JENNY
Lazy
laughing languid Jenny,
1
Fond
of a kiss and fond of a guinea,
Whose
head upon my knee to-night
Rests
for a while, as if grown light
With
all our dances and the sound 5
To
which the wild tunes spun you round:
Fair
Jenny mine, the thoughtless queen
Of
kisses which the blush between
Could
hardly make much daintier;
Whose
eyes are as blue skies, whose hair
10
Is
countless gold incomparable:
Fresh
flower, scarce touched with signs that tell
Of
Love's exuberant hotbed:--Nay,
Poor
flower left torn since yesterday
Until
to-morrow leave you bare;
Poor
handful of bright spring-water
Flung
in the whirlpool's shrieking face;
Poor
shameful Jenny, full of grace
Thus
with your head upon my knee;--
Whose
person or whose purse may be 20
The
lodestar of your reverie?
This
room of yours, my Jenny, looks
A
change from mine so full of books,
Whose
serried ranks hold fast, forsooth,
So
many captive hours of youth,--
The
hours they thieve from day and night
To
make one's cherished work come right,
And
leave it wrong for all their theft,
Even
as to-night my work was left:
Until
I vowed that since my brain
30
And
eyes of dancing seemed so fain,
My
feet should have some dancing too:--
And
thus it was I met with you.
Well,
I suppose 'twas hard to part,
For
here I am. And now, sweetheart,
You
seem too tired to get to bed.
It
was a careless life I led
When
rooms like this were scarce so strange
Not
long ago. What breeds the change,--
The
many aims or the few years?
40
Because
to-night it all appears.
Something
I do not know again.
The
cloud's not danced out of my brain,--
The
cloud that made it turn and swim
While
hour by hour the books grew dim.
Why,
Jenny, as I watch you there,--
For
all your wealth of loosened hair,
Your
silk ungirdled and unlac'd
And
warm sweets open to the waist,
All
golden in the lamplight's gleam,-- 50
You
know not what a book you seem,
Half-read
by lightning in a dream!
How
should you know, my Jenny? Nay,
And
I should be ashamed to say:--
Poor
beauty, so well worth a kiss!
But
while my thought runs on like this
With
wasteful whims more than enough,
I
wonder what you're thinking of.
If
of myself you think at all,
What
is the thought?—conjectural
60
On
sorry matters best unsolved?--
Or only
is each grace revolved
To
fit me with a lure?--or (sad
To
think!) perhaps you're merely glad
That
I'm not drunk or ruffianly
And
let you rest upon my knee.
For
sometimes, were the truth confess'd,
you're
thankful for a little rest,--
Glad
from the crush to rest within,
Form
the heart-sickness and the din
70
Where
envy's voice at virtue's pitch
Mocks
you because your gown is rich;
And
from the pale girl's dumb rebuke,
Whose
ill-clad grace and toil-worn look
Proclaim
the strength that keeps her weak
And
other nights than yours bespeak;
And
from the wise unchildish elf,
To
schoolmate lesser than himself
Pointing
you out, what thing you are:--
Yes,
from the daily jeer and jar,
80
From
shame and shame's outbraving too,
Is
rest not sometimes sweet to you?--
But
most from the hatefulness of man
Who
spares not to end what he began,
Whose
acts are ill and his speech ill,
Who,
having used you at his will,
Thrusts
you aside, as when I dine
I
serve the dishes and the wine.
Well,
handsome Jenny mine, sit up,
I've
filled our glasses, let us sup, 90
And
do not let me think of you,
Lest
shame of yours suffice for two.
What,
still so tired? Well, well then, keep
Your
head there, so you do not sleep;
But
that the weariness may pass
And
leave you merry, take this glass.
Ah!
lazy lily hand, more bless'd
If
ne'er in rings it had been dress'd
Nor
ever by a glove conceal'd!
Behold
the lilies of the field, 100
They
toil not neither do they spin;
(So
doth the ancient text begin,--
Not
of such rest as one of these
Can
share.) Another rest and ease
Along
each summer-sated path
From
its new lord the garden hath,
Than
that whose spring in blessings ran
Which
praised the bounteous husbandman,
Ere
yet, in days of hankering breath,
The
lilies sickened unto death.
110
What,
Jenny, are your lilies dead?
Aye,
and the snow-white leaves are spread
Like
winter on the garden-bed.
But
you had roses left in May,--
They
were not gone too. Jenny, nay,
But
must your roses die, and those
Their
purfled buds that should unclose?
Even
so; the leaves are curled apart,
Still
red as from the broken heart,
And
here's the naked stem of thorns.
120
Nay,
nay, mere words. Here nothing warns
As
yet of winter. Sickness here
Or
want alone could waken fear,--
Nothing
but passion wrings a tear.
Except
when there may rise unsought
Haply
at times a passing thought
Of
the old days which seem to be
Much
older than any history
That
is written in any book;
When
she would lie in fields and look 130
Along
the ground through the blown grass,
And
wonder where the city was,
Far
out of sight, whose broil and bale
They
told her then for a child's tale.
Jenny,
you know the city now.
A
child can tell the tale there, how
Some
things which are not yet enroll'd
In
market-lists are bought and sold
Even
till the early Sunday light,
When
Saturday night is market-night
140
Everywhere,
be it dry or wet,
And
market-night in the Haymarket.
Our
learned
Poor
Jenny, all your mirth and woe;
Have
seen your lifted silken skirt
Advertize dainties through the dirt;
Have
seen your coach-wheels splash rebuke
On
virtue; and have learned your look
When,
wealth and health slipped past, you stare
Along
the streets alone, and there, 150
Round
the long park, across the bridge,
The
cold lamps at the pavement's edge
Wind
on together and apart,
A
fiery serpent for your heart.
Let
the thoughts pass, an empty cloud!
Suppose
I were to think aloud,--
What
if to her all this were said?
Why,
as a volume seldom read
Being
opened halfway shuts again,
So
might the pages of her brain
160
Be
parted at such words, and thence
Close
back upon the dusty sense.
For
is there hue or shape defin'd
In
Jenny's desecrated mind,
Where
all contagious currents meet,
A lethe of the middle street?
Nay,
it reflects not any face,
Nor
sound is in its sluggish pace,
But
as they coil those eddies clot,
And
night and day remember not.
170
Why,
Jenny, you're asleep at last!--
Asleep,
poor jenny, hard and fast,--
So
young and soft and tired; so fair,
With
chin thus nestled in your hair,
Mouth
quiet, eyelids almost blue
As
if some sky of dreams shone through!
Just
as another woman sleeps!
Enough
to throw one's thoughts in heaps
Of
doubt and horror,--what to say
Or
think,--this awful secret sway,
180
The
potter's power over the clay!
Of
the same lump (it has been said)
For
honour and dishonour made,
Two
sister vessels. Here is one.
My
cousin Nell is fond of fun,
And
fond of dress, and change, and praise,
So
mere a woman in her ways:
And
if her sweet eyes rich in youth
Are
like her lips that tell the truth, 190
My
cousin Nell is fond of love.
And
she's the girl I'm proudest of.
Who
does not prize her, guard her well?
The
love of change, in cousin Nell,
Shall
find the best and hold it dear:
The
unconquered mirth turn quieter
Not
through her own, through others' woe
The
conscious pride of beauty glow
Beside
another's pride in her,
One
little part of all they share. 200
For
Love himself shall ripen these
In
a kind soil to just increase
Through
years of fertilizing peace.
Of
the same lump (as it is said)
For
honour and dishonour made,
Two
sister vessels. Here is one.
It
makes a goblin of the sun.
So
pure,--so fall'n! How dare to think
Of
the first common kindred link?
Yet,
Jenny, till the world shall burn 210
It
seems that all things take their turn;
And
who shall say but this fair tree
May
need, in changes that may be,
Your
children's children's charity?
Scorned
then, no doubt, as you are scorn'd!
Shall
no man hold his pride forewarn'd
Till
in the end, the Day of Days,
At
Judgment, one of his own race,
As
frail and lost as you, shall rise,--
His
daughter, with his mother's eyes? 220
How
Jenny's clock ticks on the shelf!
Might
not the dial scorn itself
That
has such hours to register?
Yet
as to me, even so to her
Are
golden sun and silver moon,
In
daily largesse of earth's boon,
Counted
for life-coins to one tune.
And
if, as blindfold fates are toss'd,
Through
some one man this life be lost,
Shall
soul not somehow pay for soul? 230
Fair
shines the gilded aureole
In
which our highest painters place
Some
living woman's simple face.
And
the stilled features thus descried
As
Jenny's long throat droops aside,--
The
shadows where the cheeks are thin,
And
pure wide curve from ear to chin,--
With
Raffael's or Da Vinci's
hand
To
show them to men's souls, might stand,
Whole
ages long, the whole world through,
240
For
preachings of what God can do.
What
has man done here? How atone,
Great
God, for this which man has done?
And
for the body and soul which by
Man's
pitiless doom must now comply
With
lifelong hell, what lullaby
Of
sweet forgetful second birth
Remains?
All dark. No sign on earth
What
measure of god's rest endows
The
many mansions of his house.
250
If
but a woman's heart might see
Such
erring heart unerringly
For
once! But that can never be.
Like
a rose shut in a book
In
which pure women may not look,
For
its base pages claim control
To
crush the flower within the soul;
Where
through each dead rose-leaf that clings,
Pale
as transparent psyche-wings,
To
the vile text, are traced such things 260
As
might make lady's cheek indeed
More
than a living rose to read;
So
nought save foolish foulness may
Watch
with hard eyes the sure decay;
And
so the life-blood of this rose,
Puddled with shameful knowledge, flows
Through
leaves no chaste hand may unclose:
Yet
still it keeps such faded show
Of
when 'twas gathered long ago,
That
the crushed petals' lovely grain, 270
The
sweetness of the sanguine stain,
Seen
of a woman's eyes, must make
Her
pitiful heart, so prone to ache,
Love
roses better for its sake:--
Only
that this can never be:--
Even
so unto her sex is she.
Yet,
Jenny, looking long at you,
The
woman almost fades from view.
A
cipher of man's changeless sum
Of
lust, past, present, and to come, 280
Is
left. A riddle that one shrinks
To
challenge from the scornful sphinx.
Like
a toad within a stone
Seated
while time curmbles on;
Which
sits there since the earth was curs'd
For
Man's transgression at the first;
Which,
living through all centuries,
Not
once has seen the sun arise;
Whose
life, to its cold circle charmed, 290
The
earth's whole summers have not warmed;
Which
always--whitherso the stone
Be
flung--sits there, deaf, blind, alone;--
Aye,
and shall not be driven out
Till
that which shuts him round about
Break
at the very Master's stroke,
And
the dust thereof vanish as smoke,
And
the seed of Man vanish as dust:--
Even
so within this world is Lust.
Come,
come, what use in thoughts like this? 300
Poor
little Jenny, good to kiss,--
You'd
not believe by what strange roads
Thought
travels, when your beauty goads
A
man to-night to think of toads!
Jenny,
wake up. . . . Why, there's the dawn!
And
there's an early waggon drawn
To
market, and some sheep that jog
Bleating
before a barking dog;
And
the old streets come peering through
Another
night that
And
all as ghostlike as the lamps.
So
on the wings of day decamps
My
last night's frolic. Glooms begin
To
shiver off as lights creep in
Past
the gauze curtains half drawn-to,
And
the lamp's doubled shade grows blue,--
Your
lamp, my Jenny, kept alight,
Like
a wise virgin's, all one night!
And
in the alcove coolly spread
Glimmers
with dawn your empty bed;
320
And
yonder your fair face I see
Reflected
lying on my knee,
Where
teems with first foreshadowings
Your
pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings.
And
now without, as if some word
Had
called upon them that they heard,
The
Clamour
together suddenly;
And
Jenny's cage-bird grown awake
Here
in their song his part must take, 330
Because
here too the day doth break
And
somehow in myself the dawn
Among
stirred clouds and veils withdrawn
Strikes
greyly on her. Let her sleep.
But
will it wake her if I heap
These
cushions thus beneath her head
Where
my knee was? No,--there's your bed,
My
Jenny, while you dream. And there
I
lay among your golden hair
Perhaps
the subject of your dreams,
340
These
golden coins.
For
still one deems
That
Jenny's flattering sleep confers
New
magic on the magic purse,--
Grim
web, how clogged with shrivelled flies!
Between
the threads fine fumes arise
And
shape their pictures in the brain.
There
roll no streets in glare and rain,
Nor
flagrant man-swine whets his tusk;
But
delicately sighs in musk 350
The
homage of the dim boudoir;
Or
like a palpitating star
Thrilled
into song, the opera-night
Breathes
faint in the quick pulse of light;
Or
at the carriage-window shine
Rich
wares for choice; or, free to dine,
Whirls
through its hour of health (divine
For
her) the concourse of the Park.
And
though in the discounted dark
Her
functions there and here are one, 360
Beneath
the lamps and in the sun
There
reigns at least the acknowledged belle
Apparelled
beyond parallel.
Ah
Jenny, yes, we know your dreams.
For
even the Paphian Venus seems
A
goddess o'er the realms of love,
When
silver-shrined in shadowy grove:
Aye,
or let offerings nicely placed
But
hide Priapus to the waist,
And
whoso looks on him shall see 370
An
eligible deity.
Why,
Jenny, waking here alone
May
help you to remember one,
Though
all the memory's long outworn
Of
many a double-pillowed morn.
I
think I see you when you wake,
And
rub your eyes for me, and shake
My
gold, in rising, from your hair,
A Danae for a moment there.
Jenny,
my love rang true! for still
380
Love
at first sight is vague, until
That
tinkling makes him audible.
And
must I mock you to the last,
Ashamed
of my own shame,--aghast
Because
some thoughts not born amiss
Rose
at a poor fair face like this?
Well,
of such thoughts so much I know:
In
my life, as in hers, they show,
By
a far gleam which I may near,
A
dark path I can strive to clear. 390
Only
one kiss. Goodbye, my dear.
400
Dante Gabriel
Rossetti. Jenny. 1869. Published in Poems (1870). Stat. Poëzieweb
– Poetryweb. (26-04-05). http://users.pandora.be/gaston.d.haese/dante_rossetti_jenny.html
(25/12/2007)