Chapter VIII: Part III: Stone Trees (1)

Last night a sword-light in the sky Flashed a swift terror on the dark. In that sharp light the fields did lie Naked and stone-like; each tree stood Like a tranced woman, bound and stark. Far off the wood With darkness ridged the riven dark.

And cows astonished stared with fear, And sheep crept to the knees of cows, And conies to their burrows slid, And rooks were still in rigid boughs, And all things else were still or hid. From all the wood Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.

In that cold trance the earth was held It seemed an age, or time was nought. Sure never from that stone-like field Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill Gray granite trees was music wrought. In all the wood Even the tall poplar hung stone still.

It seemed an age, or time was none ... Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep And shivered, and the trees of stone Bent and sighed in the gusty wind, And rain swept as birds flocking sweep. Far off the wood Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.

From all the wood came no brave bird, No song broke through the close-fall'n night, Nor any sound from cowering herd: Only a dog's long lonely howl When from the window poured pale light. And from the wood The hoot came ghostly of the owl.

IT WAS THE LOVELY MOON

It was the lovely moon--she lifted Slowly her white brow among Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted Faintly, faintlier afar. Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder, Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness, Watching the earth that dwindled under Faintly, faintlier afar. It was the lovely moon that lovelike Hovered over the wandering, tired Earth, her bosom gray and dovelike, Hovering beautiful as a dove.... The lovely moon:--her soft light falling Lightly on roof and poplar and pine-- Tree to tree whispering and calling, Wonderful in the silvery shine Of the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.

THE HOUNDS

Far off a lonely hound Telling his loneliness all round To the dark woods, dark hills, and darker sea;

And, answering, the sound Of that yet lonelier sea-hound Telling his loneliness to the solitary stars.

Hearing, the kennelled hound Some neighbourhood and comfort found, And slept beneath the comfortless high stars.

But that wild sea-hound Unkennelled, called all night all round-- The unneighboured and uncomforted cold sea.

HECTOR

Sleep, sleep, you great and dim trees, sleeping on The still warm, tender cheek of night, And with her cloudy hair

Brushed: sleep, for the violent wind is gone; Only remains soft easeful light, And shadow everywhere,

And few pale stars. Hardly has eve begun Dreaming of day renewed and bright With beams than day's more fair;

Scarce the full circle of the day is run, Nor the yellow moon to her full height Risen through the misty air.

But from the increasing shadowiness is spun A shadowy shape growing clear to sight, And fading. Was it Hector there,

Great-helmed, severe?--and as the last sun shone Seeming in solemn splendour dight Such as dream heroes bear;

And such his shape as heroes stare upon In sleep's tumultuary fight When a cry's heard, "Beware!" ...

--'Twas Hector, but the moment-splendour's gone: Shadow fast deepens into night, Night spreads--cold, wide, bare.

LISTENING

There is a place of grass With daisies like white pools, Or shining islands in a sea Of brightening waves.

Swallows, darting, brush The waves of gentle green, As though a wide still lake it were, Not living grass.

Evening draws over all, Grass and flowers and sky, And one rich bird prolongs the sweet Of day on the edge of dark.

The grass is dim, the stars Lean down the height of heaven; And the trees, listening in all their leaves, Scarce-breathing stand.

Nothing is as it was: The bird on the bough sings on; The night, pure from the cloud of day, Is listening.

STONES

Small yellow stones That, lifted, through my idle fingers fall Leaving a score-- And these I toss between the parted lips Of the lapping sea, And the sea tosses again with millions more-- Yellow and white stones; Then drawing back her snaky long waves all, Leaves the stones Yellow and white upon the sandy shore.... As they were bones Yellow and white left on the silent shore Of an unfoaming far unvisioned Sea.

THE ENEMIES

The angry wind That cursed at me Was nothing but an evil sprite Vexed with any man's delight.

And strange it seemed That a dark wind Should run down from a mountain steep And shout as though the world were asleep.

But when he ceased And silence was-- Who could but fear what evil sprite Crept through the tunnels of the night?

THE SILVERY ONE

Clear from the deep sky pours the moon Her silver on the heavy dark; The small stars blink.

Against the moon the maple bough Flutters distinct her leafy spears; All sound falls weak....

Weak the train's whistle, the dog's bark, Slow steps; and rustling into her nest At last, the thrush.

All's still; only earth turns and breathes. Then that amazing trembling note Cleaves the deep wave

Of silence. Shivers even that silvery one; Sigh all the trees, even the cedar dark ----O joy, and I.

THE FLUTE

It was a night of smell and dew When very old things seemed how new; When speech was softest in the still Air that loitered down the hill; When the lime's sweetness could but creep Like music to slow ears of sleep; When far below the lapping sea Lisped but of tired tranquillity.... No, 'twas a night that seemed almost Of real night the little ghost, As though a painter painted it Out of the shallows of his wit-- The easy air, the whispered trees, Faint prattle of strait distant seas, Pettiness all: but hark, hark! Large and rich in the narrow dark Music rose. Was music never Braver in her pure endeavour Against the meanness of the world. Her purple banner she unfurled Of stars and suns upon the night Amazed with the strange living light. The notes rose where the dark trees knelt; Their fiery joy made stillness melt As flame in woods the low boughs burns, Sere leaves, dry bushes, flame-shaped ferns. The notes rose as great birds that rise Majestically in lofty skies, And in white clouds are lost; and then Briefly they hushed, and woke again Renewed. Slowly silence came As smoke after sinking flame That spreads and thins across the sky When day pales before it die.

STARS

The naked stars, deep beyond deep,
Burn purely through the nervèd night.
Over the narrow sleep
Of men tired of light;

Deep within deep, as clouds behind
Huge grey clouds hidden gleaming rise,
Untroubled by sharp wind
In cold desert skies.

Cold deserts now with infinite host
Of gathered spears at watch o'er small
Armies of men lost
In glooms funereal.

O bitter light, all-threatening stars,
O tired ghosts of men that sleep
After stern mortal wars
'Neath skies chill and steep.

These mortal hills, this flickering sea,
This shadowy and thoughtful night,
Throb with infinity,
Burn with immortal light.

TEN O'CLOCK AND FOUR O'CLOCK

It stands there Tall and solitary on the edge Of the last hill, green on the green hill. Ten o'clock the tree's called, no one knows why. Perhaps it was planted there at ten o'clock Or someone was hanged there at ten o'clock-- A hundred such good reasons might be found, But no one knows. It vexed me that none knew, Seeing it miles and miles off and then nearer And nearer yet until, beneath the hill, I looked up, up, and saw it nodding there, A single tree upon the sharp-edged hill, Holding its leaves though in the orchard all Leaves and fruit were stripped or hung but few Red and yellow over the littered grass. --It vexed me, the brave tree and senseless name, As I went through the valley looking up And then looked round on elm and beech and chestnut And all that lingering flame amid the hedge That marked the miles and miles. Then I forgot: For through the apple-orchard's shadow I saw Between the dark boughs of the cherry-orchard A great slow fire which Time had lit to burn The mortal seasons up, and leave bare black Unchanging Winter.

_Weston-sub-Edge._

THE YEW

The moon gave no light. The clouds rode slowly over, broad and white, From the soft south west. The wind, that cannot rest, Soothed and then waked the darkness of the yew Until the tree was restless too.

Of all the winds I knew I thought, and how they muttered in the yew, Or raved under the eaves, Or nosed the fallen dry leaves, Or with harsh voice holloa'd the orchard round, With snapped limbs littering the ground.

And I thought how the yew Between the window and the west his shadow threw, Grave and immense, Darkening the dark past thought and sense, And how the moon would make the darkness heavenly bright: But the moon gave no light.

NOVEMBER SKIES

Than these November skies Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep; Into their gray the subtle spies Of colour creep, Changing that high austerity to delight, Till even the leaden interfolds are bright. And, where the cloud breaks, faint far azure peers Ere a thin flushing cloud again Shuts up that loveliness, or shares. The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, as Reluctant the quick sun should shine in vain, Holding in bright caprice their rain. And when of colours none, Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green, Is truly seen,-- In all the myriad gray, In silver height and dusky deep, remain The loveliest, Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.

DELIGHT

Winter is fallen On the wretched grass, Dark winds have stolen All the colour that was. No leaf shivers: The bare boughs bend and creak as the wind moans by Fled is the fitful gleam of brightness From the stooping sky.

A robin scatters
Like bright rain his song,
Of merry matters
The sparrows gossip long.
Snow in the sky
Lingers, soon to cover the world with white,
And hush the slender enchanting music
And chill the delight.

But snow new fallen
On the stiffened grass
Gives back beauty stolen
By the winds as they pass:--
Turns the climbing hedge
Into a gleaming ladder of frozen light:
And hark, in the cold enchanted silence
A cry of delight!

CHANGE

A late and lonely figure stains the snow,
Into the thickening darkness dims and dies.
Heavily homeward now the last rooks go,
And dull-eyed stars stare from the skies.
A whimpering wind
Sounds, then's still and whimpers again.

Yet 'twas a morn of oh, such air and light!
The early sun ran laughing over the snow,
The laden trees held out their arms all white
And whiteness shook on the white below.
Lovely the shadows were,
Deep purple niches, 'neath a dome of light.

And now night's fall'n, the west wind begins to creep
Among the stiff trees, over the frozen snow;
An hour--and the world stirs that was asleep,
A trickle of water's heard, stealthy and slow,
First faintly here and there,
And then continual everywhere.

And morn will look astonished for the snow,
And the warm, wind will laugh, "It's gone, gone, gone!"--
And will, when the immortal soft airs blow,
This mortal face of things change and be gone
So--and with none to hear
How in the night the wind crept near?

SLEEPING SEA

The sea Was even as a little child that sleeps And keeps All night its great unconsciousness of day. No spray Flashed when the wave rose, drooped, and slowly drew away. No sound From all that slumbering, full-bosomed water came; The sea Lay mute in childlike sleep, the moon was a gold candle-flame. No sound Save when a faint and mothlike air fluttered around. No sound: But as a child that dreams and in his full sleep cries, So turned the sleeping sea and heaved her bosom of slow sighs.

THE WEAVER OF MAGIC

Weave cunningly the web Of twilight, O thou subtle-fingered Eve! And at the slow day's ebb With small blue stars the purple curtain weave. If any wind there be, Bid it but breathe lightly as woodland violets o'er the sea; If any moon, be it no more than a white fluttering feather. Call the last birds together.

O Eve, and let no wisp Of day's distraction thine enchantment mar; Thy soft spell lisp And lure the sweetness down of each blue star. Then let that low moan be A while more easeful, trembling remote and strange, far oversea; So shall the easeless heart of love rest then, or only sigh, Hearing the swallows cry!

THE DARKSOME NIGHTINGALE

Why dost thou, darksome Nightingale, Sing so distractingly--and here? Dawn's preludings prick my ear, Faint light is creeping up the vale, While on these dead thy rarer Song falls, dark night-farer.

Were it not better thou shouldst sing Where the drenched lilac droops her plume, Spreading frail banners of perfume? Or where the easeless pines enring The river-lullèd village Whose lads the lilac pillage?

Oh, if aught songful these hid bones Might reach, like the slow subtle rain, Surely the dead had risen again And listened, white by the white stones; Back to rich life song-charmed, By ghostly joys alarmed.

This may not be. And yet, oh still Pour like night dew thy richer speech Some late-lost youth perchance to reach, Or unloved girl; and stir and fill Their passionless cold bosoms Under red wallflower blossoms!

UNDER THE LINDEN BRANCHES

Under the linden branches They sit and whisper; Hardly a quiver Of leaves, hardly a lisp or Sigh in the air. Under the linden branches They sit, and shiver At the slow air's fingers Drawn through the linden branches Where the year's sweet lingers; And sudden avalanches Of memories, fears, Shake from the linden branches Upon them sitting With hardly a sigh or a whisper Or quiver of tears.

STRIFE

The wind fought with the angry trees. All morning in immense unease They wrestled, and ruin strawed the ground, And the north sky frowned. The oak and aspen arms were held Defiant, but the death was knelled Of slender saplings, snappy boughs, Twigs brittle as men's vows. How moaned the trees the struggle through! Anger almost to madness grew. The aspen screamed, and came a roar Of the great wind locked in anguish sore, Desolate with defeat ... and then Quiet fell again: The trees slept quiet as great cows That lie at noon under broad boughs. How pure, how strange the calm; but hist!... Was it the trees by the wind kissed? Or from afar, where the wind's hid, A throb, a sob?

FOREBODING

O linger late, poor yellow whispering leaves! As yet the eves Are golden and the simple moon looks through The clouds and you. O linger yet although the night be blind, And in the wind You wake and lisp and shiver at the stir And sigh of her Whose rimy fingers chill you each and all: And so you fall As dead as hopes or dreams or whispered vows.... O _then_ the boughs That bore your busy multitude shall feel The cold light steal Between them, and the timorous child shall start, Hearing his heart Drubbing affrighted at the frail gates, for lo, The ghostly glow Of the wild moon, caught in the barren arms Of leafless branches loud with night's alarms!

DISCOVERY

Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright. She in the long fresh grass scattered her rains Sparkling and glittering like a host of stars, But not like stars cold, severe, terrible. Hers was the laughter of the wind that leaped Arm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide. Hers the bright light within the quick green Of every new leaf on the oldest tree. It was her swimming made the river run Shining as the sun; Her voice, escaped from winter's chill and dark, Singing in the incessant lark.... All this was hers--yet all this had not been Except 'twas seen. It was my eyes, Beauty, that made thee bright; My ears that heard, the blood leaping in my veins, The vehemence of transfiguring thought-- Not lights and shadows, birds, grasses and rains-- That made thy wonders wonderful. For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee, Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play, Empty of meaning and so of all delight. Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss, Shaking thy rainy light all over the earth, And I have paid thee with my thankfulness.

MORE THAN SWEET

The noisy fire, The drumming wind, The creaking trees, And all that hum Of summer air And all the long inquietude Of breaking seas----

Sweet and delightful are In loneliness. But more than these The quiet light From the morn's sun And night's astonished moon, Falling gently upon breaking seas.

Such quietness Another beauty is-- Ah, and those stars So gravely still More than light, than beauty pour Upon the strangeness Of the heart's breaking seas.

THE BRIGHTNESS

Away, away-- Through that strange void and vast Brimmed with dying day; Away, So that I feel Only the wind Of the world's swift-rolling wheel.

See what a maze Of whirling rays! The sharp wind Weakens; the air Is but thin air, Not fume and flying fire.... O, heart's desire, Now thou art still And the air chill.

And but a stem Of clear cold light Shines in this stony dark. Farewell, world of sense, Too fair, too fair To be so false! Hence, hence Rosy memories, Delight of ears, hands, eyes. Rise When I bid, O thou Tide of the dark, Whelming the pale last, Reflection of that vast Too-fair deceit.

Ah, sweet To miss the vexing heat Of the heart's desire: Only to know All's lost, lost.... Sweet To know the lack of sweet.

--Thou fool! See how the steady dark Is filled with eyes-- Eyes that smile, Hot, then how cool! Eyes that were stars till thou Mad'st them eyes. O, the tormenting Look, the unrelenting Passionate kiss Of their wild light on thine-- Light of thine eyes!

As if one could Loathe the world for too much sweetness! All the air's a flame, Wonderful--yet the same Thou'st hated, Being briefly sated With sweet of sweetness.

Forgive a heart whose madness Was not of madness born, But of mere wild Waste of desire.... Who does not know One speaks so, or so, Out of mere passion That sees not love From hate, nor life from death, Nor hell from heaven?

In the East--oh, that flashed Brightness, past The loveliness even Of sunset's flush!

THE HOLY MOUNTAINS

The holy mountains, The gay streams, Heavy shadows, And tall, trembling trees; The light that sleeps Between the heavy shadows, Wind that creeps Faintly, from far-off seas----

The mountains' light, Waters' noise, Trees' shadows, Clear, slow, calm air, Are dreams, dreams, And far, far-fallen echoes Of secret worlds And inconceivable dark seas.

RAPTURE

If thou hast grief And passion vex the spirit that is in thee--

There was a stony beach Where the heat flickered and the little waves Whispered each to each. Dove-coloured was that stony beach, And white birds hungering hovered over The shining waves; And men had kindled there A great fierce heap of golden flame-- Spoiled grasses with dead buttercups and pale clover. The agonising flame Yearned in its vitals towards the quiet air And died in a little smoke. And on the coloured beach the black warm ash Remained.

Then on that warm ash Another heap of grasses was outpoured, And instant came Another knot of struggling yellow smoke That burst into new agonies of flame, Dying into a drift of smoke; And on the coloured beach the black cold ash Remained.

Or is thy grief too deep, Passion too dear, the spirit in thee asleep?--

Twelve deep and sombre, still, Expectant, hushed, The miles-long crowd stood--and then listening. The nervous drums, The unendurable, low reeds: Silence--and then the nearing drums Again, again the thrilling reeds, And then (The deep crowd hushed) Following an almightier King That rode unseen, Drew near the tributary magnificence.... Hushed, hushed, The deep crowd stood, devouring, listening; But a child on his father's shoulder cried, "Hurrah, hurrah!"--

Only have thou no fear Pride, but no fear.

MUSIC COMES

Music comes Sweetly from the trembling string When wizard fingers sweep Dreamily, half asleep; When through remembering reeds Ancient airs and murmurs creep, Oboe oboe following, Flute answering clear high flute, Voices, voices--falling mute, And the jarring drums.

At night I heard First a waking bird Out of the quiet darkness sing.... Music comes Strangely to the brain asleep! And I heard Soft, wizard fingers sweep Music from the trembling string, And through remembering reeds Ancient airs and murmurs creep; Oboe oboe following, Flute calling clear high flute, Voices faint, falling mute, And low jarring drums; Then all those airs Sweetly jangled--newly strange, Rich with change.... Was it the wind in the reeds? Did the wind range Over the trembling string; Into flute and oboe pouring Solemn music; sinking, soaring Low to high, Up and down the sky? Was it the wind jarring Drowsy far-off drums?

Strangely to the brain asleep Music comes.

THE IDIOT

He stands on the kerb Watching the street. He's always watching there, Listening to the beat Of time in the street, Listening to the thronging feet, Laughing at the world that goes Scowling or laughing by.

He sees Time go by, An old lonely man, Crooked and furtive and slow. He laughs as he sees Time shambling by While he stands at his ease, Until Time smiles wanly back At his laughing eye.

Greed's great paunch, Lean Envy's ill looks, Fond forgetful Love, He reads them like books: Whatever their tongue He reads them like children's books, Stands staring and laughing there As all they go by.

O, he laughs as he sees The fat and the thin, The simple, the solemn and wise Nod-nodding by. He stares in their eyes, Till they're angry and murmur, _Poor fool!_ And he hears and he laughs again From the depth of his folly.

Even when with heavy Plume and pall The sleeky coaches roll by, Coffin, flowers and all, He laughs, for he sees Crouched on the coffin a small Yellowy shape go by-- Death, uneasy and melancholy.

THE MOUSE

Standing close by you In the cold light Of two tall candles That measure the dark of night, I hear the mouse, The only thing that's moving In the quiet house.

Don't you hear it, That furious mouse? How can you sleep so deep And that noise in the house? Won't you stir At the furious scratching In the cupboard there?

No! a sharper sound Would wake you not; Not the sweetest fluting Tease you back to thought. Yet the scratching mouse Makes all my flesh a nervous Haunted house.

O, the dream, the dream Must be sweet and deep If life's scratching's heard not On your cold sleep. Yet if you should hear it, So furious and fretful-- How could you bear it?

HAPPINESS

I have found happiness who looked not for it.
There was a green fresh hedge,
And willows by the river side,
And whistling sedge.

The heaviness I felt was all around.
No joy sang in the wind.
Only dull slow life everywhere,
And in my mind.

Then from the sedge a bird cried; and all changed.
Heaviness turned to mirth:
The willows the stream's cheek caressed,
The sun the earth.

What was it in the bird's song worked such change?
The grass was wonderful.
I did not dream such beauty was
In things so dull.

What was it in the bird's song gave the water
That living, sentient look?
Lent the rare brightness to the hedge?
That sweetness shook

Down on the green path by the running water?
Or the small daisies lit
With light of the white northern stars
In dark skies set?

What was it made the whole world marvellous?
Mere common things were joys.
The cloud running upon the grass,
Children's faint noise,

The trees that grow straight up and stretch wide arms,
The snow heaped in the skies,
The light falling so simply on all;
My lifted eyes

That all this startling aching beauty saw?
I felt the sharp excess
Of joy like the strong sun at noon--
Insupportable bliss!

COMFORTABLE LIGHT

Most comfortable Light, Light of the small lamp burning up the night, With dawn enleagued against the beaten dark; Pure golden perfect spark;

Or sudden wind-bright flame, That but the strong-handed wind can urge or tame; Chill loveliest light the kneeling clouds between, Silverly serene;

Comfort of happy light, That mouse-like leaps amid brown leaves, cheating sight; Clear naked stars, burning with swift intense Earthward intelligence;--

Sensitive, single Points in the dark inane that purely tingle With eager fire, pouring night's circles through Their living blue;

Dark light still waters hold; Broad silver moonpath trodden into gold: Candle-flame glittering through the traveller's night-- Most comfortable light....

And lovelier, the eye Where light from darkness shines unfathomably, Light secret, clear, shallow, profound, known, strange, Constant alone in change:--

Not that wild light that turns Hunted from dying eyes when the last fire burns; O, not that bitter light of wounded things, When bony anguish springs

Sudden, intolerable; Nor light of mad eyes gleaming up from hell.... Come not again, wild light! Shine not again, Hill-flare of pain!

But thou, most holy light.... Not the noon blaze that stings, too fiercely bright, Not that unwinking stare of shameless day; But thou, the gray,

Nun-like and silent, still, Fine-breathed on many an eastern bare green hill; Keen light of gray eyes, cool rain, and stern spears; Sad light, but not to tears:--

--O, comfort thou of eyes Watching expectant from chill northern skies, Excellent joy for lids heavy with night-- Strange with delight!

HALLO!

"Hallo, hallo!" impatiently he cried, And I replied, Sleepily, "Hallo--hallo!" No sound then; and I stretched My hand for the receiver, all my nerves Tingling and listening. My hand clutched nothing, and I lit The candle--strange! I could have sworn it was the shouting wire.... But no! Besides, a bare and unfamiliar room And he, why, long-forgotten, maybe dead. Yet all around, Filling the silence up with tiny sound, A million tremulous thin echoings, "Hallo--hallo-- Hallo!"

FEAR

There was a child that screamed, And if it was the gathering tingling dark, Or if it was the tingling silences Between few words, Or if the water's drip and quivering drip-- Who knows? Or if the child half sleeping suddenly dreamed--

Who knows? for she knew not, but was afraid, And then angry with fear, And then it seemed afraid of all the voices Echoing hers. And then afraid again of that drip, drip Of water somewhere near.

Yet a man dying would not with such fear Scream out at hell. Easier it were to die than to endure, Unless death brought the instant consciousness Of all the wrongs of all lost years Falling like water, drip after trembling drip Upon the naked anguish of the soul.

But death's stupidity Is gentle to the lunatic last wits. Little of terror, little of consciousness, But stupor, a great ease, Narrowing silences, And silence; And then no more the drip, drip of the years, No more the strangeness, agonies and fears; No more the noise, but one imponderable unhaunted Hush....

I heard the child that cried Chattering a moment after in the light, And singing out of such contentment as Lamps and familiar voices bring. She needs must sing Now that sharp, spiny agony thrust no more, Nor water fell, drip, drip by quivering drip; Her face was bright, Unapprehensive as a day in spring.

WAKING

Lying beneath a hundred seas of sleep With all those heavy waves flowing over me, And I unconscious of the rolling night Until, slowly, from deep to lesser deep Risen, I felt the wandering seas no longer cover me But only air and light....

It was a sleep So dark and so bewilderingly deep That only death's were deeper or completer, And none when I awoke stranger or sweeter. Awake, the strangeness still hung over me As I with far-strayed senses stared at the light.

I--and who was I? Saw--oh, with what unaccustomed eye! The room was strange and everything was strange Like a strange room entered by wild moonlight; And yet familiar as the light swept over me And I rose from the night.

Strange--yet stranger I. And as one climbs from water up to land Fumbling for weedy steps with foot and hand, So I for yesterdays whereon to climb To this remote and new-struck isle of time. But I found not myself nor yesterday--

Until, slowly, from deep to lesser deep Risen, I felt the seas no longer over me But only air and light. Yes, like one clutching at a ring I heard The household noises as they stirred, And holding fast I wondered. What were they?

I felt a strange hand lying at my side, Limp and cool. I touched it and knew it mine. A murmur, and I remembered how the wind died In the near aspens. Then Strange things were no more strange. I travelled among common thoughts again;

And felt the new forged links of that strong chain That binds me to myself, and this to-day To yesterday. I heard it rattling near With a no more astonished ear. And I had lost the strangeness of that sleep, No more the long night rolled its great seas over me.

--O, too anxious I! For in this press of things familiar I have lost all that clung Round me awaking of strangeness and such sweetness Nothing now is strange Except the man that woke and then was I.

THE FALL

From that warm height and pure,
The peak undreamed of out of heavy air
Rising to heaven more strange and rare;
From that amazed brief sojourn, exquisite, insecure;

Fallen from thence to this,
From all immortal sunk to mortal sweet,
To slow gross joys from joy so fleet,
Fallen to mere remembrance of unsustainable bliss....

O harsh, O heavy air,
Difficult endurance, pain of common things!
The slow sun east to westward swings,
The flat-faced moon climbs labouring with a senseless stare.

From that inconceivable height----
O inward eyes that saw and ears that heard,
Spiritual swift wings that stirred
In that warm-flushing air and unendurable light;

When I was as mere down
On a swift-running youthful wind uptaken
Over tall trees, white mountains, shaken,
Into the uttermost azure lifted, lifted alone.

From that peak can it be
That I am fallen, fallen that was so high?
Or was that truly, surely I?
Who is it crawls here now, sad, uncontentedly?

Fallen from that high content,
--Fool, thou that wast content merely with bliss!
Happy those lovers that will not kiss;
Never to be fulfilled was the heart's endless passion meant.

Never on joys attainable
To linger, never on easy near delight--
O bitter, unreached infinite,
Merciful defeat, availless anguish, hunger unendurable!

O who shall be in longing wise,
Skilled in refusal, in embracing free,
Glad with earth's innocent ecstasy,
Yet all the uncomprehended heaven in his eyes!

STAY

Stay, thou desired one, stay! Brighten the curious darkness of the world. Cold through the chill dark swings the sleeping world, Sense-heavy, dreaming dully of clear day. No moon, no stars, no sound of wind or seas: Wearily sleeping in immense unease, Dreams, dreams the world of day. Stay, thou adored one, stay, Who on the dark hang'st lamps of gold delight, Gold flames amid the purple pit of night. Stay, stay, Who the cool dawn's most lovely gray Mak'st lovelier with rose of far away. Stay, thou, who buildest wonder of things mean (More truly so they're seen). Stay--nay, fly not, nay--stay; Youth gone, remain thou yet and yet. Though the world spin in darkness and forget The light, Stay thou, whose coming's joy and flight despair. Thou unimaginably more than fair, Brief unsustainable strange dream, stay yet! Lamping the world's close unsustainable dark With golden unimaginable day.

SHADOWS

The shadow of the lantern on the wall, The lantern hanging from the twisted beam, The eye that sees the lantern, shadow and all.

The crackle of the sinking fire in the grate, The far train, the slow echo in the coombe, The ear that hears fire, train and echo and all.

The loveliness that is the secret shape Of once-seen, sweet and oft-dreamed loveliness, The brain that builds shape, memory, dream and all....

A white moon stares Time's thinning fabric through, And makes substantial insubstantial seem, And shapes immortal mortal as a dream; And eye and brain flicker as shadows do Restlessly dancing on a cloudy wall.

WALKING AT EVE

Walking at eve I met a little child Running beside a tragic-featured dame, Who checked his blitheness with a quick "For shame!" And seemed by sharp caprice froward and mild. Scarce heeding her the sweet one ran, beguiled By the lit street, and his eyes too aflame; Only, at whiles, into his eyes there came Bewilderment and grief with terror wild.

So, Beauty, dost thou run with tragic life; So, with the curious world's caress enchanted, Even of ill things thine ecstasy dost make; Yet at the touch of fear and vital strife The splendours thy young innocency forsake, And with thy foster-mother's woe thou art haunted.

THE PHYSICIAN

She comes when I am grieving and doth say, "Child, here is that shall drive your grief away." When I am hopeless, kisses me and stirs My breast with the strong lively courage of hers. Proud--she will humble me with but a word, Or with mild mockery at my folly gird; Fickle--she holds me with her loyal eyes; Remorseful--tells of neighbouring Paradise; Envious--"Be not so mad, so mad," she saith, "Envied and envier both race with Death" She my good Angel is: and who is she?-- The soul's divine Physician, Memory.

VISION AND ECHO

I have seen that which sweeter is Than happy dreams come true. I have heard that which echo is Of speech past all I ever knew. Vision and echo, come again, Nor let me grieve in easeless pain!

It was a hill I saw, that rose Like smoke over the street, Whose greening rampires were upreared Suddenly almost at my feet; And tall trees nodded tremblingly Making the plain day visionary.

But ah, the song, the song I heard And grieve to hear no more! It was not angel-voice, nor child's Singing alone and happy, nor Note of the wise prophetic thrush As lonely in the leafless bush.

It was not these, and yet I knew That song; but now, alas, My unpurged ears prove all too gross To keep the nameless air that was And is not; and my eyes forget The vision that I follow yet.

Yet though forgetful I did see. And heard, but cannot tell, And on my forehead felt an air Unearthly, on my heart a spell. I have seen that which deathless is, And heard--what I for ever miss!

REVISITATION

It is here--the lime-tree in the garden path, The lilac by the wall, the ivied wall That was so high, the heavy, close-leaved creeper, The harsh gate jarring on its hinges still, The echoing clean flags--all The same, the same, and never more the same.

That mound was once a hill, The old lime-tree a forest (now as small As the poor lilac by the ivied wall), And this neglected narrow greenery A wilderness, and I its king and keeper; Lying upon the grass I saw the sky And all its clouds: the garden edged the sky.

The harsh gate jars upon its hinges still.

UNPARDONED

Gentle as the air that kisses The splendid and ignoble with one breath, Gentle as obliterating Death-- Though you be gentler yet, In days when the old, old things begin to fret The backward-looking consciousness, Will you forget? Or if remembering, will you forgive?

But there is one severer. Stung by your forgivingness so great Shall I forgive you then?-- Basest of men Would rise in bitterness and sting again. Not if you should forget Could I forget: Or if remembering, myself could I forgive?

Never! And yet such things have been, And ills as dark forgiven or forgot. But in those black hours when the heart burns hot And there's no nerve that's not Quick with the sense of things unheard, unseen-- A terrible voice that's mine yet not mine cries, "Can that Eternal Righteousness Remembering forgive?"

SOME HURT THING

I came to you quietly when you were lying In perfect midnight sleep. Your dark soft hair was all about your pillow, So black upon the white. I could not see your face except the lovely Curve of the pale cheek; Your head was bent as though your stirless slumber Was sea-like heavy and deep. The wind came gently in at the wide window, Shaking the candle-light And shadows on the wall; and there was silence, Or sound but far and weak. By the bedside your daytime toys were gathered: The bright bell-ringing wheel, Dolls clad in violent yellow and vermilion, Strings of gay-coloured beads.... But you were far and far from these beside you, Entranced with other joys In fresh fields, among other children running: Your voice, I knew, must peal Purely among their high unearthly voices Over green daisied meads, While I stood watching your scarce-heaving slumber Beside your human toys---- And heard, faint from the woods all through the night, The cry of some hurt thing that moaned for light.

THE WAITS

Frost in the air and music in the air, And the singing is sweet in the street. She wakes from a dream to a dream--O hark! The singing so faint in the dark.

The musicians come and stand at the door, A fiddler and singers three, And one with a bright lamp thrusts at the dark, And the music comes sudden--O hark!

She hears the singing as sweet as a dream And the fiddle that climbs to the sky, With head 'neath the curtain she stares out--O hark! The music so strange in the dark.

She listens and looks and sees but the sky, While the fiddle is sweet in the porch, And she sings back into the singing dark Hark, herald angels, hark!

IN THE LANE

The birds return, The blossom brightens again the cherry bough. The hedges are green again In the airless lane, And hedge and blossom and bird call, Now, now, now!

O birds, return! Who will care if the blossom die on the bough, Or the hedge be bare again In the screaming lane? For what they were these are not, are not now.

The one gone makes All that remain seem strange and lonely now. She will not walk here again In the blossoming lane:-- And there's a dead bough in every blossoming bough.

THE LAST TIME

For the last time, The last, last time, The last ... All those last times have I lived through again, And every "last" renews itself in pain-- Yes, each returns, and each returns in vain: You return not, the last remains the last, And I remain to cast Weak anchors of my love in shifting sands Of faith:-- The anchors drag, nothing I see save death.

Together we Talked and were glad. I could not see That one black gesture menaced you and me! We kissed, and parted; I left you, and was even merry-hearted.... And now my love is thwarted That reaches back to you and searches round, And dares not look on that harsh turfless mound.

And that last time We walked together and the air acold Hummed shrill around; the time that you Walked heavily, And I dared not to see, Nor dared you then to speak of what must be. We knew not what the shut days would unfold-- Nay, could not know till all the days were told.... But that last time we walked together, and --And walk no more together, nor clasp hand In hand, just stiffly as we used to do.

Never in dreams, O happy, never in stealing dreams We meet; never again I live by night the day's slow-dying pain ... The last, last time, The last-- That time _is_ past; yet in too-golden day My heart goes from me whispering, "Where are you--you--you--you?" And comes back easeless to an easeless breast. But at night I rest Dreamless as derelict ships ride out to sea Empty, and no bird even on the snapp'd mast Pauses: into oblivion her shadow's cast; Into the empty night goes lonely she, And into sleep go--oh, more lonely I.

YOU THAT WERE

You that were Half my life ere life was mine; You that on my shape the sign Set of yours; You that my young lips did kiss When your kiss summed up my bliss.... Ah, once more You to kiss were all my bliss!

You whom I Could forget--strange, could forget Even for days (ah, now the fret Of my grief!); You who loved me though forgot; Welcomed still, reproaching not.... Ah, that now That forgetting were forgot!

You that now On my shoulder as I go Put your hand that wounds me so; You that brush Yet my lips with that one last Kiss that bitters all things past.... How shall I Yet endure that kiss the last?

You that are Where the feet of my blind grief Find you not, nor find relief; You that are Where my thought flying after you Broken falls and flies anew, Now you're gone My love accusing aches for you.

_March 4, 1911._

"THE LIGHT THAT NEVER WAS ON SEA OR LAND"

O gone are now those eager great glad days of days, but I remember
Yet even yet the light that turned the saddest of sad hours to mirth;
I remember how elate I swung upon the thrusting bowsprits,
And how the sun in setting burned and made the earth all unlike earth.

O gone are now those mighty ships I haunted days and days together,
And gone the mighty men that sang as crawled the tall craft out to sea;
And fallen ev'n the forest tips and changed the eyes that watched their
burning,
But still I hear that shout and clang, and still the old spell stirs in
me.

And as to some poor ship close locked in water dense and dark and vile
The wind comes garrulous from afar and sets the idle masts a-quiver;
And ev'n to her so foully docked, swift as the sun's first beam at dawn
The sea-bird comes and like a star wheels by and down along the river;--

So to me the full wind blows from far strange waters echoingly,
And faint forgotten longings break the fast-sealed pools within my
breast;
So to me when sunset glows the scream comes of the white sea-bird,
And all those ancient raptures wake and wakes again the old unrest.

I see again the masts that crowd and part lie trees in living wind,
I hear again the shouts and cries and lip-lap of the waveless pool;
I see again the smalling cloud of sail that into distance fades,
I am again the boy whose eyes with tears of grief and hope are full.

AT EVENING'S HUSH

Now pipe no more, glad Shepherd, Your joys from this fair hill Through golden eves and still: There sounds from yon dense quarry A burden harsh and sorry.

No piping now, poor Shepherd. Men strive with violent hand, And anger stirs the bland Blithe heaven that ne'er yet trembled, Save with great spirits assembled.

No more, no more, sad Shepherd, Let thy bright fingers stray Idly in the old way; No more their nimble glancing Set gleeful spirits a-dancing.

Put by thy pipe, O Shepherd! There needs no note of thine For men deaf, undivine.... And lest brute hands should take it, O sorrowful Shepherd, break it!

HAPPY DEATH

Bugle and battle-cry are still,
The long strife's over;
Low o'er the corpse-encumbered hill
The sad stars hover.

It is in vain, O stars! you look
On these forsaken:
Awhile with blows on blows they shook,
Or struck unshaken.

Needs now no pity of God or man ...
Tears for the living!
They have 'scaped the confines of life's plan
That holds us grieving.

The unperturbed soft moon, the stars,
The breeze that lingers,
Wake not to ineffectual wars
Their hearts and fingers.

Warriors o'ercoming and o'ercome,
Alike contented,
Have marched now to the last far drum,
Praised, unlamented.

Bugle and battle-cry are still,
The long strife's over;
Oh, that with them I had fought my fill
And found like cover!

WISDOM AND A MOTHER

Why, mourner, do you mourn, nor see The heavenly Earth's felicity?

I mourn for him, my Dearest, lost, Who lived a frail life at my cost.

A grief like yours how many have known!

Were that a balm to ease my own! Or rather might I not accuse The Hand that does not even choose, But, taking blindly, took my best, And as indifferently takes the rest ... Like mine? Is there denied to me Even Sorrow's singularity?

THE THRUSH SINGS

Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead.... How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead? Or though forgetting, sing--and she is dead? O hush, Untimely, truant Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, "I sing that she is dead!" Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead, Singeth the Thrush, "I sing her praise though dead." O hush, Untimely, grievous Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, "I sing your happy dead, I sing her who is living, and no more dead, I sing her joy--she is no longer dead." O hush, Enough, thou heavenly Thrush!

TO MY MOTHER

No foreign tribute from a stranger-hand, Mother, I bring thee, whom not Heaven's songs Would as an alien reach.... Ah, but how far From Heaven's least heavenly is the changing note And changing fancy of these fitful cries! Mother, forgive them, as the best of me Has ever pleaded only for thy pardon, Not for thy praise. Mother, there is a love Men give to wives and children, lovers, friends; There is a love which some men give to God. Ah! between this, I think, and that last love, Last and too-late-discovered love of God, There shines--and nearer to the love of God-- The love a man gives only to his mother, Whose travail of dear thought has never end Until the End. Oh that my mouth had words Comfortable as thy kisses to the boy Who loved while he forgot thee! Now I love, Sundered and far, with daily heart's remembrance The face the wind brings to me, the sun lights, The birds and waters sing; the face of thee Whom I love with a love like love of God.

THE UNUTTERED

For so long and so long had I forgot,
Serenely busied
With thousand things; at whiles desire grew hot
And my soul dizzied
With hapless and insatiable salt thirst.
Nor was I humbled
Saving with shame that, running with the worst
My feet yet stumbled.
Pride and delight of life enchained my heart,
My heart enchanted,
And oh, soft subtle fingers had their part,
And eyes love-haunted.
But while my busy mind was thus intent,
Or thus surrendered,
What was it, oh what strange thing was it sent
Through all that hindered
A thrill that woke the buried soul in me?--
It seemed there fluttered
A thought--or was it a sudden fear?--of Thee,
Remote, unuttered.

FAIR EVE

Fair Eve, as fair and still As fairest thought, climbs the high sheltering hill; As still and fair As the white cloud asleep in the deep air.

As cool, as fair and cool, As starlight swimming in a lonely pool; Subtle and mild As through her eyes the soul looks of a child.

A linnet sings and sings, A shrill swift cleaves the air with blackest wings; White twinkletails Run frankly in their meadow as day fails.

On such a night, a night That seems but the full sleep of tired light, I look and wait For what I know not, looking long and late.

Is it for a dream I look, A vision from the Tree of Heaven shook, As sweetness shaken From the fresh limes on lonely ways forsaken?

A dream of one, maybe, Who comes like sudden wind from oversea? Or most loved swallow Whom all fair days and golden musics follow?--

More sudden yet, more strange Than magic airs on magic hills that range:-- Of one who'll steep The soul in soft forgetfulness ere it sleep.

Yes, down the hillside road, Where Eve's unhasty feet so gently trod, Follow His feet Whose leaf-like echoes make even spring more sweet.

THE SNARE

Loose me and let me go!
I am not yours.
I do not know
Your dark name ev'n, O Powers
That out of the deep rise
And wave your arms
To weave strange charms.

Though the snare of eyes
You weave for me,
As a pool lies
In wait for the moon when she
Out of the deep will rise;
And though you set
Like mist your net;

And though my feet you catch,
O dark, strange Powers,
You may not snatch
My soul, or call it yours.
Out of your snare I rise
And pass your charms,
Nor feel your harms.

You loose me and I go:
O see the arms
Spread for me! lo,
His lips break your charms.
From the deep did He rise
And round me set
His Love for net.

O HIDE ME IN THY LOVE

O hide me in Thy love, secure
From this earth-clinging meanness.
Lave my uncleanness
In Thy compassionating love!

Bury this treachery as deep
As mercy is enrooted.
My days ill-fruited
Shake till the shrivelled burden fall.

Put by those righteous arrows, Lord,
Put even Thy justice by Thee;
So I come nigh Thee
As came the Magdalen to Thy feet.

And like a heavy stone that's cast
In a pool, on Thee I throw me,
And feel o'erflow me
Ripples of pity, deep waves of love.

PRAYER TO MY LORD

If ever Thou didst love me, love me now,
When round me beat the flattering vans of life,
Kissing with rapid breath my lifted brow.
Love me, if ever, when the murmur of strife,
In each dark byway of my being creeps,
When pity and pride, passion and passion's loss
Wash wavelike round the world's eternal cross,
Till 'mid my fears a new-born love indignant leaps.

If ever Thou canst love me, love me yet,
When sweet, impetuous loves within me stir
And the frail portals of my spirit fret--
The love of love, that makes Heaven heavenlier,
The love of earth, of birds, children and light,
Love of this bitter, lovely native land....
O, love me when sick with all these I stand
And Death's far-rumoured wings beat on the lonely night.

THE TREE

Oh, like a tree
Let me grow up to Thee!
And like a Tree
Send down my roots to Thee.

Let my leaves stir
In each sigh of the air,
My branches be
Lively and glad in Thee;

Each leaf a prayer,
And green fire everywhere ...
And all from Thee
The sap within the Tree.

And let Thy rain
Fall--or as joy or pain
So that I be
Yet unforgot of Thee.

Then shall I sing
The new song of Thy Spring,
Every leaf of me
Whispering Love in Thee!

EARTH TO EARTH

What is the soul? Is it the wind Among the branches of the mind? Is it the sea against Time's shore Breaking and broken evermore? Is it the shore that breaks Time's sea, The verge of vast Eternity? And in the night is it the soul Sleep needs must hush, must needs kiss whole? Or does the soul, secure from sleep, Safe its bright sanctities yet keep? And oh, before the body's death Shall the confined soul ne'er gain breath, But ever to this serpent flesh Subdue its alien self afresh? Is it a bird that shuns earth's night, Or makes with song earth's darkness bright? Is it indeed a thought of God, Or merest clod-fellow to clod? A thought of God, and yet subdued To any passion's apish mood? Itself a God--and yet, O God, As like to earth as clod to clod?

ON A PIECE OF SILVER