlaced,
And tipt with frost-like spires.
* * * * *
Full of long-sounding corridors it was,
That over-vaulted grateful gloom,
Thro which the livelong day my soul did pass,
Well-pleased, from room to room.
Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
All various, each a perfect whole
From living Nature, fit for every mood
And change of my still soul.
For some were hung with arras green and blue,
Showing a gaudy summer-morn,
Where with puffd cheek the belted hunter blew
His wreathed bugle-horn.
One seemd all dark and reda tract of sand,
And some one pacing there alone,
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
Lit with a low large moon.
One showd an iron coast and angry waves.
You seemd to hear them climb and fall
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,
Beneath the windy wall.
And one, a full-fed river winding slow
By herds upon an endless plain,
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
With shadow-streaks of rain.
And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.
In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
And hoary to the wind.
And one a foreground black with stones and slags,
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher
All barrd with long white cloud the scornful crags,
And highest, snow and fire.
And one, an English homegray twilight pourd
On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
Softer than sleepall things in order stored,
A haunt of ancient Peace.
Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
As fit for every mood of mind,
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there,
Not less than truth designd.
* * * * *
Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,
In tracts of pasture sunny-warm,
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
Sat smiling, babe in arm.
Or in a clear-walld city on the sea,
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily;
An angel lookd at her.
Or thronging all one porch of Paradise
A group of Houris bowd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
That said, We wait for thee.
Or mythic Uthers deeply-wounded son
In some fair space of sloping greens
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,
And watchd by weeping queens.
Or hollowing one hand against his ear,
To list a foot-fall, ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stayd the Ausonian king to hear
Of wisdom and of law.
Or over hills with peaky tops engraild,
And many a tract of palm and rice,
The throne of Indian Cama slowly saild
A summer fannd with spice.
Or sweet Europas mantle blew unclaspd,
From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droopd a crocus: one hand graspd
The mild bulls golden horn.
Or else flushd Ganymede, his rosy thigh
Half-buried in the Eagles down,
Sole as a flying star shot thro the sky
Above the pillard town.
Nor these alone: but every legend fair
Which the supreme Caucasian mind
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there,
Not less than life, designd.
* * * * *
Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,
Moved of themselves, with silver sound;
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung
The royal dais round.
For there was Milton like a seraph strong,
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild;
And there the world-worn Dante graspd his song,
And somewhat grimly smiled.
And there the Ionian father of the rest;
A million wrinkles carved his skin;
A hundred winters snowd upon his breast,
From cheek and throat and chin.
Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set
Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
With interchange of gift.
Below was all mosaic choicely plannd
With cycles of the human tale
Of this wide world, the times of every land
So wrought, they will not fail.
The people here, a beast of burden slow,
Toild onward, prickd with goads and stings;
Here playd, a tiger, rolling to and fro
The heads and crowns of kings;
Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind
All force in bonds that might endure,
And here once more like some sick man declined,
And trusted any cure.
But over these she trod: and those great bells
Began to chime. She took her throne:
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels,
To sing her songs alone.
And thro the topmost Oriels coloured flame
Two godlike faces gazed below;
Plato the wise, and large-browd Verulam,
The first of those who know.
And all those names, that in their motion were
Full-welling fountain-heads of change,
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazond fair
In diverse raiment strange:
Thro which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue,
Flushd in her temples and her eyes,
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew
Rivers of melodies.
No nightingale delighteth to prolong
Her low preamble all alone,
More than my soul to hear her echod song
Throb thro the ribbed stone;
Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,
Joying to feel herself alive,
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth,
Lord of the senses five;
Communing with herself: All these are mine,
And let the world have peace or wars,
Tis one to me. Shewhen young night divine
Crownd dying day with stars,
Making sweet close of his delicious toils
Lit light in wreaths and anadems,
And pure quintessences of precious oils
In hollowd moons of gems,
To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried,
I marvel if my still delight
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide,
Be flatterd to the height.
O all things fair to sate my various eyes!
O shapes and hues that please me well!
O silent faces of the Great and Wise,
My Gods, with whom I dwell!
O God-like isolation which art mine,
I can but count thee perfect gain,
What time I watch the darkening droves of swine
That range on yonder plain.
In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin,
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep;
And oft some brainless devil enters in,
And drives them to the deep.
Then of the moral instinct would she prate
And of the rising from the dead,
As hers by right of full-accomplishd Fate;
And at the last she said:
I take possession of mans mind and deed.
I care not what the sects may brawl.
I sit as God holding no form of creed,
But contemplating all.
* * * * *
Full oft the riddle of the painful earth
Flashd thro her as she sat alone,
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,
And intellectual throne.
And so she throve and prosperd: so three years
She prosperd: on the fourth she fell,
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,
Struck thro with pangs of hell.
Lest she should fail and perish utterly,
God, before whom ever lie bare
The abysmal deeps of Personality,
Plagued her with sore despair.
When she would think, whereer she turnd her sight
The airy hand confusion wrought,
Wrote, Mene, mene, and divided quite
The kingdom of her thought.
Deep dread and loathing of her solitude
Fell on her, from which mood was born
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood
Laughter at her self-scorn.
What! is not this my place of strength, she said,
My spacious mansion built for me,
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid
Since my first memory?
But in dark corners of her palace stood
Uncertain shapes; and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,
And horrible nightmares,
And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,
And, with dim fretted foreheads all,
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,
That stood against the wall.
A spot of dull stagnation, without light
Or power of movement, seemd my soul,
Mid onward-sloping motions infinite
Making for one sure goal.
A still salt pool, lockd in with bars of sand,
Left on the shore; that hears all night
The plunging seas draw backward from the land
Their moon-led waters white.
A star that with the choral starry dance
Joind not, but stood, and standing saw
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance
Rolld round by one fixd law.
Back on herself her serpent pride had curld.
No voice, she shriekd in that lone hall,
No voice breaks thro the stillness of this world:
One deep, deep silence all!
She, mouldering with the dull earths mouldering sod,
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame,
Lay there exiled from eternal God,
Lost to her place and name;
And death and life she hated equally,
And nothing saw, for her despair,
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,
No comfort anywhere;
Remaining utterly confused with fears,
And ever worse with growing time,
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,
And all alone in crime:
Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round
With blackness as a solid wall,
Far off she seemd to hear the dully sound
Of human footsteps fall.
As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,
In doubt and great perplexity,
A little before moon-rise hears the low
Moan of an unknown sea;
And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, I have found
A new land, but I die.
She howld aloud, I am on fire within.
There comes no murmur of reply.
What is it that will take away my sin,
And save me lest I die?
So when four years were wholly finished,
She threw her royal robes away.
Make me a cottage in the vale, she said,
Where I may mourn and pray.
Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are
So lightly, beautifully built;
Perchance I may return with others there
When I have purged my guilt.
Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add The Palace Of Art
to your own personal library.
Add The Palace Of Art
to your own personal library.