Bianca Among The Nightingales
The cypress stood up like a church
That night we felt our love would hold,
And saintly moonlight seemed to search
And wash the whole world clean as gold;
The olives crystallized the vales'
Broad slopes until the hills grew strong:
The fireflies and the nightingales
Throbbed each to either, flame and song.
The nightingales, the nightingales.
Upon the angle of its shade
The cypress stood, self-balanced high;
Half up, half down, as double-made,
Along the ground, against the sky.
And we, too! from such soul-height went
Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven,
We scarce knew if our nature meant
Most passionate earth or intense heaven.
The nightingales, the nightingales.
We paled with love, we shook with love,
We kissed so close we could not vow;
Till Giulio whispered, 'Sweet, above
God's Ever guarantees this Now.'
And through his words the nightingales
Drove straight and full their long clear call,
Like arrows through heroic mails,
And love was awful in it all.
The nightingales, the nightingales.
O cold white moonlight of the north,
Refresh these pulses, quench this hell!
O coverture of death drawn forth
Across this garden-chamber..
. well!But what have nightingales to doIn gloomy England, called the free.(Yes, free to die in!…) when we twoAre sundered, singing still to me?And still they sing, the nightingales.I think I hear him, how he cried'My own soul's life' between their notes.Each man has but one soul supplied,And that's immortal. Though his throat'sOn fire with passion now, to herHe can't say what to me he said!And yet he moves her, they aver.The nightingales sing through my head.The nightingales, the nightingales.He says to her what moves her most.He would not name his soul withinHer hearing,—rather pays her costWith praises to her lips and chin.Man has but one soul, 'tis ordained,And each soul but one love, I add;Yet souls are damned and love's profaned.These nightingales will sing me mad!The nightingales, the nightingales.I marvel how the birds can sing.There's little difference, in their view,Betwixt our Tuscan trees that springAs vital flames into the blue,And dull round blots of foliage meantLike saturated sponges hereTo suck the fogs up. As contentIs he too in this land, 'tis clear.And still they sing, the nightingales.My native Florence! dear, forgone!I see across the Alpine ridgeHow the last feast-day of Saint JohnShot rockets from Carraia bridge.The luminous city, tall with fire,Trod deep down in that river of ours,While many a boat with lamp and choirSkimmed birdlike over glittering towers.I will not hear these nightingales.I seem to float, we seem to floatDown Arno's stream in festive guise;A boat strikes flame into our boat,And up that lady seems to riseAs then she rose. The shock had flashedA vision on us! What a head,What leaping eyeballs!—beauty dashedTo splendour by a sudden dread.And still they sing, the nightingales.Too bold to sin, too weak to die;Such women are so. As for me,I would we had drowned there, he and I,That moment, loving perfectly.He had not caught her with her loosedGold ringlets… rarer in the south…Nor heard the 'Grazie tanto' bruisedTo sweetness by her English mouth.And still they sing, the nightingales.She had not reached him at my heartWith her fine tongue, as snakes indeedKill flies; nor had I, for my part,Yearned after, in my desperate need,And followed him as he did herTo coasts left bitter by the tide,Whose very nightingales, elsewhereDelighting, torture and deride!For still they sing, the nightingales.A worthless woman! mere cold clayAs all false things are! but so fair,She takes the breath of men awayWho gaze upon her unaware.I would not play her larcenous tricksTo have her looks! She lied and stole,And spat into my love's pure pyxThe rank saliva of her soul.And still they sing, the nightingales.I would not for her white and pink,Though such he likes—her grace of limb,Though such he has praised—nor yet, I think,For life itself, though spent with him,Commit such sacrilege, affrontGod's nature which is love, intrude'Twixt two affianced souls, and huntLike spiders, in the altar's wood.I cannot bear these nightingales.If she chose sin, some gentler guiseShe might have sinned in, so it seems:She might have pricked out both my eyes,And I still seen him in my dreams!- Or drugged me in my soup or wine,Nor left me angry afterward:To die here with his hand in mineHis breath upon me, were not hard.(Our Lady hush these nightingales!)But set a springe for him, 'mio ben',My only good, my first last love!— Though Christ knows well what sin is, whenHe sees some things done they must moveHimself to wonder. Let her pass.I think of her by night and day.Must I too join her… out, alas!…With Giulio, in each word I say!And evermore the nightingales!Giulio, my Giulio!—sing they so,And you be silent? Do I speak,And you not hear? An arm you throwRound some one, and I feel so weak?- Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite,They sing for hate, they sing for doom!They'll sing through death who sing through night,They'll sing and stun me in the tomb— The nightingales, the nightingales!
