lirik lagu david moore - the great lover
i have been so great a lover: filled my days
so proudly with the splendour of love’s praise
the pain, the calm, and the astonishment
desire illimitable, and still content
and all dear names men use, to cheat despair
for the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
our hearts at random down the dark of life
now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife
steals down, i would cheat drowsy death so far
my night shall bе rememberеd for a star
that outshone all the suns of all men’s days
shall i not crown them with immortal praise
whom i have loved, who have given me, dared with me
high secrets, and in darkness knelt to see
the inenarrable godhead of delight?
love is a flame:—we have beaconed the world’s night
a city:—and we have built it, these and i
an emperor:—we have taught the world to die
so, for their sakes i loved, ere i go hence
and the high cause of love’s magnificence
and to keep loyalties young, i’ll write those names
golden for ever, eagles, crying flames
and set them as a banner, that men may know
to dare the generations, burn, and blow
out on the wind of time, shining and streaming . . .
these i have loved:
white plates and cups, clean~gleaming
ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
wet roofs, beneath the lamp~light; the strong crust
of friendly bread; and many~tasting food;
rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
and radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
and flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours
dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
shining and free; blue~massing clouds; the keen
unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
the benison of hot water; furs to touch;
the good smell of old clothes; and other such—
the comfortable smell of friendly fingers
hair’s fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
about dead leaves and last year’s ferns. . .
dear names
and thousand other throng to me! royal flames;
sweet water’s dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
voices in laughter, too; and body’s pain
soon turned to peace; and the deep~panting train;
firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
that browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
and washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
and oaks; and brown horse~chestnuts, glossy~new;
and new~peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;—
all these have been my loves. and these shall pass
whatever passes not, in the great hour
nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
to hold them with me through the gate of death
they’ll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath
break the high bond we made, and sell love’s trust
and sacramented covenant to the dust
——oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, i shall wake
and give what’s left of love again, and make
new friends, now strangers. . .
but the best i’ve known
stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
about the winds of the world, and fades from brains
of living men, and dies
nothing remains
o dear my loves, o faithless, once again
this one last gift i give: that after men
shall know, and later lovers, far~removed
praise you, ‘all these were lovely’; say, ‘he loved.’
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