Chapter II

For you are younger than the mornings are
That in the mountains break;
When upland shepherds see their only star
Pale on the dawn, and make
In his surcease the hours,
The early hours of all their happy circuit take.

CUCKOO!

In woods so long time bare.
Cuckoo!
(Up in Mortain woods, I know not where)
Two notes fall.
Yet I do not envy him at all
His phantasy.
Cuckoo!
I too,
Somewhere,
I have sang as merrily as he
Who can dare,
Small and careless lover, so to laugh at care,
And who
Can call
Cuckoo!
In woods of winter weary,
In scented woods, of winter weary, call
Cuckoo!
In woods so long time bare.

SONNETS.

THE HARBOUR.

I was like one who grips the deck by night,
Bearing the tiller up against his breast;
I was like one who makes with all his might
For keeping course although so hardly prest;
Who veers with veering shock, now east, now west,
And strains his foothold still, and still makes play,
Of bending beams until the sacred light
Shows him high lands and heralds up the day.

But now such busy work of battle past,
I am like one whose barque at bar at last
Comes hardly heeling down the adventurous breeze,
And entering calmer seas,
I am like one that brings his merchandise
To Californian skies.

HER YOUTH.

Youth gave you to me, but I’ll not believe
That youth will, taking his quick self, take you.
Youth’s all our truth; he cannot so deceive;
He has our graces--not our own selves too.
He still compares with time when he’ll be spent,
By human fate enhancing what we are;
Enriches us with dear experiment,
Lends arms to leaguered age in Time’s rough war.

Look, this youth in us is an old man taking
A boy to make him wiser than his days.
So is our old youth our young ages making,
So rich in time his final debt he pays.
So with your quite young arms do you me hold,
And I will still be young when all the world’s grown old.

LOVE AND HONOUR.

Love wooing Honour, Honour’s love did win,
And had his pleasure all a summer’s day.
Not understanding how the dooms begin,
Love wooing Honour, wooed her life away.
Then wandered he for full five years’ unrest,
Until, one night, this Honour that had died
Came as he woke, in youth grown glorified,
And smiling like the saints whom God has blest.

But when he saw her in the dear night shine
Serene, with more than mortal light upon her,
The boy that careless was of things divine,
Small Love, turned penitent to worship Honour.
So Love can conquer Honour; when that’s past,
Dead Honour risen outdoes Love at last.

HER MUSIC.

Oh! do not play me music any more,
Lest in us mortal, some not mortal spell
Should stir strange hopes, and leave a tale to tell
Of two belovéd whom holy music bore,
Through whispering night and doubt’s uncertain seas,
To drift at length along a dawnless shore,
The last sad goal of human harmonies.
Look! do not play me music any more.

You are my music and my mistress both,
Why, then, let music play the master here?
Make silent melody, Melodie. I am loath
To find that music, large in my soul’s ear,
Should stop my fancy, hold my heart in prize,
And make me dreamer more than dreams are wise.

HER FAITH.

Because my faltering feet will fail to dare
The downward of the endless steps of Hell,
Give me the word in time that triumphs there.

I too must go into the dreadful hollow,
Where all our human laughter stops--and hark!
The tiny stuffless voices of the dark
Have called me, called me till I needs must follow.

Give me the word, and I’ll attempt it well.

Say it’s the little winking of an eye,
Which in that issue is uncurtained quite.
A little sleep that helps a moment by
Between the thin dawn and the large daylight.
Oh! tell me more than yet was hoped of men,
Swear that’s true now, and I’ll believe it then.

HER GIFT IN A GARDEN.

Not for the luckless buds our roots may bear,
Now quite in bloom, now seared and cankered lying,
Will I entreat you, lest they should compare
My sad mortality with the fall of flowers;
But hold with me your chaste communion rare,
And touch with life this mortal case of ours.
For you were born beyond the power of dying:
I die as bounded things die everywhere.

You’re full companionship, I’m silence lonely;
You’re stuff, I’m void; you’re living, I’m decay.
I fall, I think, to twilight ending only,
You lift, I know, to never-ending day.
And knowing living gift was life for me,
In narrow room of rhyme, I fixed it certainly.

THE CHECK.

Shall any man for whose dear love another
Has thrown away his wealth and name in one,
Shall he turn scoffer of a more than brother,
To mock his needs when his desires are done?
Or shall a low-born boy whose mother won him
In great men great concerns his little place,
Turn, when his farthing honours come upon him,
To note her yeoman air and conscious grace?

Then mock me as you do my narrow scope,
For you it was put out this light of mine,
Traitrously wrecked my new adventured hope,
Wasted my wordy wealth, spilt my rich wine,
Made my square ship within a league of shore,
Alas! to be entombed in seas and seen no more.

THE POOR OF LONDON.

Almighty God, whose Justice, like a sun
Shall coruscate along the floors of heaven:
Raising what’s low, perfecting what’s undone,
Breaking the proud, and making odd things even.
The Poor of Jesus Christ along the street
In your rain sodden, in your snows unshod,
They have nor hearth, nor roof, nor daily meat,
Nor even the bread of men; Almighty God.

The Poor of Jesus Christ whom no man hears
Have called upon your vengeance much too long.
Wipe out not tears but blood: our eyes bleed tears:
Come, smite our damnéd sophistries so strong,
That thy rude hammer battering this rude wrong
Ring down the abyss of twice ten thousand years.

GROTESQUES.

NOËL.