Chapter III: =Men=

Oh labourers, oh shuttles across the blue frame of morning, You feet of the rainbow balancing the sky! Oh you who flash your arms like rockets to heaven, Who in lassitude lean as yachts on the sea-wind lie! You who in crowds are rhododendrons in blossom, Who stand alone in pride like lighted lamps; Who grappling down with work or hate or passion, Take strange lithe form of a beast that sweats and ramps: You who are twisted in grief like crumpled beech-leaves, Who curl in sleep like kittens, who kiss as a swarm Of clustered, vibrating bees; who fall to earth At last like a bean-pod: what are you, oh multiform?

RENASCENCE

We have bit no forbidden apple, Eve and I, Yet the splashes of day and night Falling round us no longer dapple The same Eden with purple and white.

This is our own still valley Our Eden, our home, But day shows it vivid with feeling And the pallor of night does not tally With dark sleep that once covered its ceiling.

My little red heifer, to-night I looked in her eyes, --She will calve to-morrow: Last night when I went with the lantern, the sow was grabbing her litter With red, snarling jaws: and I heard the cries Of the new-born, and after that, the old owl, then the bats that flitter.

And I woke to the sound of the wood-pigeons, and lay and listened, Till I could borrow A few quick beats of a wood-pigeon's heart, and when I did rise The morning sun on the shaken iris glistened, And I saw that home, this valley, was wider than Paradise.

I learned it all from my Eve This warm, dumb wisdom. She's a finer instructress than years; She has taught my heart-strings to weave Through the web of all laughter and tears.

And now I see the valley Fleshed all like me With feelings that change and quiver: And all things seem to tally With something in me, Something of which she's the giver.

DOG-TIRED

If she would come to me here, Now the sunken swaths Are glittering paths To the sun, and the swallows cut clear Into the low sun--if she came to me here!

If she would come to me now, Before the last mown harebells are dead, While that vetch clump yet burns red; Before all the bats have dropped from the bough Into the cool of night--if she came to me now!

The horses are untackled, the chattering machine Is still at last. If she would come, I would gather up the warm hay from The hill-brow, and lie in her lap till the green Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its tired sheen.

I should like to drop On the hay, with my head on her knee And lie stone still, while she Breathed quiet above me--we could stop Till the stars came out to see.

I should like to lie still As if I was dead--but feeling Her hand go stealing Over my face and my hair until This ache was shed.

MICHAEL-ANGELO

God shook thy roundness in His finger's cup, He sunk His hands in firmness down thy sides, And drew the circle of His grasp, O Man, Along thy limbs delighted, thine, His bride's.

And so thou wert God-shapen: His finger Curved thy mouth for thee, and His strong shoulder Planted thee upright: art not proud to see In the curve of thine exquisite form the joy of the Moulder?

He took a handful of light and rolled a ball, Compressed it till its beam grew wondrous dark, Then gave thee thy dark eyes, O Man, that all He made had doorway to thee through that spark.

God, lonely, put down His mouth in a kiss of creation, He kissed thee, O Man, in a passion of love, and left The vivid life of His love in thy mouth and thy nostrils; Keep then the kiss from the adultress' theft.

VIOLETS

Sister, tha knows while we was on the planks
Aside o' th' grave, while th' coffin wor lyin' yet
On th' yaller clay, an' th' white flowers top of it
Tryin' to keep off 'n him a bit o' th' wet,

An' parson makin' haste, an' a' the black
Huddlin' close together a cause o' th' rain,
Did t' 'appen ter notice a bit of a lass away back
By a head-stun, sobbin' an' sobbin' again?

--How should I be lookin' round
An' me standin' on the plank
Beside the open ground,
Where our Ted 'ud soon be sank?

Yi, an' 'im that young,
Snapped sudden out of all
His wickedness, among
Pals worse n'r ony name as you could call.

Let be that; there's some o' th' bad as we
Like better nor all your good, an' 'e was one.
--An' cos I liked him best, yi, bett'r nor thee,
I canna bide to think where he is gone.

Ah know tha liked 'im bett'r nor me. But let
Me tell thee about this lass. When you had gone
Ah stopped behind on t' pad i' th' drippin wet
An' watched what 'er 'ad on.

Tha should ha' seed her slive up when we'd gone,
Tha should ha' seed her kneel an' look in
At th' sloppy wet grave--an' 'er little neck shone
That white, an' 'er shook that much, I'd like to begin

Scraïghtin' my-sen as well. 'En undid her black
Jacket at th' bosom, an' took from out of it
Over a double 'andful of violets, all in a pack
Ravelled blue and white--warm, for a bit

O' th' smell come waftin' to me. 'Er put 'er face
Right intil 'em and scraïghted out again,
Then after a bit 'er dropped 'em down that place,
An' I come away, because o' the teemin' rain.

WHETHER OR NOT

I

Dunna thee tell me its his'n, mother,
Dunna thee, dunna thee.
--Oh ay! he'll be comin' to tell thee his-sèn
Wench, wunna he?

Tha doesna mean to say to me, mother,
He's gone wi that--
--My gel, owt'll do for a man i' the dark,
Tha's got it flat.

But 'er's old, mother, 'er's twenty year
Older nor him--
--Ay, an' yaller as a crowflower, an' yet i' the dark
Er'd do for Tim.

Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?
It's somebody's lies.
--Ax him thy-sèn wench--a widder's lodger;
It's no surprise.

II

A widow of forty-five With a bitter, swarthy skin, To ha' 'ticed a lad o' twenty-five An' 'im to have been took in!

A widow of forty-five As has sludged like a horse all her life, Till 'er's tough as whit-leather, to slive Atween a lad an' 'is wife!

A widow of forty-five. A tough old otchel wi' long Witch teeth, an' 'er black hawk-eyes as I've Mistrusted all along!

An' me as 'as kep my-sen Shut like a daisy bud, Clean an' new an' nice, so's when He wed he'd ha'e summat good!

An' 'im as nice an' fresh As any man i' the force, To ha'e gone an' given his white young flesh To a woman that coarse!

III

You're stout to brave this snow, Miss Stainwright,
Are you makin' Brinsley way?
--I'm off up th' line to Underwood
Wi' a dress as is wanted to-day.

Oh are you goin' to Underwood?
'Appen then you've 'eered?
--What's that as 'appen I've 'eered-on, Missis,
Speak up, you nedna be feared.

Why, your young man an' Widow Naylor,
Her as he lodges wi',
They say he's got her wi' childt; but there,
It's nothing to do wi' me.

Though if it's true they'll turn him out
O' th' p'lice force, without fail;
An' if it's not true, I'd back my life
They'll listen to _her_ tale.

Well, I'm believin' no tale, Missis,
I'm seein' for my-sen;
An' when I know for sure, Missis,
I'll talk _then_.