Chapter III

Highway, where the Sun is wide; Byway, where the lost ones hide, Byway, where the Soul must hark, Byway, dreadful with the Dark: Can you nothing do with Man? Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief, Learns he nothing, even of grief? Must it still be all his wonder Some men soar, while some go under? He has heard, and he has seen: Make him know the thing you mean. He has prayed since time began,-- He's so curious of the Plan! He will pray you till he die, For the Whence and for the Why; Mad for wisdom--when 'tis cheaper! '_Why should my way lead me deeper? Am I, then, my Brother's keeper?_'

Show him, Byway, if you can; Lest he end as he began, Rich and poor,--this beggar, Man.

_But we did walk in Eden, Eden, the garden of God;-- There, where no beckoning wonder Of all the paths we trod, No choiring sun-filled vineyard, No voice of stream or bird, But was some radiant oracle And flaming with the Word!_

_Mine ears are dim with voices; Mine eyes yet strive to see The black things here to wonder at, The mirth,--the misery. Beloved, who wert with me there, How came these shames to be?-- On what lost star are we?_

_Men say: The paths of gladness
By men were never trod!--
But we have walked in Eden,
Eden, the garden of God._

THE FOUNDLING

Beautiful Mother, I have toiled all day;
And I am wearied. And the day is done.
Now, while the wild brooks run
Soft by the furrows--fading, gold to gray,
Their laughters turned to musing--ah, let me
Hide here my face at thine unheeding knee,
Beautiful Mother; if I be thy son.

The birds fly low. Gulls, starlings, hoverers,
Along the meadows and the paling foam,
All wings of thine that roam
Fly down, fly down. One reedy murmur blurs
The silence of the earth; and from the warm
Face of the field the upward savors swarm
Into the darkness. And the herds are home.

All they are stalled and folded for their rest,
The creatures: cloud-fleece young that leap and veer;
Mad-mane and gentle ear;
And breath of loving-kindness. And that best,--
O shaggy house-mate, watching me from far,
With human-aching heart, as I a star--
Tempest of plumèd joys, just to be near!

So close, so like, so dear; and whom I love
More than thou lovest them, or lovest me.
So beautiful to see,
Ah, and to touch! When those far lights above
Scorch me with farness--lights that call and call
To the far heart, and answer not at all;
Save that they will not let the darkness be.

And what am I? That I alone of these
Make me most glad at noon? That I should mark
The after-glow go dark?
This hour to sing--but never have--heart's-ease!
That when the sorrowing winds fly low, and croon
Outside our happy windows their old rune,
Beautiful Mother, I must wake, and hark?

Who am I? Why for me this iron _Must_?
Burden the moon-white ox would never bear;
Load that he cannot share,
He, thine imperial hostage of the dust.
Else should I look to see the god's surprise
Flow from his great unscornful, lovely eyes--
The ox thou gavest to partake my care.

Yea, all they bear their yoke of sun-filled hours.
I, lord at noon, at nightfall no more free,
Take on more heavily
The yoke of hid, intolerable Powers.
--Then pushes here, in my forgetful hand,
This near one's breathless plea to understand.
Starward I look; he, even so, at me!

And she who shines within my house, my sight
Of the heart's eyes, my hearth-glow, and my rain,
My singing's one refrain--
Are there for her no tidings from the height?
For her, my solace, likewise lost and far,
Islanded with me here, on this lone star
Washed by the ceaseless tides of dark and light.

What shall it profit, that I built for her
A little wayside shelter from the stark
Sky that we hear, and mark?
Lo, in her eyes all dreams that ever were!
And cheek-to-cheek with me she shares the quest,
Her heart, as mine for her, sole tented rest
From light to light of day; from dark--till Dark.

Yea, but for her, how should I greatly care
Whither and whence? But that the dark should blast
Our bright! To hold her fast,--
Yet feel this dread creep gray along the air.
To know I cannot hold her so my own,
But under surge of joy, the surges moan
That threaten us with parting at the last!

Beautiful Mother, I am not thy son.
I know from echoes far behind the sky.
I know; I know not why.
Even from thy golden, wide oblivion:
Thy careless leave to help thy harvesting,
Thy leave to work a little, live, and sing;
Thy leave to suffer--yea, to sing and die,
Beautiful Mother! ...
Ah, Whose child am I?

_Love sang to me. And I went down the stair, And out into the darkness and the dew; And bowed myself unto the little grass, And the blind herbs, and the unshapen dust Of earth without a face. So let me be._

_For as I hear, the singing makes of me My own desire, and momently I grow. Yea, all the while with hands of melody, The singing makes me, out of what I was, Even as a potter shaping Eden clay._

_Ever Love sings, and saith in words that sing, 'Beloved, thus art thou; and even so Lovely art thou, Beloved!'--Even so, As the Sea weaves her path before the light, I hear, I hear, and I am glorified._

_Love sang to me, and I am glorified Because of some commandment in the stars. And I shall grow in favour and in shining, Till at the last I am all-beautiful; Beautiful, for the day Love sings no more._

THE FEASTER

Oh, who will hush that cry outside the doors,
While we are glad within?
Go forth, go forth, all you my servitors;
(And gather close, my kin.)
Go out to her. Tell her we keep a feast,--
Lost Loveliness who will not sit her down
Though we implore.
It is her silence binds me unreleased,
It is her silence that no flute can drown,
It is her moonlit silence at the door,
Wide as the whiteness, but a fire on high
That frights my heart with an immortal Cry,
Calling me evermore.

Louder, you viols;--louder, O my harp;
Let me not hear her voice;
And drown her keener silence, silver-sharp,
With waves of golden noise!
For she is wise as Eden, even mute,
To search my spirit through the deep and height
Again, again.
Outpierce her with your singing, dawnlike flute;
And you, gloom over, viols of the night
With colors lost in umber,--with sweet pain
Of richest world's desire,--prevail, sing down
All memory with pleading, so you drown
Her merciless refrain!

Oh, can you not with music, nor with din,
Save me the stress and stir
In my lone spirit, throned among my kin,
From that same voice of her?--
The never ending query she hath had
Only to wake my Soul, and only then
Wake it to weep?
With '_Why?_' and '_Art thou happy? Art thou glad?
And hast thou fellowship with fellow-men?_'
So, through my mirth and underneath my sleep;
Her voice,--abysmal hunger unfulfilled;--
The calling, calling, never to be stilled,--
Calling of deep to deep.

But I have that shall fill this wound of mine,
Since Loveliness must be;--
Since Loveliness must save us, or we pine
And perish utterly.
All that the years have left us, undismayed
Of age or death; and happier fair than truth,
--When truth is fair!
Shapes of immortal sweetness, to persuade
Iron and fire and marble to their youth;
Wild graces trapped from the three kingdoms' lair
Of wildest Beauty; shadow and smile and hush;
--Fleet color, of a daybreak, of a blush,
For my sad soul to wear!

Let April fade! For me, unfading bloom!...
The little fruitless seed
Deep sown of fire within the midmost gloom,
A sterner fire to feed:--
The rainbow, frozen in a lasting dew;
Green-gazing emerald, fresh as grass beneath
The placid rose.
Fair pearl, and you, fair pearl, and you and you,
Rained from the moon, and kissing in a wreath,
As moment unto eager moment goes!
Look back at me, you sapphires blue and wise
With farthest twilight, blue resplendent eyes
That never weep, nor close.

O house me, glories! Give me house and home
Here for my homelessness.
Set forth for me the wine, the honeycomb
Whereto desire saith 'Yes!'
O Senses, weave me from all lovely dust
Some home-array, some fair familiar garb
For me, exiled.
Charm me some rare anointment I may trust
Against her query, searching like a barb
The dumbness of a heart unreconciled.
Clothe me with silver; fold me from dismay;
Save me from pity. For I hear her say,
'Alas, Alas, poor child!'

'Alas, Alas, thou lost poor child, how long?
Why wilt thou suffer want?
Why must I hear thy weeping through thy song,
And see thine eyes grow gaunt?
Making sad feast upon the crumbs of light
Shed long ago from heavenly highways where
Thy brethren are!
And thy heart smoulders in thee, to be bright,
Thy one sole refuge from thy one despair,
Fraying the thwarted body with a scar.
How long, before thine eyelids, desolate,
How long shall this thy dark dominion wait
For thee, belated Star?'

_Belovèd, if the Moon could weep,
Or if the Sun could see
How all these weltering alleys keep
Their outcast treasury!_

_O bitter, bitter-sweet!-- Beauty of babyhood,-- Earth's wistful uttermost of good Flung out upon the street; Fouled, even as the highways would, With mirk and mire and bruise; The cheek more petal-fine Than rose before a shrine! Those hands like star-fish in the ooze, And fingers fain to cling To any stronger thing! And smiles, for one triumphal Gift, Should one lean down, and lift! And tendril hair;--O in such wise, With wild lights aureoled, The morning-glories twine and hold, In some far paradise!_

_Oh well and deep, the foul ways keep
Lost treasure hid from day!--
Sun may not see: but only we,
Who look; and look away._

THE GOLDEN SHOES

The winds are lashing on the sea;
The roads are blind with storm.
And it's far and far away with me;
So bide you there, stay warm.
It's forth I must, and forth to-day;
And I have no path to choose.
The highway hill, it is my way still.--
Give me my golden shoes.

_God gave them me on that first day
I knew that I was young.
And I looked far forth, from west to north;
And I heard the Songs unsung._

This cloak is worn too threadbare thin,
But ah, how weatherwise!
This girdle serves to bind it in;
What heed of wondering eyes?--
And yet beside, I wear one pride
--Too bright, think you, to use?--
That I must wear, and still keep fair.--
Give here my golden shoes.

_God gave them me, on that first day
I heard the Stars all chime.
And I looked forth far, from road to star;
And I knew it was far to climb._

They would buy me house and hearth, no doubt,
And the mirth to spend and share;
Could I sell that gift, and go without,
Or wear--what neighbors wear.
But take my staff, my purse, my scrip;
For I have one thing to choose.
For you,--Godspeed! May you soothe your need.
For me, my golden shoes!

_He gave them me, that far, first day
When I heard all Songs unsung.
And I looked far forth, from west to north.
God saw that I was young!_

NOON AT PÆSTUM

Lord of the Sea, we sun-filled creatures raise
Our hands among the clamorous weeds,--we too.
Lord of the Sun, and of the upper blue,
Of all To-morrow, and all yesterdays,
Here, where the thousand broken names and ways
Of worship are but shards we wandered through,
There is no gift to offer, or undo;
There is no prayer left in us, only praise.

Only to glory in this glory here, Through the dead smoke of myriad sacrifice;-- To look through these blue spaces, blind and clear Even as the seaward gaze of Homer's eyes; And from uplifted heart, and cup, to pour Wine to the Unknown God.--We ask no more.

VESTAL FLAME

Light, light,--the last: Till the night be done, Keep the watch for stars and sun, and eyelids over-cast.

Once there seemed a sky, Brooding over men. Now no stars have come again, since their bright good-bye!

Once my dreams were wise. Now I nothing know; Fasting and the dark have so put out my heart's eyes.

But thy golden breath Burns against my cheek. I can feel and love, and seek all the rune it saith.

Do not thou be spent, Holy thing of fire,-- Only hope of heart's desire dulled with wonderment!

While there bide these two Hands to bar the wind; Though such fingers chill and thinned, shed no roses through.

While this body bends Only for thy guard; Like a tower, to ward and worship all the light it sends.

It is not for fear Lest there ring some cry On the midnight, 'Rise and come. Lo, the Bridegroom near!'

It is not for pride, To be shining fair In a wedding-garment there, lighting home the Bride.

It is not to win Love, for hoarded toil, From those poor, with their spent oil, weeping, 'Light us in!'--

No; but in despite Of all vigils set, Do I bind me to thee yet,--strangest thing of Light!

Only, all, for thee Whatsoe'er thou art, Smiling through the blinded heart, things it cannot see.

Very Soul's Desire, Take my life; and live By the rapture thine doth give, ecstasy of fire!

Hold thy golden breath! For I feel,--not hear-- Spent with joy and fear to lose thee, all the song it saith.

Light, light, my own: Do not thou disown Thy poor keeper-of-the-light, for Light's sake alone.

_The dark had left no speech save hand-in-hand Between us two the while, with others near. Mine questioned thine with 'Why should I be here?' 'Yet bide thou here,' said thine, 'and understand.'_

_And mine was mute; but strove not then to go; And hid itself, and murmured, 'Do not hear The listening in my heart!' Said thine, 'My Dear, I will not hear it, ever. But I know.'_

_Said mine to thine: 'Let be. Now will I go!-- For you are saying,--you who do not speak, This hand-in-hand is one day cheek-to-cheek!' And said thy hand around me, 'Even so.'_

_Then mine to thine.--'Yea, I have been alone; --Yet happy.--This is strange. This is not I! You hold me, but you can not tell me why.' And said thy hand to mine again, 'My Own.'_

THE PROPHET

All day long he kept the sheep:--
Far and early, from the crowd,
On the hills from steep to steep,
Where the silence cried aloud;
And the shadow of the cloud
Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.

Where he dipped the water's cool,
Filling boyish hands from thence,
Something breathed across the pool
Stir of sweet enlightenments;
And he drank, with thirsty sense,
Till his heart was brimmed and full.

Still, the hovering Voice unshed,
And the Vision unbeheld,
And the mute sky overhead,
And his longing, still withheld!
--Even when the two tears welled,
Salt, upon that lonely bread.

Vaguely blessèd in the leaves,
Dim-companioned in the sun,
Eager mornings, wistful eves,
Very hunger drew him on;
And To-morrow ever shone
With the glow the sunset weaves.

Even so, to that young heart,
Words and hands, and Men were dear;
And the stir of lane and mart
After daylong vigil here.
Sunset called, and he drew near,
Still to find his path apart.

When the Bell, with gentle tongue,
Called the herd-bells home again,
Through the purple shades he swung,
Down the mountain, through the glen;
Towards the sound of fellow-men,--
Even from the light that clung.

Dimly too, as cloud on cloud,
Came that silent flock of his:
Thronging whiteness, in a crowd,
After homing twos and threes;
With the thronging memories
Of all white things dreamed and vowed.

Through the fragrances, alone,
By the sudden-silent brook,
From the open world unknown,
To the close of speech and book;
There to find the foreign look
In the faces of his own.

Sharing was beyond his skill;
Shyly yet, he made essay:
Sought to dip, and share, and fill
Heart's-desire, from day to day.
But their eyes, some foreign way,
Looked at him; and he was still.

Last, he reached his arms to sleep,
Where the Vision waited, dim,
Still beyond some deep-on-deep.
And the darkness folded him,
Eager heart and weary limb.--
All day long, he kept the sheep.

THE LONG LANE

All through the summer night, down the long lane in flower,
The moon-white lane,
All through the summer night,--dim as a shower,
Glimmer and fade the Twain:
Over the cricket hosts, throbbing the hour by hour,
Young voices bloom and wane.

Down the long lane they go, and past one window, pale
With visions silver-blurred;
Stirring the heart that waits,--the eyes that fail
After a spring deferred.
Query, and hush, and Ah!--dim through a moon-lit veil,
The same one word.

Down the long lane, entwined with all the fragrance there;
The lane in flower somehow
With youth, and plighted hands, and star-strewn air,
And muted 'Thee' and 'Thou':--
All the wild bloom and reach of dreams that never were,
--Never to be, now.

So, in the throbbing dark, where ebbs the old refrain,
A starved heart hears.
And silver-bright, and silver-blurred again
With moonlight and with tears.
All the long night they go, down the long summer lane,
The long, long years.

_Ah but, Belovèd, men may do All things to music;--march, and die; And wear the longest vigil through, ... And say good-by. All things to music!--Ah, but where Peace never falls upon the air;-- These city-ways of dark and din Where greed has shut and barred them in! And thundering, swart against the sky, That whirlwind,--never to go by-- Of tracks and wheels, that overhead Beat back the senses with their roar And menace of undying war,-- War--war--for daily bread!_

_All things to silence! Ah, but where Men dwell not, but must make a lair;-- And Sorrow may not sit alone, Nor Love hear music of its own; And Thought that strives to breast that sea Must struggle even for memory. Day-long, night-long,--besieging din To thrust all pain the deeper in!-- And drown the flutter of first-breath; And batter at the doors of Death. To lull their dearest:--watch their dead; While the long thunders overhead, Gather and break for evermore, Eternal tides--eternal War, War--war--Bread--bread!_

ALISON'S MOTHER TO THE BROOK

Brook, of the listening grass, Brook of the sun-fleckt wings, Brook of the same wild way and flickering spell! Must you begone? Will you forever pass, After so many years and dear to tell?-- Brook of all hoverings ... Brook that I kneel above; Brook of my love.

Ah, but I have a charm to trouble you; A spell that shall subdue Your all-escaping heart, unheedful one And unremembering! Now, when I make my prayer To your wild brightness there That will but run and run, O mindless Water!-- Hark,--now will I bring A grace as wild,--my little yearling daughter, My Alison.

Heed well that threat; And tremble for your hill-born liberty So bright to see!-- Your shadow-dappled way, unthwarted yet, And the high hills whence all your dearness bubbled;-- You, never to possess! For let her dip but once--O fair and fleet,-- Here in your shallows, yes, Here in your silverness Her two blithe feet,-- O Brook of mine, how shall your heart be troubled!

The heart, the bright unmothering heart of you, That never knew.-- (O never, more than mine of long ago. How could we know?--) For who should guess The shock and smiting of that perfectness?-- The lily-thrust of those ecstatic feet Unpityingly sweet?-- Sweet beyond all the blurred blind dreams that grope The upward paths of hope? And who could guess The dulcet holiness, The lilt and gladness of those jocund feet, Unpityingly sweet? Ah, for your coolness that shall change and stir With every glee of her!-- Under the fresh amaze That drips and glistens from her wiles and ways; When the endearing air That everywhere Must twine and fold and follow her, shall be Rippled to ring on ring of melody,-- Music, like shadows from the joy of her, Small starry Reveller!-- When from her triumphings,-- All frolic wings-- There soars beyond the glories of the height, The laugh of her delight!

And it shall sound, until Your heart stand still; Shaken to human sight; Struck through with tears and light; One with the one desire Unto that central Fire Of Love the Sun, whence all we lighted are Even from clod to star.

And all your glory, O most swift and sweet!-- And all your exultation only this; To be the lowly and forgotten kiss Beneath those feet.

You that must ever pass,-- You of the same wild way,-- The silver-bright good-bye without a look!-- You that would never stay, For the beseeching grass ... Brook!--

_You, Four Walls, Wall not in my heart! When the lovely night-time falls All so welcomely, Blinding, sweet hearth-fire, Light of heart's desire, Blind not, blind not me! Unto them that weep apart,-- While you glow, within, Wreckt, despairing kin,-- Dark with misery: --Do not blind my heart!_

_You, close Heart!
Never hide from mine
Worlds that I divine
Through thy human dearness.
O belovèd Nearness,
Hallow all I understand
With thy hand-in-hand;--
All the lights I seek,
With thy cheek-to-cheek;
All the loveliness I loved apart._

_You, heart's Home!--
Wall not in my heart._

CANTICLE OF THE BABE