



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive









FLORENCE ON A CERTAIN NIGHT
AND OTHER POEMS

By Coningsby Dawson

New York: Henry Holt and Company

1914



TO

_JOHN KEATS_

WHO, IN EXCUSE FOR A LIKE OCCASION,

WROTE:

_"WERE I DEAD, I SHOULD LIKE A BOOK DEDICATED TO ME."_


A WARNING TO THE READER

Here thou shalt find grave thought--the shade of thine Most is of earth,
some little all divine. By hands God-given, mine, this tower doth
thrive; Thine are the clouds which round my turrets drive.




FLORENCE ON A CERTAIN NIGHT


I

(October, 1504)

                   _[Someone sings in the street below]_

               Fair-fleeting Youth must snatch at happiness,

               He knows not if To-morrow curse or bless,

               Nor round what bend upon his travel-way

               The bandit Death lurks armed--of Yesterday

               His palely featured griefs he knows too well;

               Therefore with jests To-day, come Heaven, come Hell,

               He plucks with either hand what joys he may.



               Joy is a flower

               White-leafd or red,

               None knows which colour

               Till it is dead:

               White gives forth fragrance

               Pure as God's breath;

               Red in its dying

               Yields the gatherer death.

                   _[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]_

               So 'tis Lorenzo's song they sing to-night,

               That haunting song which long years since he sang

               When, with his gallants through the torch-

                        smirched dusk,

               He laughing rode toward the Carnival,

               And young girls loosened all abroad their hair

               And flung up petals through the cool moonlight,

               Some of which falling rested on his face,

               Some of which falling covered up his eyes;

               And girls there were who kissed his drooping

                        hands

               And clasped his stirrups, begging him to stay,

               To halt one little moment, stay with them:

               _"Life is so short. Delay with us a while."_

               But he rode on, and sang of joy and love.



               Lorenzo il Magnifico is dead;

               His lips are silent, and he now could halt

               Oh, endlessly, if one of those fair maids

               Should come to him imploring him to stay.

               For twelve slow years within the sacristy

               Of San Lorenzo he has never waked,

               But has the rest he could not find in life--

               Ungrateful now, because postponed too long.

               If one should steal to him from out the past

               And bending down should whisper low his name,

               He would not hearken. True, she would be old,

               As are all maids of that spent gala-night;

               So, if he heard her, he would only smile,

               For he loved only beauty in his day.


II

                   _[ Someone sings in the street below]_

               Fair-fleeting Youth wends ever to the West,

               He, like the sun, too soon must sink to rest.

               Stars of Remorse, fast-following on his track,

               Moon of Old-Age, can nothing turn ye back f

               Ah, soon the golden Day'll have spent his breath!

               Then comes the drear, eventless Night of Death

               When Youth, no longer young, all joys must lack.

                   _[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]_

               "Then comes the drear, eventless Night of Death!"


               'Tis true, for who in Tuscany to-day

               Dares breathe the Medicean name aloud?

               When a man dies, the watchers by the bed

               Close down his eye-lids, so is he once dead;

               Twice dead is he whose mem'ry men dang down

               To dark oblivion when his soul is fled.

               Florence forgets her singer, but his song

               Still echoes through her streets on autumn nights,

               And pausing at the door of some old friend,

               Bids him remember all the hope he had

               In spacious days, before Lorenzo died...



               It seems Lorenzo's soul crept back to earth

               Re-seeking Joy he coveted in life,

               Seeking the happiness he never found.

               Yet, was his labour lost? Did he not find?

               He sang one song which lingers in men's hearts

               And, having sung, he surely solved his quest.

               Who of Joy's seekers finds the flower itself,

               And plucking, knows the snow-white from the red?

               Not I, for I've been truant in my search;

               I've pluck't the mauve of Honour and the green

               Of cloistered Knowledge, yellow of Romance,

               The blue which feigns a deep Tranquillity,

               Scarlet of Boldness, purple of Despair,

               Orange of Idleness which flaunts the sun,

               And indigo of wizard Heresy--

               And gray which gives to Weariness unrest.

               Perchance I've clutched within this eager hand

               The Death of Joy--the fatal flower of blood.

               I know not. This I know, I have not trod

               The quiet vale where grows the flower of white.



               Like an unwise distiller of perfume

               I've blended each new fragrance as it came,

               Made something perfect for a day--two days;

               Then ruined all by adding something fresh.

               First I would be a scholar, so I learned

               Latin and Greek, and Mathematic Law.

               Then I would be a poet, so I wrote

               "Chi non puô quel che vuol, quel che puo voglia;

               Che quel che non si puô folle è volere.

               Adunque saggio l'uomo è da tenere,

               Che da quel che non puô sua vogler toglia."

               I could not live the wisdom which I taught,

               So I must be a master of design

               And studied sculpture with Verocchio,

               Verocchio who