Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MUNDI VICTIMA: 6, by ARTHUR WILLIAM SYMONS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MUNDI VICTIMA: 6, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: It is all over, I am left alone
Last Line: And dearest love works most the work of hate.
Subject(s): Hate; Love - Loss Of


It is all over, I am left alone.
O visiting ghost, these eyes have never known
So cold, calm, tearless, proud, dispassionate,
Desperate, desolate, importunate,
Whose wrong denied you life, and rent from me
Your love, to be this ghost of memory?
Not yours, though you have left me; and not mine,
Though I have bade you leave me: the divine
Right of the world's injustice, and that old
Tyranny of dumb, rooted things, which hold
The hearts of men in a hard bondage. Yet,
Not for the world's sake, let me not forget
That, in the world's eyes, I have done you wrong.
And since to the world's judgment must belong
The saving and damnation of all souls
Whom that usurped sovereignty controls,
Indeed I have done you wrong. I loved you more
Than your own soul. I had not loved before,
And love possessed me, fixed my wandering mind,
And drove me onward, heedless, deaf, and blind,
Wrapt in the fiery whirlwind, passion, drove
Life to annihilation upon love.
I had not loved before: I had been love's lord,
I had delicately feasted at the board
Where Folly's guests luxuriously admire
Each dainty waiting handmaiden desire;
Where, when the feast is over, choice is free.
I had feasted long, I had chosen riotously,
Kisses, and roses, and warm scented wine,
I had bound my forehead with the tangled vine,
I had bound about my heart the tangled hair
Of laughing light loves; I had found love fair,
Of delicate aspect, and free from guile,
And I had bartered kisses for a smile,
And my vine-wreath for poppies twined for sleep,
And of a sleepy bowl I had drunk deep,
And, dreaming, never dreamed that hearts could ache
For over-much desire, or for love's sake.
And then you came. The rose of yesterday
Petal by petal drooped, withering away,
And all my bright flowers drooped, withering dead,
And the vine-wreath had fallen from my head,
And the wine-red poppies dripped to earth, and spilled
The bowl of sleep, and all the air was filled,
As with the fluttering voices of soft doves,
With lamentations of the little loves.
Then a new life was born of the last breath
Of that which never lived; I knew that death
Which love is, ere it is eternity.
I knew that my desire had come to me,
And then I knew that love, I had thought so fair,
Is terrible of aspect, and heavy care
Follows the feet of love where'er he goes,
And lovers' hearts, because of many woes,
Ache sorer than all hearts most desolate,
And dearest love works most the work of hate.





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