Chapter 3

And all that strange unearthly multitude Seemed twisted in vast seething companies, That evermore with hoarse and terrible cries And desperate encounter at mad feud Plunged onward, each in its implacable mood Borne down over the trampled blazonries Of other faiths and other phantasies, Each following furiously, and each pursued; So sped they on with tumult vast and grim, But ever meseemed beyond them I could see White-haloed groups that sought perpetually The figure of one crowned and sacrificed; And faint, far forward, floating tall and dim, The banner of our Lord and Master, Christ.

UNREST.

All day upon the garden bright The sun shines strong, But in my heart there is no light, Or any song.

Voices of merry life go by, Adown the street; But I am weary of the cry And drift of feet.

With all dear things that ought to please The hours are blessed, And yet my soul is ill at ease, And cannot rest.

Strange spirit, leave me not too long, Nor stint to give, For if my soul have no sweet song, It cannot live.

SONG.

Songs that could span the earth, When leaping thought had stirred them, In many an hour since birth, We heard or dreamed we heard them.

Sometimes to all their sway We yield ourselves half fearing, Sometimes with hearts grown grey We curse ourselves for hearing.

We toil and but begin; In vain our spirits fret them, We strive, and cannot win, Nor evermore forget them.

A light that will not stand, That comes and goes in flashes, Fair fruits that in the hand Are turned to dust and ashes.

Yet still the deep thoughts ring Around and through and through us, Sweet mights that make us sing, But bring no resting to us.

ONE DAY.

The trees rustle; the wind blows Merrily out of the town; The shadows creep, the sun goes Steadily over and down.

In a brown gloom the moats gleam; Slender the sweet wife stands; Her lips are red; her eyes dream; Kisses are warm on her hands.

The child moans; the hours slip Bitterly over her head: In a gray dusk, the tears drip; Mother is up there dead.

The hermit hears the strange bright Murmur of life at play; In the waste day and the waste night Times to rebel and to pray.

The laborer toils in gray wise, Godlike and patient and calm; The beggar moans; his bleared eyes Measure the dust in his palm.

The wise man marks the flow and ebb Hidden and held aloof: In his deep mind is laid the web, Shuttles are driving the woof.

SLEEP.

If any man, with sleepless care oppressed, On many a night had risen, and addressed His hand to make him out of joy and moan An image of sweet sleep in carven stone, Light touch by touch, in weary moments planned, He would have wrought her with a patient hand, Not like her brother death, with massive limb And dreamless brow, unstartled, changeless, dim, But very fair, though fitful and afraid, More sweet and slight than any mortal maid. Her hair he would have carved a mantle smooth Down to her tender feet to wrap and soothe All fevers in, yet barbèd here and there With many a hidden sting of restless care; Her brow most quiet, thick with opiate rest, Yet watchfully lined, as if some hovering guest Of noiseless doubt were there; so too her eyes His light hand would have carved in cunning wise Broad with all languor of the drowsy South, Most beautiful, but held askance; her mouth More soft and round than any rose half-spread, Yet ever twisted with some nervous dread. He would have made her with one marble foot, Frail as a snow-white feather, forward put, Bearing sweet medicine for all distress, Smooth languor and unstrung forgetfulness; The other held a little back for dread; One slender moonpale hand held forth to shed Soft slumber dripping from its pearly tip Into wide eyes; the other on her lip. So in the watches of his sleepless care The cunning artist would have wrought her fair; Shy goddess, at keen seeking most afraid Yet often coming, when we least have prayed.

THREE FLOWER PETALS.

What saw I yesterday walking apart In a leafy place where the cattle wait? Something to keep for a charm in my heart-- A little sweet girl in a garden gate. Laughing she lay in the gold sun's might, And held for a target to shelter her, In her little soft fingers, round and white, The gold-rimmed face of a sunflower.

Laughing she lay on the stone that stands For a rough-hewn step in that sunny place, And her yellow hair hung down to her hands, Shadowing over her dimpled face. Her eyes like the blue of the sky, made dim With the might of the sun that looked at her, Shone laughing over the serried rim, Golden set, of the sunflower.

Laughing, for token she gave to me Three petals out of the sunflower;-- When the petals are withered and gone, shall be Three verses of mine for praise of her, That a tender dream of her face may rise And lighten me yet in another hour, Of her sunny hair and her beautiful eyes, Laughing over the gold sunflower.

PASSION.

As a weed beneath the ocean, As a pool beneath a tree Answers with each breath or motion An imperious mastery;

So my spirit swift with passion Finds in every look a sign, Catching in some wondrous fashion Every mood that governs thine.

In a moment it will borrow, Flashing in a gusty train, Laughter and desire and sorrow Anger and delight and pain.

A BALLADE OF WAITING.

No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought So rich as the arms of my love can be; No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught Than her eyes, when they answer me liquidly. Dear lady of love, be kind to me In days when the waters of hope abate, And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught No glitter of wile or traitorie, More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught, Or the heart of a crimson peony; Oh turn not its beauty away from me; To kiss it and cling to it early and late Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

Rich hair that a painter of old had sought For the weaving of some soft phantasy, Most fair when the streams of it run distraught On the firm sweet shoulders yellowly; Dear Lady, gather it close to me, Weaving a nest for the double freight Of cheeks and lips that are one and free, For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

_Envoi._

So time shall be swift till thou mate with me, For love is mightiest next to fate, And none shall be happier, Love, than we, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

BEFORE SLEEP.

Now the creeping nets of sleep Stretch about and gather nigh, And the midnight dim and deep Like a spirit passes by, Trailing from her crystal dress Dreams and silent frostiness.

Yet a moment, ere I be Tangled in the snares of night, All the dreamy heart of me To my Lady takes its flight, To her chamber where she lies, Wrapt in midnight phantasies.

Over many a glinting street And the snow capped roofs of men, Towers that tremble with the beat Of the midnight bells, and then, Where my body may not be, Stands my spirit holily.

Wake not, Lady, wake not soon: Through the frosty windows fall Broken glimmers of the moon Dimly on the floor and wall; Wake not, Lady, never care, 'Tis my spirit kneeling there.

Let him kneel a moment now, For the minutes fly apace; Let him see the sleeping brow, And the sweetly rounded face: He shall tell me soon aright How my Lady looks to-night.

How her tresses out and in Fold in many a curly freak, Round about the snowy chin And the softly tinted cheek, Where no sorrows now can weep, And the dimples lie asleep.

How her eyelids meet and match, Gathered in two dusky seams, Each the little creamy thatch Of an azure house of dreams, Or two flowers that love the light Folded softly up at night.

How her bosom, breathing low, Stirs the wavy coverlet With a motion soft and slow: Oh, my Lady, wake not yet; There without a thought of guile Let my spirit dream a while.

Yet, my spirit, back to me, Hurry soon and have a care; Love will turn to agony, If you rashly linger there; Bending low as spirits may, Touch her lips and come away.

So, fond spirit, beauty-fed, Turning when your watch is o'er, Weave a cross above the bed And a sleep-rune on the floor, That no evil enter there, Ugly shapes and dreams beware.

Then, ye looming nets of sleep, Ye may have me all your own, For the night is wearing deep And the ice-winds whisk and moan; Come with all your drowsy stress, Dreams and silent frostiness.

A SONG.

Oh night and sleep, Ye are so soft and deep, I am so weary, come ye soon to me. Oh hours that creep, With so much time to weep, I am so tired, can ye no swifter be?

Come, night, anear; I'll whisper in thine ear What makes me so unhappy, full of care; Dear night, I die For love that all men buy With tears, and know not it is dark despair.

Dear night, I pray, How is it that men say That love is sweet? It is not sweet to me. For one boy's sake A poor girl's heart must break; So sweet, so true, and yet it could not be!

Oh, I loved well, Such love as none can tell: It was so true, it could not make him know: For he was blind, All light and all unkind: Oh, had he known, would he have hurt me so?

Oh night and sleep, Ye are so soft and deep, I am so weary, come ye soon to me. Oh hours that creep, With so much time to weep, I am so tired, can ye no swifter be?

WHAT DO POETS WANT WITH GOLD?

What do poets want with gold, Cringing slaves and cushioned ease; Are not crusts and garments old Better for their souls than these?

Gold is but the juggling rod Of a false usurping god, Graven long ago in hell With a sombre stony spell, Working in the world forever. Hate is not so strong to sever Beating human heart from heart. Soul from soul we shrink and part, And no longer hail each other With the ancient name of brother Give the simple poet gold, And his song will die of cold. He must walk with men that reel On the rugged path, and feel Every sacred soul that is Beating very near to his. Simple, human, careless, free, As God made him, he must be: For the sweetest song of bird Is the hidden tenor heard In the dusk, at even-flush, From the forest's inner hush, Of the simple hermit thrush.

What do poets want with love? Flowers that shiver out of hand, And the fervid fruits that prove Only bitter broken sand?

Poets speak of passion best, When their dreams are undistressed, And the sweetest songs are sung, E'er the inner heart is stung. Let them dream; 'tis better so; Ever dream, but never know. If their spirits once have drained All that goblet crimson-stained, Finding what they dreamed divine, Only earthly sluggish wine, Sooner will the warm lips pale, And the flawless voices fail, Sooner come the drooping wing, And the afterdays that bring, No such songs as did the spring.

THE KING'S SABBATH.

Once idly in his hall king Olave sat Pondering, and with his dagger whittled chips; And one drew near to him with austere lips, Saying, "To-morrow is Monday," and at that The king said nothing, but held forth his flat Broad palm, and bending on his mighty hips, Took up and mutely laid thereon the slips Of scattered wood, as on a hearth, and gat From off the embers near, a burning brand. Kindling the pile with this, the dreaming Dane Sat silent with his eyes set and his bland Proud mouth, tight-woven, smiling, drawn with pain, Watching the fierce fire flare, and wax, and wane, Hiss and burn down upon his shrivelled hand.

THE LITTLE HANDMAIDEN.

The King's son walks in the garden fair-- _Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!_ He little knows for his toil and care, That the bride is gone and the bower is bare. _Put on garments of white, my maidens!_

The sun shines bright through the casement high-- _Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!_ The little handmaid, with a laughing eye, Looks down on the king's son, strolling by. _Put on garments of white, my maidens!_

"He little knows that the bride is gone, And the Earl knows little as he; She is fled with her lover afar last night, And the King's son is left to me."

And back to her chamber with velvety step The little handmaid did glide, And a gold key took from her bosom sweet, And opened the great chests wide.

She bound her hair with a band of blue, And a garland of lilies sweet; And put on her delicate silken shoes, With roses on both her feet.

She clad her body in spotless white, With a girdle as red as blood. The glad white raiment her beauty bound, As the sepels bind the bud:

And round and round her white neck she flung A necklace of sapphires blue; On one white finger of either hand A shining ring she drew.

And down the stairway and out of the door She glided, as soft and light, As an airy tuft of a thistle seed Might glide through the grasses bright.

And into the garden sweet she stole-- The little birds carolled loud-- Her beauty shone as a star might shine In the rift of a morning cloud.

The King's son walked in the garden fair, And the little handmaiden came, Through the midst of a shimmer of roses red, Like a sunbeam through a flame.

The King's son marvelled, his heart leaped up, "And art thou my bride?" said he, "For, North or South, I have never beheld A lovelier maid than thee."

"And dost thou love me?" the little maid cried, "A fine King's son, I wis!" And the King's son took her with both his hands, And her ruddy lips did kiss.

And the little maid laughed till the beaded tears, Ran down in a silver rain. "O foolish King's son!" and she clapped her hands, Till the gold rings rang again.

"O King's son, foolish and fooled art thou, For a goodly game is played: Thy bride is away with her lover last night, And I am her little handmaid."

And the King's son sware a great oath, said he,-- _Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!_ "If the Earl's fair daughter a traitress be, The little handmaid is enough for me." _Put on garments of white, my maidens!_

The King's son walks in the garden fair-- _Oh, the maiden's heart is merry!_ And the little handmaiden walketh there, But the old Earl pulleth his beard for care. _Put on garments of white, my maidens!_

ABU MIDJAN.

Underneath a tree at noontide Abu Midjan sits distressed, Fetters on his wrists and ancles, And his chin upon his breast;

For the Emir's guard had taken, As they passed from line to line, Reeling in the camp at midnight, Abu Midjan drunk with wine.

Now he sits and rolls uneasy, Very fretful, for he hears, Near at hand, the shout of battle, And the din of driving spears.

Both his heels in wrath are digging Trenches in the grassy soil, And his fingers clutch and loosen, Dreaming of the Persian spoil.

To the garden, over-weary Of the sound of hoof and sword, Came the Emir's gentle lady, Anxious for her fighting lord.

Very sadly, Abu Midjan, Hanging down his head for shame, Spake in words of soft appealing To the tender-hearted dame:

"Lady, while the doubtful battle Ebbs and flows upon the plains, Here in sorrow, meek and idle, Abu Midjan sits in chains.

"Surely Saad would be safer For the strength of even me; Give me then his armour, Lady, And his horse, and set me free.

"When the day of fight is over, With the spoil that he may earn, To his chains, if he is living, Abu Midjan will return."

She, in wonder and compassion, Had not heart to say him nay; So, with Saad's horse and armour, Abu Midjan rode away.

Happy from the fight at even, Saad told his wife at meat, How the army had been succoured In the fiercest battle-heat,

By a stranger horseman, coming When their hands were most in need, And he bore the arms of Saad, And was mounted on his steed;

How the faithful battled forward, Mighty where the stranger trod, Till they deemed him more than mortal, And an angel sent from God.

Then the lady told her master How she gave the horse and mail To the drunkard, and had taken Abu Midjan's word for bail.

To the garden went the Emir, Running to the tree, and found Torn with many wounds and bleeding, Abu Midjan meek and bound.

And the Emir loosed him, saying, As he gave his hand for sign, "Never more shall Saad's fetters Chafe thee for a draught of wine."

Three times to the ground in silence Abu Midjan bent his head; Then with glowing eyes uplifted, To the Emir spake and said:

"While an earthly lord controlled me, All things for the wine I bore; Now, since God alone shall judge me, Abu Midjan drinks no more."

THE WEAVER.

All day, all day, round the clacking net The weaver's fingers fly: Gray dreams like frozen mists are set In the hush of the weaver's eye; A voice from the dusk is calling yet, "Oh, come away, or we die!"

Without is a horror of hosts that fight, That rest not, and cease not to kill, The thunder of feet and the cry of flight, A slaughter weird and shrill; Gray dreams are set in the weaver's sight, The weaver is weaving still.

"Come away, dear soul, come away, or we die; Hear'st thou the moan and the rush! Come away; The people are slain at the gates, and they fly; The kind God hath left them this day; The battle-axe cleaves, and the foemen cry, And the red swords swing and slay."

"Nay, wife, what boots it to fly from pain, When pain is wherever we fly? And death is a sweeter thing than a chain: 'Tis sweeter to sleep than to cry. The kind God giveth the days that wane; If the kind God hath said it, I die."

And the weaver wove, and the good wife fled, And the city was made a tomb, And a flame that shook from the rocks overhead Shone into that silent room, And touched like a wide red kiss on the dead Brown weaver slain by his loom.

Yet I think that in some dim shadowy land, Where no suns rise or set, Where the ghost of a whilom loom doth stand Round the dusk of its silken net, Forever flyeth his shadowy hand, And the weaver is weaving yet.

THE THREE PILGRIMS.

In days, when the fruit of men's labour was sparing, And hearts were weary and nigh to break, A sweet grave man with a beautiful bearing Came to us once in the fields and spake.

He told us of Roma, the marvellous city, And of One that came from the living God, The Virgins' Son, who in heavenly pity, Bore for His people the rood and rod,

And how at Roma the gods were broken, The new was strong, and the old nigh dead, And love was more than a bare word spoken, For the sick were healed and the poor were fed;

And we sat mute at his feet, and hearkened: The grave man came in an hour; and went, But a new light shone on a land long darkened; The toil was weary, the fruit was spent:

So we came south, till we saw the city, Speeding three of us, hand in hand, Seeking peace and the bread of pity, Journeying out of the Umbrian land;

Till we saw from the hills in a dazzled coma Over the vines that the wind made shiver, Tower on tower, the great city Roma, Palace and temple, and winding river:

And we stood long in a dream and waited, Watching and praying and purified, And came at last to the walls belated, Entering in at the eventide:

And many met us with song and dancing, Mantled in skins and crowned with flowers, Waving goblets and torches glancing; Faces drunken, that grinned in ours:

And one, that ran in the midst, came near us-- "Crown yourselves for the feast," he said, But we cried out, that the God might hear us, "Where is Jesus, the living bread?"

And they took us each by the hand with laughter; Their eyes were haggard and red with wine: They haled us on, and we followed after, "We will show you the new God's shrine."

Ah, woe to our tongues, that, forever unsleeping, Harp and uncover the old hot care, The soothing ash from the embers sweeping, Wherever the soles of our sad feet fare.

Ah, we were simple of mind, not knowing, How dreadful the heart of a man might be; But the knowledge of evil is mighty of growing; Only the deaf and the blind are free.

We came to a garden of beauty and pleasure-- It was not the way that our own feet chose-- Where a revel was whirling in many a measure, And the myriad roar of a great crowd rose;

And the midmost round of the garden was reddened With pillars of fire in a great high ring-- One look--and our souls forever were deadened, Though our feet yet move, and our dreams yet sting;

For we saw that each was a live man flaming, Limbs that a human mother bore, And a thing of horror was done, past naming, And the crowd spun round, and we saw no more.

And he that ran in the midst, descrying, Lifted his hand with a foul red sneer, And smote us each and the other, crying, "Thus we worship the new God here.

"The Cæsar comes, and the people's pæans Hail his name for the new made light, Pitch and the flesh of the Galileans, Torches fit for a Roman night;"

And we fell down to the earth, and sickened, Moaning, three of us, head by head, "Where is He, whom the good God quickened? Where is Jesus, the living bread?"

Yet ever we heard, in the foul mirth turning, Man and woman and child go by, And ever the yells of the charred men burning, Piercing heavenward, cry on cry;

And we lay there, till the frightful revel Died in the dawn with a few short moans Of some that knelt in the wan and level Shadows, that fell from the blackened bones.

Numb with horror and sick with pity, The heart of each as an iron weight, We crept in the dawn from the awful city, Journeying out of the seaward gate.

The great sun came from the sea before us; A soft wind blew from the scented south; But our eyes knew not of the steps that bore us Down to the ships at the Tiber's mouth;

And we prayed then, as we turned our faces Over the sea to the living God, That our ways might be in the fierce bare places, Where never the foot of a live man trod: