Chapter IV: Over the Hills and Far Away

“Over the hills,” he said, “and far away!”
Ah me! to go, to leave it all and go!
To toss my life as east wind tosses spray,
To clean forget that this land ever lay
Within my sight, that wearied of it so!

“Over the hills,” he said, “and far away!”
Could he have felt my heart leap up and sing!
I knew the primrose path my feet would stray,
I guessed the lovely glow of the new day
That lies beyond the mountain’s purple wing.

“Over the hills,” he said, “and far away!”
He took my heart and wandered on alone;
Doubtless some other strolls with him to-day,
A lightsome comrade on his happy way,
That way across the hills I have not known!

THE SAILOR’S SONG

O the wind’s to the West and the sails are filling free!
Take your head from my breast: you must say good-by to me.
You’d my heart in both your hands, but you did not hold it fast,
And the mill cannot grind with the water that is past.

O it’s I must away, and it’s you must bide at home!
I am sped like the spray, I am fickle as the foam:
It was sweet, my dear, ’twas sweet, but ’twas all too sweet to last,
For the mill cannot grind with the water that is past.

We have clasped, we have kissed, but you would not give me more:
I must win what we missed on some other, farther shore.
You can never hold the gray gull that swings about the mast,
And the mill cannot grind with the water that is past.

You will mourn, you will mate, but ’twill never be with me:
I am off to my fate, and it lies across the sea.
For it’s God alone that knows where my anchor will be cast,
And the mill cannot grind with the water that is past.

QUATRAIN

In a wide chamber from the rest apart,
I spread the purple daïs of my heart:
An unfilled throne, with steps by men untrod,
Too high it was for them--too low for God.

THE OLD COUNTRY

_Where’s the land o’ Dreamland?_
How should I know?
On the moon’s farther side,
Where the drift clouds ride,
And the stars hang low.

_What’s the look o’ Dreamland?_
How should I see?
All the air’s silver-gray,
Glinted with star spray,
Here and there a tree.

_What’s the sound o’ Dreamland?_
How should I hear?
Bell tones from far below,
Night’s haunting cockcrow,
Olden songs and dear.

_What’s the speech o’ Dreamland?_
How should I say?
Great eyes that fill the heart,
Soft hands that clasp and part,
Calls from far away.

_Where’s the gate o’ Dreamland?_
How should I tell?
Sudden you stand before,
Slip through the quiet door--
Ah, but all’s well!

THE LITTLE BLIND BEGGAR

At the gate of the world where the travel flows,
And the folk stream by full-tide,
A little blind Beggar sits in the sun
And shoots afar and awide.

He fits the arrow and twangs the bow
And low in his throat laughs he,
For well he knows he will hit his mark
Though never a face he see.

And never his stock of arrows fails,
For the pain of the wound is sweet,
And the stricken folk bring the arrows back
To pile at the Beggar’s feet.

So he fits the arrows and twangs the bow,
And laughs till his fingers shake,
For well he knows he can never miss,
But somewhere a heart must ache.

Now they who are struck, they keep still tongue,
But they carry the arrows back,
And they who are spared they sound abroad
The songs of the pain they lack.

But still or singing, and grave or gay,
Through the gate of the world they go,
And the little blind Beggar sits in the sun
And laughs as he lays them low.

THE STRANGER CHILD

Now the night is dark,
Now the house is still;
Comes a little stranger child
Toiling up the hill.

Listens at the door,
Peers within the pane,
Reaches for the broken latch
Rusted with the rain.

Murmurs in the dark,
Sobs beneath his breath,
Whispers to the empty rooms,
Quiet, now, for death.

Wanders through the lane
Where the rosebush grew,
Tries to reach the cobwebbed sill
Drenched and dark with dew.

Calls--and calls in vain!
For the man, alone,
Dies before a dying fire,
Hears no human tone.

Only his soul’s voice
Calls the dull roll through;
Good so often long to wait,
Ill so quick to do.

Only his soul’s eyes,
Shamed and tired of all,
Watch the red life ebb and flow,
Watch the last sands fall.

And the little child,
Clinging to the sill,
Weeps and stretches tiny hands,
Weak for good or ill.

Slow the dying coal
Drops from out the fire;
Slowly sinks the house of clay,
Empty of desire.

Through the creaking blind
Slips the spirit now,
Shudders at the stranger child,
“Thou? my lost youth, _thou_?”

SONGS OF ISEULT DESERTED

I

I do not pray for thee, most dear of all,
That ever in soft ways thy feet may fall,
For well I know that wheresoe’er thou art
Thy feet must tread forever on my heart!

I pray thee only to walk gently, sweet,
Nor press too sharply with too cruel feet:
Remember thou how soft the way must be,
How soft--and ah, how sad--and pity me!

II

Should we have loved if we had known
That love would bring one day such pain?
I cannot tell--I only kiss
The pillow where your head has lain.

Should we have loved if we had known
That love would go to come no more?
I cannot tell--I only stand
And sob before a fast-closed door.

III

Since you are gone, all dull my life has grown,
Idle among my empty days I stand:
They pass and pass, and leave me here alone--
Ah, sweet, your hand that burned upon my hand!

Since you are gone, gone are the joys I knew,
Slowly from out the sky the long night slips:
And my arms ache with emptiness of you--
Ah, sweet, your lips that trembled on my lips!

Since you are gone, the world is grown too wide,
With cruel miles that hold us two apart:
I sit and watch the white road weary-eyed--
Ah, sweet, your heart that beat against my heart!

THE OLD CAPTIVE

To hear once more the thunder of the surf,
To breathe once more the salt and stinging wind,
To set my cheek once more against the wave,
To look once more across the billowy Sea!

Chained in the pen of silent heavy hills,
I dream hot nights of that sweet long ago,
When I leaped down the beach in the dim dawn,
And plunged to meet the sun--and knew the Sea!

_And they drove in the boats with a shout and a song,
And they spread wide the nets in the face o’ the wind,
And the ship strained and dipped like a swooping bird,
And we rushed onward, mad for the open Sea!_

Never to feed my eyes on strange dim coasts,
Never to touch a branch washed in by the tide,
Never to gaze on dark and silent men
From some far isle in the mysterious Sea!

Never to see the white sails gleam and fade,
Nor watch black masts against the setting sun,
Never to glide within some wondrous port,
Nor breathe spice winds blown soft across the Sea!

Never to feel the great sail fill and stretch,
Nor plough white fiery trails beneath the stars,
Nor float below some tow’ring rosy berg,
Nor ride the sheer gulfs of the stormy Sea!

_And they rushed down to the beach to drag us in,
And they pulled hard at the rough and glistening rope,
And the glad keel rubbed harsh on the shelly sand,
And their arms strained us, home from the terrible Sea!_

Though in my life I lost thee, tired and dead,
Me they shall bring to thee, O long desired!
Me they shall lay at sunset on the sand,
Where the strong tide swings outward to the Sea.

Me like a cradled child the waves shall rock,
Rock ’neath the moon, and sink to those dim caves,
Those wide green glooms, those clear and pallid depths,
The silence and the strange flowers of the Sea.

_And they shall bear me down with a glorious song,
And they shall shout to the crash and boom of the surf,
And they shall thrill to the whip and sting of the spray,
While the great waves ride triumphing out to Sea!_

Where the pale light strains down through undreamed deeps
To glimmer o’er the vast unpeopled plains,
The ancient treasure piles of dead kings’ fleets,
The mighty bones long bleached beneath the Sea,

There where cool corals and still seaweeds twine,
There on the solemn level ocean floor,
Till God’s great arm shall terribly plough the deep,
I shall lie long and rest beneath the Sea.

SONG TO OPHELIA

Unto thy grass-hidden charms
Nature worketh no alarms;
Changeth all thy breath to dew,
And thine eyes to violets blue,
Weaveth all thy waving hair
Into beams to light the air!
_Thus the song--and yet he saith_
“_Ah! how sad a thing is Death!_”

Over thy earth-covered breast
Springtime snow doth lightly rest;
Never hath been spun a sheet
For thy purity more meet;
Lovelier the earth shall be
Now that it doth prison thee!
_Thus the song--and yet he saith_
“_Ah! how sad a thing is Death!_”

A CHRISTMAS HYMN FOR CHILDREN

Our bells ring out to all the earth,
_In excelsis gloria!_
But none for Thee made chimes of mirth
On that great morning of Thy birth.

Our coats they lack not silk nor fur,
_In excelsis gloria!_
Not such Thy Blessed Mother’s were;
Full simple garments covered Her.

Our churches rise up goodly high,
_In excelsis gloria!_
Low in a stall Thyself did lie,
With hornèd oxen standing by.

Incense we breathe and scent of wine,
_In excelsis gloria!_
Around Thee rose the breath of kine,
Thy only drink Her breast divine.

We take us to a happy tree,
_In excelsis gloria!_
The seed was sown that day for Thee
That blossomed but at Calvary.

Teach us to feed Thy poor with meat,
_In excelsis gloria!_
Who turnest not when we entreat,
Who givest us Thy Bread to eat.
Amen.

THE GYPSY MAID

She met them on the forest edge,
A maid all brown and slim,
She beckoned them to leave the path
That girt the forest rim.

At first they shake their heads at her,
At last they follow meek,
She smiles at them with crimson lips,
And sweet her bright eyes speak.

They go as in a faëry dream,
The forest shuts them round,
Save for the leaves that whisper low
They hear no earthly sound.

The quiet miles have grown to leagues,
The trees are strange and tall,
They listen for the gypsy’s steps
And follow where they fall.

She sings a song of Wander-land,
For very joy they weep:
Adown the hills the dying day
Soft like a cloud doth creep.

The forest folk have gone to rest,
The trees are dark and high:
The gypsy’s song it crooneth soft
Their mother’s lullaby.

A misty moon now rides the clouds,
They sink in happy sleep:
The gypsy laughing low at them
Slips in the forest deep.

They wake into a fearsome dawn,
Lost in a gloomy fen:
They follow no more gypsy maids
In all their life again.

THREE SONGS

I. THE SAILOR

You hold me for a day, my dear,
I lose you for a life,
And that’s the sailor’s way, my dear,
A love, but not a wife.
’Tis never I will blame you,
’Tis not my eyes are wet,
But ’tis I that must remember--
’Tis you that will forget.

You kiss me for a night, my dear,
I kiss you for the years,
And that’s the sailor’s right, my dear,
And life’s too short for tears.
’Tis never I will stay you
When once the moon has set,
But ’tis I that must remember--
’Tis you that will forget.

II. THE HUNTER

One came chasing the fallow deer
When all the wood was green,
But through my heart an arrow went
That ne’er by him was seen--
Ah me!
That ne’er by him was seen.

One came hunting the eagle-king
When all the wood was brown,
But over me a lure was cast
That dragged my proud heart down--
Ah me!
That dragged my proud heart down.

One came tracking the mighty boar
When all the wood was white,
But from my wound the red drops fell
That guided him that night--
Ah me!
That guided him that night.