


Produced by David Widger





A LOVER'S DIARY, Complete

By Gilbert Parker


CONTENTS

     Volume 1.
     THE VISION
     ABOVE THE DIN
     LOVE'S COURAGE
     LOVE'S LANGUAGE
     ASPIRATION
     THE MEETING
     THE NEST
     PISGAH
     LOVE IS ENOUGH
     AT THE PLAY
     SO CALM THE WORLD
     THE WELCOME
     THE SHRINE
     THE TORCH
     IN ARMOUR
     IN THEE MY ART
     DENIAL
     TESTAMENT
     CAPTIVITY
     O MYSTIC WINGS
     WAS IT THY FACE?
     A WOMAN'S HAND
     ONE FACE I SEE
     MOTHER
     WHEN FIRST I SAW THEE
     THE FATES LAUGH
     AS ONE WHO WAITETH
     THE SEALING
     THE PLEDGE
     LOVE'S TRIBUTARIES
     THE CHOICE
     RECOGNITION
     THE WAY OF DREAMS
     THE ACCOLADE
     FALLEN IDOLS
     TENNYSON
     THE ANOINTED


     Volume 2.
     DREAMS
     THE BRIDE
     THE WRAITH
     SURRENDER
     THE CITADEL
     MALFEASANCE
     ANNUNCIATION
     VANISHED DREAMS
     INTO THY LAND
     DIVIDED
     WE MUST LIVE ON
     YET LIFE IS SWEET
     LOST FOOTSTEPS
     THE CLOSED DOOR
     THE CHALICE
     MIO DESTINO
     I HAVE BEHELD
     TOO SOON AWAY
     THE TREASURE
     DAHIN
     LOVE'S USURY
     THE DECREE
     'TIS MORNING NOW
     SACRIFICE
     SHINE ON
     SO, THOU ART GONE
     THE THOUSAND THINGS
     ONES
     THE SEA
     THE CHART
     REVEALING
     OVERCOMING
     WHITHER NOW
     ARARAT
     AS LIGHT LEAPS UP
     THE DARKENED WAY
     REUNITED
     SONG WAS GONE FROM ME
     GOOD WAS THE FIGHT
     UNCHANGED
     ABSOLVO TE
     BENEDICTUS
     THE MESSAGE
     UNAVAILING
     YOU SHALL LIVE ON
     "VEX NOT THIS GHOST"
     THE MEMORY
     THE PASSING
     ENVOY




INTRODUCTION

'A Lover's Diary' has not the same modest history as 'Embers'.  As far
back as 1894 it was given to the public without any apology or excuse,
but I have been apologising for it ever since, in one way--without avail.
I wished that at least one-fifth of it had not been published; but my
apology was never heard till now as I withdraw from this edition of A
Lover's Diary some twenty-five sonnets representing fully one-fifth of
the original edition.  As it now stands the faint thread of narrative is
more distinct, and redundancy of sentiment and words is modified to some
extent at any rate.  Such material story as there is, apart from the
spiritual history embodied in the sonnets, seems more visible now, and
the reader has a clearer revelation of a young, aspiring, candid mind
shadowed by stern conventions of thought, dogma, and formula, but
breaking loose from the environment which smothered it.  The price it
pays for the revelation is a hopeless love informed by temptation, but
lifted away from ruinous elements by self-renunciation, to end with the
inevitable parting, poignant and permanent, a task of the soul finished
and the toll of the journey of understanding paid.

The six sonnets in italics, beginning with 'The Bride', and ending with
'Annunciation', have nothing to do with the story further than to show
two phases of the youth's mind before it was shaken by speculation,
plunged into the sadness of doubt and apprehension, and before it had
found the love which was to reveal it to itself, transform the character,
and give new impulse and direction to personal force and individual
sense.  These were written when I was twenty and twenty-one years of age,
and the sonnet sequence of 'A Lover's Diary' was begun when I was
twenty-three.  They were continued over seven years in varying quantity.
Sometimes two or three were written in a week, and then no more would be
written for several weeks or maybe months, and it is clearly to be seen
from the text, from the change in style, and above all in the nature of
the thought that between 'The Darkened Way', which ends one epoch, and
'Reunited', which begins another and the last epoch, were intervening
years.

The sonnet which begins the book and particularly that which ends the
book have been very widely quoted, and 'Envoy' has been set to music by
more than one celebrated musician.  Whatever the monotony of a sonnet
sequence (and it is a form which I should not have chosen if I had been
older and wiser) there has been a continuous, if limited, demand for the
little book.  As Edmund Clarence Stedman said in a review, it was a book
which had to be written.  It was an impulse, a vision, and a revealing,
and, in his own words in a letter to me, "It was to be done whether you
willed it or no, and there it is a truthful thing of which you shall be
glad in spite of what you say."

These last words of the great critic were in response to the sudden
repentance and despair I felt after Messrs. Stone and Kimball had
published the book in exquisite form with a beautiful frontispiece by
Will H. Low.  In any case, it is now too late to try and disabuse the
minds of those who care for the little piece of artistry, and since 1894,
when it was published, I have matured sufficiently in life's academy not
to be too unduly sensitive either as to the merit or demerit of my work.
There is, after all, an unlovable kind of vanity in acute self-criticism
--as though it mattered deeply to the world whether one ever wrote
anything; or, having written, as though it mattered to the world enough
to stir it in its course by one vibration.  The world has drunk deep of
wonderful literature, and all that I can do is make a small brew with a
little flavour of my own; but it still could get on very well indeed with
the old staple and matured vintages were I never to write at all.






     The King--Whence art thou, sir?

     Gilfaron--My Lord, I know not well.
               Indeed, I am a townsman of the world.
               For once my mother told me that she saw
               The Angel of the Cross Roads lead me out,
               And point to every corner of the sky,
               And say, "Thy feet shall follow in the trail
               Of every tribe; and thou shalt pitch thy tent
               Wherever thou shalt see a human face
               Which hath thereon the alphabet of life;
               Yea, thou shalt spell it out e'en as a child:
               And therein wisdom find."

     The King--Art thou wise?

     Gilfaron--Only according to the Signs.

     The King--What signs?

     Gilfaron--The first--the language of the Garden, sire,
               When man spoke with the naked searching thought,
               Unlacquered of the world.

     The King--Speak so forthwith; come, show us to be wise.

     Gilfaron--The Angel of the Cross Roads to me said:
               "And wisdom comes by looking eye to eye,
               Each seeing his own soul as in a glass;
               For ye shall find the Lodges of the Wise,
               The farthest Camp of the Delightful Fires,
               By marching two by two, not one by one."

                              --The King's Daughter.






THE VISION

          As one would stand who saw a sudden light
          Flood down the world, and so encompass him
          And in that world illumined Seraphim
          Brooded above and gladdened to his sight;

          So stand I in the flame of one great thought,
          That broadens to my soul from where she waits,
          Who, yesterday, drew wide the inner gates
          Of all my being to the hopes I sought.

          Her words come to me like a summer-song,
          Blown from the throat of some sweet nightingale;
          I stand within her light the whole day long,

          And think upon her till the white stars fail:
          I lift my head towards all that makes life wise,
          And see no farther than my lady's eyes.







ABOVE THE DIN

          Silence sits often on me as I touch
          Her presence; I am like a bird that hears
          A note diviner than it knows, and fears
          To share the larger harmony too much.

          My soul leaps up, as to a sudden sound
          A long-lost traveller, when, by her grace,
          I learn of her life's sweetness face to face,
          And sweep the chords of sympathies profound.

          Her regal nature calmly holds its height
          Above life's din, while moving in its maze.
          Unworthy thoughts would die within her sight,

          And mean deeds creep to darkness from her gaze.
          Yet only in my dreams can I set down
          The word that gives her nobleness a crown.







LOVE'S COURAGE

          Courage have I to face all bitter things,
          That start out darkly from the rugged path,
          Leading to life's achievement; not God's wrath
          Would sit so heavy when my lady sings.

          I did not know what life meant till I felt
          Her hand clasp mine in compact to the end;
          Till her dear voice said, "See, I am your friend!"
          And at her feet, amazed, my spirit knelt.

          And yet I spoke but hoarsely then my thought,
          I groped amid a thousand forces there;
          Her understanding all my meaning caught,

          It was illumined in her atmosphere.
          She read it line by line, and then there fell
          The curtain on the shrine-and it is well.







LOVE'S LANGUAGE

          Just now a wave of perfume floated up
          To greet my senses as I broke the seal
          Of her short letter; and I still can feel
          It stir me as a saint the holy cup.

          The missive lies there,--but a few plain words:
          A thought about a song, a note of praise,
          And social duties such as fill the days
          Of women; then a thing that undergirds

          The phrases like a psalm: a line that reads--
          "I wish that you were coming!"  Why, it lies
          Upon my heart like blossoms on the skies,

          Like breath of balm upon the clover meads.
          The perfumed words soothe me into a dream;
          My thoughts float to her on the scented stream.







ASPIRATION

          None ever climbed to mountain heights of song,
          But felt the touch of some good woman's palm;
          None ever reached God's altitude of calm,
          But heard one voice cry, "Follow!" from the throng.

          I would not place her as an image high
          Above my reach, cold, in some dim recess,
          Where never she should feel a warm caress
          Of this my hand that serves her till I die.

          I would not set her higher than my heart,--
          Though she is nobler than I e'er can be;
          Because she placed me from the crowd apart,

          And with her tenderness she honoured me.
          Because of this, I hold me worthier
          To be her kinsman, while I worship her.







THE MEETING

          O marvel of our nature, that one life
          Strikes through the thousand lives that fold it round,
          To find another, even as a sound
          Sweeps to a song through elemental strife!

          Through cycles infinite the forces wait,
          Which destiny has set for union here;
          No circumstance can warp them from their sphere;
          They meet sometime; and this is God and Fate.

          And God is Law, and Fate is Law in use,
          And we are acted on by some deep cause,
          Which sanctifies "I will" and "I refuse,"

          When Love speaks--Love, the peaceful end of Laws.
          And I, from many conflicts over-past,
          Find here Love, Law, and God, at last.







THE NEST

          High as the eagle builds his lonely nest
          Above the sea, above the paths of man,
          And makes the elements his barbican,
          That none may break the mother-eagle's rest;

          So build I far above all human eyes
          My nest of love; Heaven's face alone bends down
          To give it sunlight, starlight; while is blown
          A wind upon it out of Paradise.

          None shall affright, no harm may come to her,
          Whom I have set there in that lofty home:
          Love's eye is sleepless; I could feel the stir

          E'en of God's cohorts, if they chanced to come.
          I am her shield; I would that I might prove
          How dear I hold the lady of my love.







WHEN thou makest a voyage to the stars, go thou blindfolded;
          and carry not a sword, but the sandals of thy youth.
          --Egyptian Proverb.



SEEK thou the Angel of the Cross Roads ere thou goest upon a
          journey, and she will give thee wisdom at the Four Corners.
          --Egyptian Proverb.







PISGAH
          Behold, now, I have touched the highest point
          In my existence.  When I turn my eyes
          Backward to scan my outlived agonies,
          I feel God's finger touch me, to anoint

          With this sweet Present the ungenerous Past,
          With love the wounds that struck stark in my soul;
          With hope life's aching restlessness and dole;
          To show me place to anchor in at last.

          Like to a mother bending o'er the bed
          Where sleeps, death-silent, one that left her side
          Ere he had reached the flow of manhood's tide,

          So stood I by my life whence Life had fled.
          But Life came back at Love's clear trumpet-call,
          And at Love's feet I cast the useless pall.







LOVE IS ENOUGH

          It is enough that in this burdened time
          The soul sees all its purposes aright.
          The rest--what does it matter? Soon the night
          Will come to whelm us, then the morning chime.

          What does it matter, if but in the way
          One hand clasps ours, one heart believes us true;
          One understands the work we try to do,
          And strives through Love to teach us what to say?

          Between me and the chilly outer air
          Which blows in from the world, there standeth one
          Who draws Love's curtains closely everywhere,

          As God folds down the banners of the sun.
          Warm is my place about me, and above
          Where was the raven, I behold the dove.







AT THE PLAY

          I felt her fan my shoulder touch to-night.
          Soft act, faint touch, no meaning did it bear
          To any save myself, who felt the air
          Of a new feeling cross my soul's clear sight.

          To me what matter that the players played!
          They grew upon the instant like the toys
          Which dance before the sight of idle boys;
          I could not hear the laughter that they made.

          Swept was I on that breath her hand had drawn,
          Through the dull air, into a mountain-space,
          Where shafts of the bright sun-god interlace,

          Making the promise of a golden dawn.
          And straightway crying, "O my heart, rejoice!"
          It found its music in my lady's voice.







SO CALM THE WORLD

          Far up the sky the sunset glamour spreads,
          Far off the city lies in golden mist;
          The sea grows calm, the waves the sun has kissed
          Strike white hands softly 'gainst the rocky heads.

          So calm the world, so still the city lies,
          So warm the haze that spreads o'er everything;
          And yet where, there, Peace sits as Lord and King,
          Havoc will reign when next the sun shall rise.

          The wheels pause only for a little space,
          And in the pause they gather strength again.
          'Tis but the veil drawn over Labour's face,

          O'er strife, derision, and the sin of men.
          My heart with a sweet inner joy o'erflows
          To nature's peace, and a kind silence knows.







THE WELCOME

          But see: my lady comes.  I hear her feet
          Upon the sward; she standeth by my side.
          Just such a face Raphael had deified,
          If in his day they two had chanced to meet.

          And I, tossed by the tide of circumstance,
          Lifting weak hands against a host of swords,
          Paused suddenly to hear her gentle words
          Making powerless the lightnings of mischance.

          I, who was but a maker of poor songs,
          That one might sing behind his prison bars,
          I, who it seemed fate singled out for wrongs--

          She smiled on me as smile the nearest stars.
          From her deep soul I draw my peace, and thus,
          One wreath of rhyme I weave for both of us.







THE SHRINE

          Were I but as the master souls who move
          In their high place, immortal on the earth,
          My song might be a thing to crown her worth,--
          'Tis but a pathway for the feet of Love.

          But since she walks where I am fain to sing,
          Since she has said, "I listen, O my friend!"
          There is a glory lent the song I send,
          And I am proud, yes, prouder than a king.

          I grow to nobler use beneath her eyes--
          Eyes that smile on me so serenely, will
          They smile a welcome though my best hope dies,

          And greet me at the summit of the hill?
          Will she, for whom my heart has built a shrine,
          Take from me all that makes this world divine?







THE TORCH

          Art's use what is it but to touch the springs
          Of nature?  But to hold a torch up for
          Humanity in Life's large corridor,
          To guide the feet of peasants and of kings!

          What is it but to carry union through
          Thoughts alien to thoughts