Chapter II: Someone sings in the street below (1)

Fair-fleeting Youth wends ever to the West,

He, like the sun, too soon must sink to rest.

Stars of Remorse, fast-following on his track,

Moon of Old-Age, can nothing turn ye back f

Ah, soon the golden Day'll have spent his breath!

Then comes the drear, eventless Night of Death

When Youth, no longer young, all joys must lack.

_[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]_

"Then comes the drear, eventless Night of Death!"

'Tis true, for who in Tuscany to-day

Dares breathe the Medicean name aloud?

When a man dies, the watchers by the bed

Close down his eye-lids, so is he once dead;

Twice dead is he whose mem'ry men dang down

To dark oblivion when his soul is fled.

Florence forgets her singer, but his song

Still echoes through her streets on autumn nights,

And pausing at the door of some old friend,

Bids him remember all the hope he had

In spacious days, before Lorenzo died . . .

It seems Lorenzo's soul crept back to earth

Re-seeking Joy he coveted in life,

Seeking the happiness he never found.

Yet, was his labour lost? Did he not find?

He sang one song which lingers in men's hearts

And, having sung, he surely solved his quest.

Who of Joy's seekers finds the flower itself,

And plucking, knows the snow-white from the red?

Not I, for I've been truant in my search;

I've pluck't the mauve of Honour and the green

Of cloistered Knowledge, yellow of Romance,

The blue which feigns a deep Tranquillity,

Scarlet of Boldness, purple of Despair,

Orange of Idleness which flaunts the sun,

And indigo of wizard Heresy--

And gray which gives to Weariness unrest.

Perchance I've clutched within this eager hand

The Death of Joy--the fatal flower of blood.

I know not. This I know, I have not trod

The quiet vale where grows the flower of white.

Like an unwise distiller of perfume

I've blended each new fragrance as it came,

Made something perfect for a day--two days;

Then ruined all by adding something fresh.

First I would be a scholar, so I learned

Latin and Greek, and Mathematic Law.

Then I would be a poet, so I wrote

"Chi non puô quel che vuol, quel che puo voglia;

Che quel che non si puô folle è volere.

Adunque saggio l'uomo è da tenere,

Che da quel che non puô sua vogler toglia."

I could not live the wisdom which I taught,

So I must be a master of design

And studied sculpture with Verocchio,

Verocchio who had his dusty shop

On Amo's banks in grand Lorenzo's time.

Thither, while yet a boy, I did resort

And out of terra-cotta caused to smile

Women whose beauty ne'er hath been surpassed,

Nor equalled in the flesh for Man's delight.

Still not content, I'd be an architect

And renovate this battered world for God,

Hurling across steep valleys, mile on mile

Through cloudland, spans of marble aqueduct;

Leading chained rivers from the mountain-heights

Down to the plains where men are wont to toil,

There I would cause these Samsons of the crags,

Scenting the sea, whose waves are unconfined,

To shake themselves as once at other times,

And rush in frenzy forward turning mills.

So would each city echo to the hum

Of loom, and web, and swift-revolving wheels.

Then, when prosperity had reached its height

And merhants cavilled at each other's gains,

I'd frame for them the iron beasts of war

And hound than on to harry and destroy--

And when our world was fallen, who but I,

Da Vinci, should stand forth to raise it up?

These were my dreams; I thought myself divine--

All this was long ago, when I was young.

Next I would make me wings, and I would fly

As do the morning birds straight t'ward the sun,

Piercing the mists, rise far above the clouds

To seek out where God walks and whom He loves.

I made me wings, but had not strength to fly.

Still discontent and tethered to this world,

I strove to wrench the secret out of Life,

And swept the far horizon of the stars

If there, at least, I might discern some sign

To tell me whence souls come, to where depart.

I, in my overhaste, pursued too far,

Seeking that vague and fabled Paradise

Where Adam and his many sons sing chaunts,

While Eve walks through them pale and deified.

I missed my track in pathless swamps of Time,

I chilled my hands against the cold-dead stars,

And lost my mind in unremembered Past,

Remote from God and out of human sight.

Lastly I took to painting down my thoughts,

And pictured for the King of Portugal

That fatal meadow in the Eden Land,

Where Man's first sweet and deadly sin was

wrought.

I, in this art, all others did excel;

Yet with success I was not satisfied

But hourly craved for the impossible--

To fashion men as real as flesh and blood.

To-day I'd toil with fire in my brain

And paint away the faults of yesterday,

And shadow forth the dreams of yesternight,

And so on through long months and weary years

Till, losing heart, I'd toss my brush aside

Leaving the thing unfinished as it was--

Adding this broken promise to my last.

There's Raphael with his wide unanxious eyes,

He does his work as though it were his play;

He never talks of fame, but sings the while

He paints the Virgin with Lord Jesus Christ--

Goes to the door, throws kisses to a child,

Goes to the window, smiles to some slim girl,

And so returns and flashes kiss and smile

Into the canvas quaking 'neath his brush,

Creating thus a masterpiece sublime.

And then there's surly Michelangelo

Who chisels _Davids_ through the death-long night,

And paints _Last Judgments_ through the livelong

day,

Pantingly running, pace on pace with Fame,

Racing dean-limbed toward his goal in life.

But I, poor changeling, wake, and dream, and

wake,

And dream again, retarded by desire.

I was eight years in painting at Milan

A fresco for the monks of Dominic--

And even this I hear's begun to fade;

It was a picture of that sacred feast

Our Saviour gave before he went to die.

Ten years I laboured on the Sforza horse

Which should have been my monument through

Time.

I built it huge and true in every line,

Studied anatomy to make it strong,

And set on top Francesco with his sword;

But, when the time for casting had arrived

And I had done one perfect work at last,

The hungry French across the border came,

Bringing their Gascons, who got drunk and shot

The clay of my poor Titan into space.

So were ten years of strenuous effort lost;

And now I'm painting Mona Lisa's face . . .

_[Someone sings in the street below]_

Seize then thy gladness ere it turns to dust,

Youth can make all acts lovely, all deeds just;

Heed not the tyrant, lean Morality,

But steer thy passion down to the purple sea,

Through winding hills where Beauty hath her home

And calls to travellers, until thou come

Unto the Deep of Lovés Satiety.

_[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]_

Ha-ha, my passion to the purple sea!

And yet, I'd go if Mona Lisa'd come.

We two, close-seated in one crimson boat

Would drift the yellow waters of Romance,

Glide down its stream through hills of mystery

Where Beauty roams, of which the song hath

sung,

Nor ever speak of where that tide should end.

We'd dip no oars, we'd set no hurrying sail,

But swept on the full current of desire

Would steer our course with unimpeded hands,

Watching the pleasure in each other's eyes.

Ah well, 'tis vain to talk! Two-thirds of life

Till now I've spent in spotless purity--

Affection's been retarded by desire

As has my work; my dreams have far excelled

The beauty God moulds into human shape.

The sweet perfection of the womankind

Who haunt my brain, has held me back from love.

This . . . this was so till Mona Lisa came.

Four years I've painted when it was her day,

A day of mist, of mingled rain and sun;

Four years before me silently she's sat

And smiled to see me strive to catch her smile

In liquid paint, with canvas and with brush,

So that her eyes, searching, inscrutable,

May question her sons' sons when she is dust.

I only just begin to know her face.

To learn its sudden changes I have paid

The skill'dest men in all our Tuscan vales,

Harpists, lute-players, masters of the viol,

To make soft music while on her I gaze.

For her content I ordered to be made

A fountain in the courtyard of my house

Whose waters falling, ere they dash to spray,

Smite on smooth spheres, which thus revolve and

hum

The chaunt the winds toll in our upland pines.

About the fountain's brink I caused to plant

Pale iris roots and dew-blanched narcissi,

Since white's the flower which most of all she loves.

Also about the pillars, where the sun

Lengthens the shadows when the evening fades,

I've sculptured . . .

_[Someone sings in the street below]_

Passion's a flower

While-leaf d or red--

None knows which colour

Till it is dead;

Love gives forth fragrance

Pure as God's breath;

Lust in Us dying

Yields the gatherer death.

_[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]_

And had Lorenzo sung those words to me

His voice had had no more familiar sound;

Had he turned back from lordly Paradise

To urge me on in my pursuit of Joy,

Knowing its flower almost within my hand,

He had not said those words more earnestly.

Lo, even now he stands without and I,

By leaning forward, may discerrn his face.

_[Rises, goes to the window; looks out]_

Nothing; the sky is covered with a cloud,

The moon's obscured and all the stars are dead.

_[Cries, as though hailing someone]_

Lorenzo, ho Lorenzo! Are you there?

I heard your singing. I am come, old friend.

_[Listens; then to himself]_

What's over there? I thought a shadow stirred.

There, over there! Beneath Piero's wall.

Hath Pagan Plato triumphed over Christ

And sent his chief apostle back to us?

Or hath Lord Christ in his compassion wrought

That kindness Dives craved of Abraham,

Sending Lorenzo here from off his breast

To bid me snatch my Joy ere Death befalls?

No . . . no, the moon shines through and makes

all plain.

This is some old Florentine Lazarus--

A soldier crippled in our Pisan wars

Who begs upon San Marco's steps by day.

Hi, here's a scudot Catch it in your cap.

D'you hear me fellow?_

Strange, he does not stay,

But hastens on as if he . . . there, he's gone.

Perchance he's mad or deaf, or blind and mad.

And yet methought that, when he turned to go,

His face looked upward, so it caught the light;

And it was like to one . . .

_[Comes hack from the window and sits down]_

Ah well,

I'll think no more of spirits and of ghosts;

Let the dead past go bury up its dead.

I'll think of Mona Lisa's face alone . . .

_Of Mona Lisa's face.

Just now I said

One thing I knew, that I had never trod

The quiet vale where grows the flower of white.

'Twas false. Four years I've lived and wandered

there

And seen my flower, but feared to break its stem.

Dear God, thou knowest how often I have prayed

That this temptation might not make me fall--

Yea, I have asked for death's deliverance.

Is this thy answer, that it is no sin

For men to gather that which most they love?

So be it. Silence answers every prayer;

Thy voice hath spoken--I am satisfied.

Men say in Florence, while I watched her face,

That I bewitched her, so her very eyes

Grew in expression like unto my own,

So that her hands took on my restless ways,

So that her mouth hath altered in its smile

And, when I paint her face, I paint my own.

Then let that be God's answer to my prayer.

Ah, she is like me, she is very like!

God made her for the sister of my soul;

He would not have His plans jerked out of joint

By one mistake, because she chanced to wed

Her bankrupt father's sternest creditor

To save his name--and this, some years ago;

Therefore He sent His singer here to-night

That he, in words I loved, might tell me so.

Certainly God is good and very great.

'Tis said her husband hath returned this night,

Passing at sundown through the southern gate

From Naples, where last spring he went to sell

Certain Sicilian cattle which he had.

(He sold, I'll warrant, at the highest price),

So, if the husband's come, then _she_ is home.

That day she left me, 'twas an April day,

One of her days of mingled mist and sun,

I well remember how she paused and gazed

Full in my eyes, as if forbidden love

Were vainly seeking words which shame denied;

Then suddenly she stooped, and her lips brushed

My forehead. God gave gentle words ; she prayed,

"May the Christ-Mother have you in her care"--

Nothing besides. Passionately I rose up,

Willing for her sake to be crucified;

Stretched forth my arms to snatch her to my

breast,

And found her gone--the courtyard filled with sun.

Six months have passed since then--six tortured

months!

There hangs her portrait, it has felt no brush

Since on that April mom she went away;

And now the empty courtyard's filled with night,

And back to Florence Mona Lisa's come.

To-morrow I will go to her and say,

"Lisa, here take my life for it is yours.

Do with it as you will; but do not stay

To add, subtract, and reckon up its cost.

Act a brave part and, if your love's like mine,

We need not fear; for what we lose we gain,

And, though we gain much, still to-day's to-day

And, while we tarry, one day's love is lost."

Ah, would that I might speak those words to-night

For, while I halt, another night is gone--

Crush'd to a mem'ry 'neath the heel of Time.

I'm minded even now to venture forth,

To go to her, although the hour is late;

And through the darkness, when she hears me call,

Only to say to her this one word, "_Come_."

Thus unto men speak Birth, Fate, Love and Death,

The four great captains of this brief campaign;

Casting a shadow at the soul's tent-door,

Each in his turn beckons and whispers, "_Come_."

And I to her am Death, Birth, Love and Fate;

And she to me is Love, and only Love.

I'll go to her. How can I longer wait?

Her nearer presence sets my blood aflame;

I'll seize my flower . . .

_[Commences to descend the stairway, then pauses]_

Ah, the song again!

_[Someone sings in the street below]_

Let naught of fear Youth's laughing steps delay,

Aye, gather gladness; pluck it while ye may--

We burn not if To-morrow curse or Hess.

Who cares--one red bud more, one white bud less?

Only we burn that love was meant to spend,

And this we burn, that each life hath its end;

Therefore, O Youth, snatch all thy happiness.

_[Descends slowly; passes out into the street]_

_[Leonardo da Vinci speaks]_

There's truth in every line that song hath sung.

The hand that wrote it's twelve years turned to

dust,

The brain's become a hollow nothingness--

A little grayness lying in a skull;

And yet Lorenzo guides my steps to-night

Unto my love as truly as in life.

Oh wonderful and strange that men should die

And, being buried, still should talk with us!

When _I_ am free, and future ages come

To stand amazed before the girl I loved,

Then I will speak with them, say thus and thus,

And, though departed, never shall be dead.

For this I'll paint her portrait till 'tis done,

Singing, like Raphael, from gray dawn to dusk,

Pausing to kiss her forehead, lips, throat, eyes,

Learning their beauty, where mine own lips touch;

So I, like Angelo, with measured stride

Will race with Fame, until the prize is won.

Yea, men attain most only when they love.

"_But steer thy passion down to the purple sea,_"

(How went the song?) "_Until at length thou come

Unto the Deep of Love's Satiety_."

Truly, that is the way that brave men love:

Reckless of blame, despising consequence,

Not counting on a better day to come,

Seizing with warrior-hands their Joy at once.

And love in life is everything to us,

And I have failed because I have not loved.

But, when her soft arms go about my neck

And I grow pale before her great desire,

A new success will pass into my blood

And I'll be strong . . .

Ah, someone's coming up!

I'll draw into the shadow of this gate;

Perhaps he'll pass. I seem to know his tread.

No good! He's seen me; I must seek the light.

Is't you Vitelli?

_[Vitelli]_

Leonardo?

_[Leonardo da Vinci]_

Yes.

_[Vitelli speaks]_

Well, how's the painting? Is her portrait done?

Whose portrait? Why, the one of Lisa's face.

Not finished! What, 'tis only just begun?

Well, that's a pity. Four years seems some time

To gape before a canvas with a brush.

Beg pardon. This is what I meant to say:

That since you could not paint her in her life,

You'll scarce be more successful now she's

dead . . .

You did not know? . . . _Why, she's been dead

three months._

CENTURIES AGO

In the solemn twilight, centuries ago,

God walked in His Garden, all His stars below;

God was very lonely, so He caused to grow

Man, in some ways like Him, centuries ago.

Man roamed through the twilight, centuries ago,

Always thinking, thinking--wishing he might know

Who it was that made him; then God caused to

grow

Woman, who was half-God, centuries ago.

These, within God's Garden, centuries ago,

Stood beneath the twilight calling very low

To some voice to answer, whereby they might

know

Had God really made them--centuries ago.

Thus whilst they were listening, centuries ago,

Solemn feet drew nigh them, treading very slow;

Solemn hands so touched them that they caused to

grow

Something that was All-God, centuries ago.

Then they left God's Garden, centuries ago.

Scarcely dared to question, never hoped to know,

Who it was that touched them, causing thus to

grow

That small child, so like them--centuries ago.

HIS MOTHER

I bore him in my breast--

Yes, it was I.

My mother's hands impressed

Stars of the sky

On to his infant sight,

As we watched night by night,

Jesus and I.

I taught him how to pray;

Yes, it was I

Gave him the words to say.

God drawing nigh,

We two walked hand-in-hand

Close to God's Hidden Land,

Jesus and I.

This little son of mine

Fell from the sky;

God made him all divine--

Yet there was I.

I came to bear his loss,

He came to take his cross--

He came to die.

Thus we went hand-in-hand,

My son and I,

Up to God's Hidden Land--

Went up to die.

He entered in to reign

And came not back again--

Yet there was I.

PERHAPS

"Perhaps tomorrow, but not today.

I am young and life is long," she said;

And she smiled to herself and tossed her head--

She scarcely cared that he went away.

Perhaps tomorrow, but not today."

Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps today,"

She laughed; and the green things rose from bed

And lived their moment. But still she said,

Till the sky grew old and the world grew gray,

Perhaps tomorrow, but not today."

Neither tomorrow, nor yet today."

Night fell. She heard the voice and sped,

And followed his steps, till she found Love dead.

The forest muttered, as it would say,

Neither tomorrow, nor any day."

BELLUM AMORIS

Oh, the romance of it,

Soul-thrilling trance of it,

Though lives are lost which no love can restore!

Hearts ride a-prance at it,

Taking their chance at it--

Wing-thriven hearts to the seat of Love's War.

Sorrow is theirs in store;

This they know well before,

Yet do they ride from the West and the East

Hoping for this at least,

Out from the West and East,

Glory with death at the end of the war.

Should they return again,

Life sings the old refrain,

Mystery, madness and mirth at the core:

Patter of falling rain,

Dawnings which wax and wane,

Life which is war at the end of Love's War.

Thunders have ceased to roar,

Terrors they knew before

When they rode out from the East and the West.

Though passions will not rest,

Love, which is always best,

Honours brave lips at the end of the war.

QUEEN MARY OF HEAVEN

She sits in God's garden,

Queen Mary of Heaven,

Where birds sing their steven

Hid in the cool tree;

And all the gold day-time,

From morning till even,

Earth's little strange children

Play round her knee.

Earth's lost little children

She binds to her bosom,

Each wind-gathered blossom,

Till mothers are free

To steal to God's Garden

And name them and loose them--

In Eden's green garden,

'Neath Mary's tree.

A BRAVE LIFE

The arid loneliness of life he knew,

The doubtful darkness of the starless night,

And fear lest he should never see the sight

Of dawn and God the Father breaking through.

Brave offspring of a disenchanted age

He lived as though illusion were not dead;

His was the pain of faiths discredited

Which with new knowledge civil battles wage.

In all his deeds for righteous quests he stood

And we, who watched his face and heard his voice,

Dreamed of the Christ; we had not any choice,

In loving him we knew that God was good--

We knew. And thus, beneath the hooded sky,

Lightly we followed where his pain had made

A path for us; if one should fall, he stayed

To raise him, lest his frailer hope should die.

Ofttimes when summer's day had ceased to shine

And on our London roofs the moon looked down,

We two would wander through the gas-lit town

Speaking in whispers of the things divine;

Or in love's stillness, high above the strife,

We found our spirits strangely catching fire,

And told of that "_ unspeakable desire

After the knowledge of the buried life._"

He knows its secret now; the morning mist

Drifts up the road where his last footprint lies;

And I, as ever when a Christ-man dies,

Stand awe-struck, asking, "Was not this the

Christ?"

His soul craved God. I think we always knew

He would be with us but a little while.

Night vanished; dawn broke--when he saw God

smile

Back like a homing-bird to God he flew.

THE MOON-MOTHER

The world is a child who roams all day

Through windswept meadows of gold and gray.

The gold flowers fade; he foils to sleep,

And night is his cradle wide and deep.

The moon-mother creeps from behind God's throne

And steals up the skies to protect her own.

She leans her breast 'gainst his cradle-rim

While her small star-children gaze down on him.

Stars are his brothers; clouds his dreams;

His mother's arms are the pale moon-beams.

When meadows again grow gold and gray,

He wakes from sleep and runs forth to play.

But every night from behind God's throne

The moon-mother steals to protect her own.

TO A YOUNG GIRL WHO SAID SHE WAS NOT BEAUTIFUL

It's not her hair and it's not her feet,

Nor the way she walks with her head held high;

It's not because her eye-brows meet

Like a bird's wings over a glimpse of sky;

And it isn't her voice like April bloom

Rustling through an orchard's gloom--

It's none of these; not her wide gray eye,

Nor her crumpled mouth like a rose-bud red

Round which the snows of the jasmine spread.

Though her long white hands

Are like lilies of Lent,

Palely young and purely bent

O'er her breast, where God stands,

It's none of these.

Flowers and trees

With her to compare

Are too little rare.

Though the grass yearns up to touch her feet,

She is loved for this--she is sweet, sweet, sweet.

HALLOWE'EN

_Hark to the patter of the rain,

Voices of dead things come again:

Feet that rustle the lush wet grass,

Lips that mutter, "Alas! Alas!"

And shadows that grope o'er my window-pane._

Poor outcast souls, you saw my light

And thought that I, on such a night,

Would pity take and bid you in

To warm your hands, so palely thin,

Before my fire which blazeth bright.

You come from hells of ice-cold clay

So pent that, striving every way,

You may not stir the coffin-lid;

And well you know that, if you did,

Darkness would come and not the day.

Darkness! With you 'tis ever dark;

No joy of skyward-mounting lark

Or blue of swallow on the wing

Can penetrate and comfort bring

You, where you lie all cramp'd and stark.

Deep sunk beneath the secret mould,

You hear the worm his length unfold

And slime across your frail roof-plank,

And tap, and vanish, like the rank

Foul memory of a sin untold.

And this your penance in the tomb:

To weave upon the mind's swift loom

White robes, to garb remorsefully

A _Better Life_--which may not be

Or, when it comes, may seal your doom.

Thus, side by side, through all the year,

Yet just apart, you wake and hear,

As men on land the ocean's strum,

Your Dead World's hushed delirium

Which, sounding distant, yet is near.

So near that, could he lean aside,

The bridegroom well might touch his bride

And reach her flesh, which once was fair,

And, slow across the pale lips where

He kissed her, feel his fingers glide.

So distant, that he can but weep

Whene'er she moans his name in sleep:

A cold-grown star, with light all spent,

She gropes the abyssmal firmament.

He hears her surging in the Deep.

Ever throughout the year 'tis thus

Till drones the dream-toned Angelus

Of Hallowe'en; then, underground,

Unto dead ears its voice doth sound

Like Christ's voice, crying, "_Lazarus_."

Palsied with haste the dead men rise

Groaning, because their unused eyes

Can scarce endure Earth's blackest night;

It wounds them as 'twere furious light

And stars were flame-clouds in the skies.

What tenderness and sad amaze

Must grieve lost spirits when they gaze

Beneath a withered moon, and view

The ancient happiness they knew--

The live, sweet world and all its ways!

Ho, Deadmen! for a night you're free

Till Dawn leads back Captivity.

To make your respite seem more dear

Mutter throughout your joy this fear:

"Who knows, within the coming year,

That God, our gaoler, may not die;

Then, who'll remember where we lief

Who then will come to set us free f

Through all the ages this may be

Our final night of liberty."

Aye, hoard your moments miserly.

And yet .... and yet, it is His rain

That drives against my window-pane.

Oh, surely all Earth's dead have rest

And stretch at peace in God's own breast,

And never can return again!

And yet . . . .

UNSEEN

Oh mother, why are you weeping

When aLl the world's asleeping?

Rest ye, rest ye, mother,

I am near, dear, near.

Not beneath the moon-drenched grass

Do I turn to hear you pass--

You would see me walk beside you, if your eyes

saw dear.

Oh mother, why are you crying?

There was no loss in dying.

Rest ye, rest ye, mother,

Have no fear, no fear.

Still long hangs my golden hair,

But the body that I wear

Treads more kindly and more lightly, could you

hear, dear, hear.

She has stayed her eyes from weeping;

She is sleeping, sweetly sleeping.

Rest ye, weary mother,

I am here, dear, here.

Now the dawn-wind fans her cheek,

And she knows not that I speak--

But my arms are warm about her, could her eyes

see clear.

WHY THEY LOVED HIM

So kindly was His love to us,

(We had not heard of love before),

That all our life grew glorious

When He had halted at our door.

So meekly did He love us men,

Though blind we were with shameful sin,

He touched our eyes with tears, and then

Led God's tall angels flaming in.

He dwelt with us a little space,

As mothers do in childhood's years;

And still we can discern His face

Wherever Joy or Love appears.

He made our virtues all His own,

And lent them grace we could not give;

And now our world seems His alone,

And while we live He seems to live.

He took our sorrows and our pain,

And hid their torture in His breast;

Till we received them back again

To find on each His grief impressed.

He clasped our children in His arms,

And showed us where their beauty shone;

He took from us our gray alarms,

And put Death's icy armor on.

So gentle were His ways with us

That crippled souls had ceased to sigh;

On them He laid His hands, and thus

They gloried at His passing by.

Without reproof or word of blame,

As mothers do in childhood's years,

He kissed our lips, in spite of shame,

And stayed the passage of our tears.

So tender was His love to us,

(We had not learnt to love before),

That we grew like to Him, and thus

Men sought His grace in us once more.

April fields and England's flowers,

English friends and April showers,

April voices o'er the sea

Calling, calling unto me:

Oh, why tarry, why delay!

Hither lies the meadow-way;

No such meadows shalt thou see,

Oh, come back to Arcady."

Happy English Arcady

Thou art calling, calling me

Through thin flutes as frail as Pan

Fingered, when long since he ran

Careless as these foreign flowers,

Trailing through these tropic bowers

All their largess of gold leaf,

Piling splendors sheaf on sheaf.

Some there be who think Pan dead,

Say his nymphs and flutings sped;

I know better, I have seen

Where his racing feet have been.

Still I hear the dead god's voice--

England's; Had my soul the choice,

It should wade through starry bloom

Knee-deep to the brown-burnt broom.

April fields and April flowers,

April friends and April showers,

England shouting o'er the sea,

Calling, calling unto me.

CHILDISH TRAVELLING

Ah, little child, as you lie in my breast,

Leaning your hair of gold close to my face,

Flushed in the gathering glow of the West,

Where shall we travel--to what joyous place?

Shall we refashion our castles in Spain,

Or sail to the Indies with Sinbad again,

Or noiselessly drift to where tired stars wane--

Shall it be Africa, Sinbad or Spain?

Speak, little child, and together we'll go

Back to the musical dreamlands we know.

Dear little child, you have wandered to rest.

While you are sleeping I wonder and think

Where you will go, and what land will be best

Treading for such baby feet, and I shrink.

Should they be hillsides of laughing and song,

Or gardens of mercy and righting of wrong,

Of weeping, or triumph, or love growing strong,

Journeys of shouting, of sorrow or song?

I can but love you and kiss your gold hair,

Happy in hoping that Christ may be there.

THE IVORY LATCH

Rattle the Ivory Latch of Love

And who will unbar the gate?

Ask no questions, my dearest love,

But wait--wait--wait.

Ah, will she be haughty Isabeau,

Pale Isodore, or Kate?

_Hush, dearest dear, some day you'll know,

Be not importunate._

Perchance I might love Isodore,

I think I could love Kate;

I have no fears for Isabeau

Should she unbar the gate.

_Perchance she may be Isabeau,

Perhaps she will be Kate;

But which, dear heart, you'll never know,

Till you have learned to wait._

THE ONCE SUNG SONG

Christ along the Road to Fame,

When all birds were singing,

Pluck't white lilies as He came,

Set the blue-bells ringing;

Poppies flared in strident flame

When they heard His singing.

Further up the Road to Fame

Birds grew still in sorrow;

Though His feet were very lame

Courage did He borrow,

Singing as He onward came,

Dreaming of the morrow.

Crimsoned by the Road of Fame

Christ passed sick and dying.

Through the hedges, red with shame,

Crippled men there lying,

Seeing how He singing came,

Marvelled at their sighing.

Distant down the Road to Fame,

When all else ceased singing,

Messengers of music came--

Little echoes winging

Withered hearts with wings of flame--

Fragments of Christ's singing.

SPRING

_Sing, sing,

Spring and birth!

A maid shall be mother of all the earth._

Winter's bones lie bare and bleak,

Scattered white on the mountain peak.

Through stark woods the Madonna Spring

Glides with her unborn offering.

Where she treads dead flowers stir

And raise their heads to gaze after her,

And trees make dense their boughs with green

That her motherhood may not be seen.

Summer lies hid 'neath her girlish breast;

Till her babe is bom she shall find no rest.

Yet is she glad in her wandering

And weaves meek songs 'gainst her mothering.

_Birth, birth,

Lave and mirth!

Spring is Madonna of all the earth_.

A LULLABY

Son of God, thou little child

O'er whose sleep the Virgin smiled,

Guard us, though this night be wild,

From Lilith--Lilith.

Guard us, though our watch be slack,

Guard us, though the night be black,

Though this night all stars should lack

From Lilith--Lilith.

Stay her steps from drawing nigh,

Kiss my baby lest he cry,

And she hear him, and he die

From Lilith--Lilith.

Son of God, thou little child

O'er whose sleep the Virgin smiled,

May his soul be unbeguiled

By Lilith--Lilith.

UNANSWERABLE QUESTIONS

Is there light of moon or sun

In the land where thou hast gone?

Does the rush of wind and rain

Smite thy woodlands green again?

Do dawn-birds rise up and sing,

Sunrise. Sunrise," heralding?

Dost thou fear, as once, the stark

Hours of panther-footed dark?

Oh, little maiden, sweetly frail,

Naught can these empty words avail.

For thee I clasp God's mantle fast,

Praying till night is overpast.

THE HILL-TOWER

_A ROMANCE_

_"Bianca of the yellow hair,

With witch-face white as ivory,

Yield to our might that we may bear

Thy body back to Rimini."_

And thus the foemen cried all day

And strove to daunt with fierce display

Of armoured strength her maiden heart,

So that with them she might depart

From out that hill-tower where with three

She'd held the pass right fearlessly--

So that with them she might depart

To shameful death in Rimini.

Bianca, child of Abramo

The despot lord of Reggio,

Had set our country-side on flame

With the binning torch of her beauty's fame,

And a deadman's hate of her deadly name.

For she had gazed with cold gray eyes

On Rufo--he now starkly lies

Deep in a sculptured sepulchre,

Smitten with death through love of her.

Rufo, the heir of Ugo Count

Qf Rimini and vast amount

Of warrior-men and chivalry,

Had come to claim her haughtily;

But had scorched his soul in her golden hair.

As a wounded beast creeps to his lair,

So he vilely died by slow degrees

Of heart-break and a sore disease,

Till his eyes grew glazed and ceased to stir,

And his life gave out for his love of her.

Then Ugo swore a mighty oath,

By God's own Christ and by Christ's truth,

Though I go unarmed and go alone,

For my son's death she shall atone.

I'll take this witch of Reggio

And through the flames will make her go,

Till her sweet red lips grow cracked and sere,

Till her eyes are scarred and mad with fear,

Till her false young tongue cannot speak love's

name,

Till her tender feet drop off with flame--

Till she hath naught left that men desire

She shall pass and pass through consuming fire."

This was the oath which he did swear

When he cursed her face in his hate of her.

So Ugo rode on Reggio

And called on the name of Abramo,

Claiming the body of her who wrought

Love's enchantments and made distraught

The souls of the lovers who came to her,

And told of the oath which he did swear.

They bade him stand without the wall

And bore his tidings to the hall.

From early mom he stood till eve,

And still no message did receive.

When night was falling, dusk and dim,

A city harlot drew nigh to him

And grayly glimmered along the wall,

And stopped where the Count was standing tall.

What news," he cried, "from Abramo,

Must I raze this city of Reggio?"

He reared his plume to its towering height.

She leaned far out in the waning light.

He clutched with one hand his saddle-bow

And saw her smile when she answered, "No,"

And spat on his face and strained down on

him.

He rode away 'neath the crescent rim

Of a new-made moon through an olive-grove,

And evil passions within him strove;

In anger he gained the shining sea

Which silvers the shores of Rimini.

There he made great stir and called out his men,

And marshalled their ranks on a level fen,

And clothed them in black and gave beside

His knights black stallions which to ride,

And ordered no singing. "For," said he,

We mourn one dead in Rimini."

Over the hills he caused to go

His sombre ranks to Reggio;

Through pleasant valleys and dew-drenched woods

His horsemen paced in their sable hoods

With no shrill of bugle or revelry,

Like angels of Death's dread company.

At night they stole to the dty-wall

And clustered beneath the ramparts tall;

And hearkened for noise of warlike din,

And found no breath of strife within;

And watched for lights in the houses' eyes,

And saw but the stars within the skies.

Then as one voice they raised the shout,

The echo eddied their cry about,

We call on you men of Reggio

To give us the daughter of Abramo,

That she pass and pass through consuming fire

Till she hath naught left that men desire.

Give us the daughter of Abramo."

Swift and dread, dark-robed and dim,

Like thunder about a crater's brim,

They surged round the city at dead of night

And chased their shadows in stately flight,

And swept the circle with beating hoof,

And flashed their blades on high as proof

Of the hate they had; nor ceased to moan

Like men long dead 'neath the charnel-stone,

Give us the daughter of Abramo."

The dawn was groping up the sky,

An early bird was heard to cry;

Forth from the gate with haunted eyes

Four figures crept in leper's guise,

And two had long and yellow hair

And none had face or body bare.

Swiftly they ran from tree to tree

And wound their way all secretly

Through gloom and grove to the rising sun,

And through that day did onward run

Till evening came, and they drew at length

To the lonely might and granite strength

Of the hill-tower in the narrow pass

Where refuge and a safety was.

Then did they lock and bar the door

And armed themselves, for they knew before

Another moon should flood the sky

They would hear Count Ugo's hunting cry,

Yield to us, daughter of Abramo."

Two frail maids, two boyish men,

Lovers all in the good days when

Only the sun was in the sky

Nor clouds of grief came trailing by;

Two brave maids and two brave men

Now, in an hour of darkness, when

Only the clouds were in the sky

Loved more dearly than formerly.

Corrado, page of Bianca's court,

Had loved his mistress and long had sought

To speak his heart but feared, for he

Was a love-child owned of no family.

Celia was her half-sister,

Wondrous sweet and like to her,

So like that she had fled lest she

For Bianca's self should mistaken be.

Ciro, son of a noble name,

Loved this girl, therefore he came

To give his life, if need should be,

He loved her life so utterly.

Oft in the hush of a summer's night

When earth has rest from the savage might

Of flaming suns, and starlight sheds

Kindness of dew on flowers' heads,

And birds have got them away to rest,

These lads had whispered breast to breast

Of the joy they felt and happy thrills

When they heard so much as the shaken frills

Of these they loved in the passing by;

And then, betwixt a sob and sigh,

Had dreamed of a day when they should wed.

Vain dream! Vain dream! now here, instead,

With Bianca fled to the hill-side tower

They should strain and hearken hour by hour,

With clutching hands and bated breath,

For man's last bride--the Woman, Death.

And thus they sat a lengthy while

Till one face lit with a wandering smile:

Come now, my lords," Bianca said,

Why sit ye heavy-eyed and sad?

Men say ye each have loved a maid;

Surely, I think, I should be glad

To draw so near for an hour or two

The maid I loved, though well I knew

The early mom should find me dead."

Then he who loved her, laughed and said,

Yea, lady mine, I will be bold

Too long my love hath lain untold;

Yet mine was not an unshared sorrow

But grief for thine and thy sad to-morrow

If my lord, thy father, fail to send

His cavalry."

'God will defend

His maid," she said, "God will provide.

But, if to Rimini I ride,

I shall be glad recalling this,

That thou did'st not withhold thy kiss

When all my loves had forsaken me."

Aye love, brief love, sweet love," sighed he,

Thou art more than life--far more, far more."

So through that night, by the fast-locked door,

They spake of lové till they drooped to sleep,

Nor heard at dawn the wary creep

Of one who traced the outer-wall,

And found the marks of their foot-fall.

When mists were lifting off the sky

They sprang from dreams at a sudden cry,

And gazed with startled eyes around:

"'Tis naught," they laughed, "'twas a country

sound--

A late-awakened bird did call,

A wind blew through the water-fall.

'Tis naught--'tis naught."

But afar they heard

A wail not made by beast or bird;

A hungry moan, long-drawn and low,

"Give us the daughter of Abramo."

She stretched her arms along the wall

And leant aside as she would fall,

And cowered low 'neath her yellow hair

As though its weight were too much to bear.

And, "Oh, sweet God, dear God," she cried,

Hark how they come! They ride, they ride!

What ill have I ever done to Thee

That men should bum my fair body?

Stoop from Thy skies and succour me."

"Yea, God hath stooped. Fear not, dear heart,

For I and Ciro will play God's part,

And Celia sweet shall comfort thee

While we brand these dogs of Rimini."

With hurried feet they clomb the stair

And quickly gained the outer air,

And ghostly saw through the morning haze

The winding funeral arrays

Of Ugo's knights and warrior-men.

Dumbly they watched, and heard often

Their hunting cry borne down the breeze.

Corrado laughed with an ugly ease,

And thus it is he comes with these:

Strong stallions, lances, Genoese--

To take one slim and fragrant girl!

Oh, Ciro mine, our hands shall hurl

These valiant fighters from the wall,

Though we be lads and they be tall.

If God there be above us all,

Then love shall give us strength this day."

Down on the stones they kneeled to pray

That He who brought their lives to be

Should crown their loves with victory.

They rose and flew their heraldry:

An evening star, a saffron sea,

And on the sea, the star below,

The dry-shod pard of Reggio.

No answer made the sable foe,

But round the tower, with footsteps slow,

Paced till his journeys numbered three;

Then from the host one silently,

Thrust on a spear for mockery,

And raised the head of Abramo.

Swift round the tower in mirthless rout

They raced and tossed the words about,

_"Bianca of the yellow hair,

With witch-face white as ivory,

Yield to our might that we may bear

Thy body back to Rimini,_"

'Twas thus the foemen cried all day

And strove to daunt with fierce display

Of armoured strength her maiden heart,

So that with them she might depart

To shameful death in Rimini.

Bianca, in the vault below,

Crouched at her prayers and did not know

This death, and of her father's shame;

But heard their shouts and heard her name.

Oh, little hands," she softly sighed,

Wherefore should ye be crucified,

What have ye done that men should see

Naught in your grace, save witchery?

Oh, yellow hair, so like the sun,

What is this sin that thou hast done

That men should have such hate of thee?

And sweet grave face of ivory,

So made for love and for desire,

Why should they crave thee for the fire?

Fire of love was meant for thee."

Her sister bent and kissed the hands

Which hung straight down like two white wands,

And hid her lips in a yellow tress,

And kissed the breasts where they met the dress,

And laid her cheek on the weary face

To wipe away each tear's distress,

To cleanse of grief each grievous place.

And this for thee," she said and kissed.

And this for thee," and held each wrist.

And this for thee," and met the lips.

As priest in sacred water dips

His hand at last confessional

To purge each thoroughfare of sense

And bring again lost innocence,

So she made pure and perfect all.

Shrill through their peace shrieked the battle-

call,

Per Jesum Christum! Reggio!

Have at them Death! They fall, they fall!"

And hoarse, hard-breathed, the wall below,

Surged up the wrath of the hungry foe,

Give USs the daughter of Abramo."

Fierce through that day the struggle went,

And blood was spilt and swords were bent.

The sun sank bloody in the West;

The day died bitter and unblest.

The mountains strained against the sky

And angrily, as they would try

To wrench from earth their trampled gowns.

An eagle o'er the upland downs

Hung poised, then beat his wings, as he

Refused to share man's cruelty.

At nightfall, when the host withdrew,

A spearman, whom they counted dead,

In dying strength raised up his head

And sped a poisoned dart, which slew

Ciro, who from the tower's height

Leaned out to watch the evening light.

And thus of four there remained but three.

Celia clomb the winding stair

And thought of how her yellow hair

Could save the three, if she should dare

To yield herself to Rimini.

For I am very like to her,"

She said, "so like that if I were

To feign myself for my sister

By night--this night if I should go,

I think the Count would never know

Till they were safe and I was burned."

The last bend in the stair she turned

And halted as she gained the roof,

And stretched her gaze abroad for proof

Of where her lover might keep guard.

There, where a shafted moonbeam barred

An alcove of gray masonry,

His face shone out, so tranquilly

She thought him sleeping; but his eyes

Were wide, intent on her and wise

Beyond the sight of living men.

Softly she called to him and, when

He answered not, 'twas then she knew. . .

She kissed his forehead, and withdrew

Her tired feet adown the stair.

Bianca kneeled entranced in prayer

And noticed not her passing by,

But counted fast her rosaRy.

Corrado, touched upon the arm,

Reeled as he turned in fierce alarm.

She said, "We change the watch this hour.

I will abide; guard you the tower."

Then, as he set his foot to go,

Kiss me, dear friend, for you must know

We may not ever meet again,

This war has brought us so much pain."

He gazed on her a tender while,

And wondered at the gracious smile

Around her lips. "While we are four,"

He said, "we need not fear this war;

Love is more than life ... far more, far more."

She answered, "Not while we are four."

Ah, have no fear at all," he said;

"She prays for us, see how her head

Is bowed in reverence to God."

He took his sword and clanking trod

The stone-paved vault and winding stair,

Till she could judge him mounting where

Another turn would bring to sight

Her dead love's face in the shafted light

Where the moonbeam washed the turret white.

She bared her feet and crept the floor,

With eager hands wrenched loose the door,

And weeping passed into the night.

The dawn thrust up a wild white face

And stared toward the lonely place,

Where through the vigil, hour by hour,

Corrado guarded well the tower.

It seemed his own reflected face,

So wannish and so wide of eye;

The lips moved and he caught their sigh,

I am thyself and I must die."

Thus did he learn the uttermost,

The live man meeting his own ghost,

And knew that surely he must die.

The sun flashed up; the face was fled.

By night he knew he must be dead.

He leaned beyond the parapet

To scan the rocky pass if yet

Some help might wind around the hill.

The morning air was very still;

He heard the noise of climbing feet,

Of something dragged across the peat,

And saw two knights who, drawing near,

Bore that which clogged his heart with fear--

A white gown, sown with golden threads

Which held the light as do the meads

When dandelions toss their heads

Mid meadow-sweet and field-clover,

Which poppy-leaves drift red over--

A long white gown and smirched with red,

And hands so still, they must be dead.

They laid her on a grass-grown bank

And loosed about her neck the stole,

So that her gold hair round her sank

To frame a burning aureole.-

How now, ye dogs of Rimini,

What crime is this that ye have done

To show to God's new-risen sun,

Which he will tell God secretly?"

And one in shame drew back a pace,

And one raised up his vizored face,

No crime, Sir Knave. God's work, I trow.

Give us the witch, and we will go--

The match to this, from Reggio."

We have no witch, as well ye know."

But, as he spake, he heard with pain

Their scornful laugh.

To make things plain,

The black knight pitched his voice and said

And pointed, "Ho sir, turn your head;

The witch stands by you even now."

The world across his eyes and brow

Streamed scarlet. By his side she stood,

Her eyes bent on a distant wood

Wherein the shadows came and went,

Where horsemen from their stallions leant

All eager for the bugle cry.

We fight in vain," he heard her sigh,

God wills it thus, that I should die."

Nay, courage, sweetheart, while I stand

With strength to grasp a sword in hand

No harm shall come thee nigh nor by."

But she had seen that on the hill

Which made her moan, so that she still

Kept looking and, "Oh, Christ," she sobbed,

What is that thing so palely robed?"

Her shadow slid throughout the space

Until it reached across the face

Of that dead maid, until their lips

Strained to the kiss, their finger-tips

Met at the touch.

The enemy

Shouted, "A witch, yea, verily,

See how her shade feeds on the dead."

Oh, I must go to her," she said:

She sleeps alone, alone, alone."

Her thin hands grazed against the stone,

So blindly did she walk, her throat

Stretched back, her hair far out did float

Like sun-clouds following the sun.

He followed her, passed down the stair,

On through the vault and halted where

She paused to swing the iron door;

Then, out upon the trampled moor.

There, where the dead girl lay, she knelt

And made of her fair arms a belt

Around the corse; there, with her hair,

Wiped clean the face of earth and blood;

There, with her mouth, rebuked the stare

Of those strange eyes; last, made all good

By placing in the hands for rood

That which she pluck't from out the breast.

They watched if God should stand the test.

Ah, see," she cried, "God is awake,

The dagger's bloodstains weep and make

Large tears of red: the metal bleeds!"

If Lord God is awake and heeds,

He must heed quickly." So he said,

For wading up the river-bed,

Half-hid between its tree-topped banks,

He caught the gleam of horses' flanks

And, mingled with the water's flow,

The low-breathed panting of the foe.

Yea, God doth heed, and even now

His finger burns across each brow

His final lettering of doom:

Not one of these beyond Hell's gloom

Shall thrive to win a Heavenly home."

The words fell so remote and meek

She seemed not her own self to speak,

But with her eyes to voice the spell

Which should bring true the oracle.

He caught her hand. "Come quick,"

cried,

Come back, dear heart! See where they ride