Part 3

Behind a press of folk We knelt and no one spoke, Our Lady in her cloak Made not less noise, With folded fingers, than Each silent kneeling man, And sweet small girls who can Be still, and boys.

But for that Babe divine, His cot compared to mine, There in the candle-shine Was poor and hard. Yet did He never cry, Laid on such stems of rye As we see blowing by The stable yard.

And I who lie and wail, Pent by the polished rail Of my white cot while pale The night-light gleams, Who spurn my sheets and stain The patchwork counterpane With tears, then sink again Into my dreams,

Must mind me of His lot Whose mother poor had got No whitely pillowed cot To ease His head, But was at pains to shake The straws up for His sake And did a manger make Into His bed.

Sweet Jesus let me wear My swaddling-bands of care Smiling, and still forbear To be so nice; That thus I may behold Thy True Face, being old, Where straws are turned to gold In Paradise.

TO MASS AT DAWN

“EX UMBRIS ET IMAGINIBUS IN VERITATEM”

On the high frosty fields afoot at dawn I start:—with rarest mist the vale below Brims like a milky cup, the elm-tops show As floating islets, not a sound is borne Up from the river, shadowy on the lawn Two monstrous pheasants fight and strangely low The white sun peers between a spectral row Of quicksets spanned by spider-webs untorn. And the return:—the high sun over-head, The fair sleek fallows spread before my sight, The garrulous clear waters in their bed Of greenest sedge, the multitudinous flight Of little wings—O miracle of light— The self-same track, with all the shadows fled.

THE NUNS’ CHAPEL

Now night hath fallen on the little town, Lights glimmer from each ancient window-pane, On darkling chimney-cowl and weather-vane The buoyant moon looks equitably down; The portico’s be-shadowed columns frown At the market’s verge, and the long lights again Stream from the inn,—I to the convent lane Pass betwixt looming walls and ilex brown. The little door’s ajar, the moon in the porch Gleams on the water-stoup, “In Nomine Patris et Filii....” God’s rosy light Plays on its swinging chain, the auguster torch Of prayer hath burnt to fragrance here all day Whose ashes lie about His feet to-night.

THE SNARE

Dear, the delightful world I see Holdeth its attributes for thee, Nor on my heart doth earth intrude Save to thy grace it hath some rude Inadequate similitude.

So lilac leaves the showers bespatter, The dropping acorns’ elfin patter— These are but echoes of thy feet, Naked or shod, how fair and fleet On oaken board or paven street.

The burnish of thy hair is far Dearer to me than sunsets are— When, from sheer Compton looking west, Such gilded after-glows invest The twilight on the Vale of Test.

Grey mirrors to the blue of the skies Are the fringed candours of your eyes— So hoof-prints in the grassy lane, Goblets full-brimmed of Heaven, contain Celestial leavings of the rain.

But vain the wordy nets I make To trap the look of thee and take Thy graces by the wings which be So sturdy as to flutter free

Yet shall the broke words cast away Serve for thy monument which say— “Behold us, all too weak a gin Too slack a toil to fetter in The shadows on her childish chin.”

A HOUSE IN A WOOD

So ’tis your will to have a cell, My Betsey, of your own and dwell Here where the sun for ever shines That glances off the holly spines— A clearing where the trunks are few Here shall be built a house for you, The little walls of beechen stakes, Wattled with twigs from hazel brakes, Tiled with white oak-chips that lie round The fallen giants on the ground; Under your little feet shall be A ground-work of wild strawberry With gadding stem, a pleasant wort Alike for carpet and dessert. Here Betsey, in the lucid shade, Come, let us twine a green stockade, With slender saplings all about, And a small window to look out, So that you may be “Not at Home” If any mortal callers come. Then shall arrive to make you mirth The four wise peoples of the earth: The thrifty ants who run around To fill their store-rooms underground, The rabbit-folk, a feeble race, From out their rocky sleeping place, The grasshoppers who have no king Yet come in companies to sing, The lizard slim who shyly stands Swaying upon his slender hands— I’ll give them all your new address. For me, my little anchoress, I’ll never stir the bracken by Your house; the brown wood butterfly, Passing you like the sunshine’s fleck That gilds the nape of your warm neck, Shall still report me how you do And bring me all the news of you, And tell me (where I sit alone) How gay you are and how you’re grown A fox-glove’s span in the soft weather.

* * * * *

No? Then we’ll wander home together.

THE CONFESSIONAL

My Sorrow diligent would sweep That dingy room infest With dust (thereby I mean my soul) Because she hath a Guest Who doth require that self-same room Be garnished for His rest.

And Sorrow (who had washed His feet Where He before had been) Took the long broom of Memory And swept the corners clean, Till in the midst of the fair floor The sum of dust was seen.

It lay there, settled by her tears, That fell the while she swept— Light fluffs of grey and earthy dregs; And over these she wept, For all were come since last her Guest Within the room had slept.

And, for nor broom nor tears had power To lift the clods of ill, She called one servant of her Guest Who came with right good will, For, by his sweet Lord’s bidding, he Waiteth on Sorrow still;

Who, seeing she had done her part As far as in her lay And had intent to keep the place More cleanly from that day, Did with his Master’s dust-pan come And take the dust away.

She thankèd him, and Him who sent Such succour, and she spread Fair sheets of Thankfulness and Love Upon her Master’s bed, Then on the new-scoured threshold stood And listened for His tread.

EPITAPH ON A CHILD

RUN OVER AND KILLED BY A MOTOR-CAR IN THE STREET

Here lies A. B. who, four years from her birth, Found there was nowhere left to play on earth. Strange, for her mother’s child had ever grown In the quaint precincts of a country town, Yet was she one whose small predestined feet Learnt nor forgot to walk upon the street. She might not ramble where the farmer spanned With consecrated quickset all his land To fill her pinafore when mushrooms swell; Nor dare she scale the lovely citadel Of brambles in the lane, for their sweet prize Was spoilt with dust that dimmed the children’s eyes When local gods dispersed the timid crowd And went before in pillars of grey cloud. Nor might a bigger child frequent the edge Of the pebbled stream to plait the flowering sedge, For aught of native life was kept without The chosen haunt of Dives and his trout; His pheasants held the coppice and its nuts, Where bearded men played peep behind their butts And wolvish keepers prowling through the woods Had a short way with all Red Riding Hoods. No blade of wholesome grass shot through the hard And greasy flagstones of the narrow yard At home, nor might the children ever play Through the allotments where, a mile away, The civic cabbages congested stood, Reluctant tenants of a stony rood. One playground, one alone, for such as she, Had planned a grave adult humanity, There where grey asphalt hid the ruder ground And serried spikes begirt the place around; At the one end, of yellow brick and slate, Was reared a sort of female Traitors’ Gate, At t’other end the piety of a nation Had raised a shrine of tin to sanitation. This, thanks to man, was all the children’s share And Nature was allowed to tender air. Hence did it chance (as now and then it may) The Powers that Be decreed a holiday. And reckless childhood, whom it ever galls To sit within the compass of four walls, Loosed from its wonted pen conspired to run At random through the town beneath the sun, Rashly disporting in the common street Its rude hands and unnecessary feet. That day, so many a hooting corner crost, The marvel is that one alone was lost, She to whom poverty no tomb assigns But a low mound and these unworthy lines.— Mourn not at all that Her whose burnished wing Flies on the blissful errands of her King, Whom (by a heavenly law too young to err, Accounted on the earth a Trespasser) He hath resumèd and her footfall white Enfranchised of the liberties of light: But for all those who play the part of Fate To engineer this poor and mirthless state Weep,—and for all who loved that childish hair And saw it stained with Tragedy—one prayer.

THE WATER-MEADS OF MOTTISFONT

On the painted bridge at Mottisfont above the Test I’ve stood Where the dab-chick from a rushy raft directs her little brood, Where fringed with sedge and willow-weed the waters spread about And linger in pellucid glooms the sleepy spotted trout.

I’ve seen the tawny tumult of the headlong Highland spate, And the ebb round Hair-brush Island (which the map calls Chiswick Ait) Where the withy bristles shimmer and the purple mud-banks gleam And the lights come out by Thornycroft’s and glisten in the stream.

’Twere good to be at Abergeirch: the little brook again Greets the brine among the shingle on the beetling coast of Lleyn,— O the shallows on the sand-banks where the dozing flat-fish lie And the heather surging inland till it breaks against the sky!

But the chalky scaurs of Compton hold the shadows; and between Lie the water-meads of Mottisfont enamelled with such green As discolours all I’ve looked upon in valleys far apart— For the water-meads of Mottisfont lie nearest to my heart.

THE SENIOR MISTRESS OF BLYTH

[“BLYTH SECONDARY SCHOOL.—The Governors of the above School invite applications for the post of Senior Mistress. Candidates must be Graduates in Honours of a British University and must be well qualified in Mathematics, Latin, and English. Ability to teach Art will be a recommendation.”—Advertisement in _The Spectator_.]

It is told of the painter Da Vinci, Being once unemployed for a span, At the menace of poverty’s pinch he Sought work at the Court of Milan. Having shown himself willing and able To perform on the curious lyre, He presented the Duke with a table Of the talents he proffered for hire.

“I can raze you a fortress,” it ran on, “Quell castles, drain ditches and moats, Make shapely and competent cannon, Build aqueducts, bridges and boats; In peace I can mould for your Courts a Few models in marble or clay And paint the illustrious Sforza With anyone living to-day.”

Leonardo is dead, they asseverate, He has left no successor behind, For the days of the specialist never rate At its value the versatile mind. Is Lord Brougham, then, our latest example? No, Time, the old churl with his scythe, Shall spare us a notable sample In the Senior Mistress of Blyth.

She shall guide Standard Three through Progressions, Study Statics and Surds with the Fourth, She shall dwell on De Quincey’s Confessions, Donne, Caedmon and Christopher North; And no class-room shall boast of a quicker row When her classical pupils rehearse Their prose, which is modelled on Cicero, And their more than Horatian verse.

She shall lead them to love Cimabue, To distinguish with scholarship ripe ’Twixt the texture of Clausen and Clouet, And the values of Collier and Cuyp. Nay, all Blyth shall reflect her ability As its brushes acquire by her aid Or South Kensington’s pretty facility Or the terrible strength of the Slade.

Yes, her duties are diverse, and this’ll Suggest to each candidate why They should read Leonardo’s epistle Before they sit down to apply; For his style is itself a credential Though truly he has not a tithe Of the qualifications essential To the Senior Mistress of Blyth.

THE FIRST PARTY

Follow, my Betsey-Jane, as best you can, Clutching your Mother’s fingers in firm hold, The sable progress of the serving-man, Nor stumble on your shawl’s imperial fold; Whose ceremonious pin of jade and gold Bringeth such rosy awe into your face As the white frock, the stockings silken-soled And the white shoes (with pompons) which will grace The lightness of your feet in this illumined place.

Shawls being shed, descend the ample stair And greet our Hostess. Now you’re set to see The Conjurer, nor think to leave your chair For safer eyrie of your Mother’s knee;— Still, as his tricks are tedious to Three And strange the flounce-clad children in their tiers, Turn your shy back on wiles and wizardry To hug, for comfort’s sake, two homely bears And a prepost’rous poodle, white with knitted ears.

For tea, gramercie to a thoughtful choice And nice derangement of the chairs, your seat Faces a fair acquaintance known as Joyce;— What glances under glossy tresses greet The fellow-connoisseur of cake and sweet Till the last cracker’s pulled on the last plate. Now sidle through the dancers’ tortuous feet And come at last, for the time waxes late, Where in their cloudy breath the shadowy horses wait.

Glow the two tawny lanterns on the hedge, Gleam the ungainly boughs the window blurs, And Betsey nodding on the seat’s soft edge Holds to her heart those pompon’d shoes of hers; Till in my arms, most spent of revellers, I lift her slumb’ring whom nor lifting grieves Nor sudden stay nor the cold night wind stirs, Borne up the path through fragrance of box-leaves, Up to her drowsy cot under dependent eaves.

SOUVENIR OF MICHAEL DRAYTON

I

Scarce hath the crookèd scythe Duly been whetted When all the mowers blithe (By the storm letted, Crouching the shed beneath At the field’s margent) See the first fallen swathe Pelted with argent. White mist the valley blurs, White the horizon, Since the cloud skirmishers Sent their first spies on. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading.

II

Gild, sun, the pendent leaves Silverly dripping, Call the swifts from the eaves Screaming and dipping, Raise the green docks that be To the ground beaten, All the washed earth we see Comfort and sweeten; Till at soft interval On the small flowers, Drops from the thatch-ends fall— Spent are the showers. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading.

III

Soon may the whisp’ring blade Bow the grey grasses, Lo, the lush edge unfrayed Where the scythe passes! All with a stately speed Shorn and soft whistle Muted on nought of weed, Burdock nor thistle.— Grace hath possessed the sky, Hope hath o’er-spanned it, Parteth he hurriedly, Storm, the black bandit. Haste away, Waters grey, Spare of your shedding, Till we bestow our hay Safe in the steading.

“FOUR-PAWS”

Four-paws, the kitten from the farm, Is come to live with Betsey-Jane, Leaving the stack-yard for the warm Flower-compassed cottage in the lane, To wash his idle face and play Among chintz cushions all the day.

Under the shadow of her hair He lies, who loves him nor desists To praise his whiskers and compare The tabby bracelets on his wrists,— Omelet at lunch and milk at tea Suit Betsey-Jane and so fares he.

Happy beneath her golden hand He purrs contentedly nor hears His Mother mourning through the land, The old grey cat with tattered ears And humble tail and heavy paw Who brought him up among the straw.

Never by day she ventures nigh, But when the dusk grows dim and deep And moths flit out of the strange sky And Betsey has been long asleep— Out of the dark she comes and brings Her dark maternal offerings;—

Some field-mouse or a throstle caught Near netted fruit or in the corn, Or rat, for this her darling sought In the old barn where he was born; And all lest on his dainty bed Four-paws were faint or under-fed.

Only between the twilight hours Under the window-panes she walks Shrewdly among the scented flowers Nor snaps the soft nasturtium stalks, Uttering still her plaintive cries And Four-paws, from the house, replies,

Leaps from his cushion to the floor, Down the brick passage scantly lit, Waits wailing at the outer door Till one arise and open it— Then from the swinging lantern’s light Runs to his Mother in the night.

“FOUR-PAWS” IN LONDON

Four-paws, we know the sun is white At dawn in Hampshire when the night Deserts those frozen miles, When robin creaks from wintry bush And early milk-boy’s breeches brush The hoar-frost from the stiles;

Yet shall you never hear him more Insistent at our cottage door Nor of his spoils partake, Alas, poor puss who stir and yawn Uneasy in the London dawn And, in a flat, awake.

Four-paws, forgive us! When apprised Of our departure you devised, No doubt, some darling plan Of exodus that should surpass His who removed last Michaelmas— Your friend the dairy-man:—

A mightier waggon on the road You pictured and so vast a load That all should turn and look,— Betsey precarious on the shaft, Master and Mistress fore and aft, The carter and the cook,

Nurse, with her knitting, in mid-air, Carpets in bales, your favourite chair And (the progressive path With added glory to invest) Our Four-paws couchant on the crest Of an inverted bath.

Alas, what difference disgraced Our flight! An obscure van replaced The customary wain; And you, with many a mournful cry, Fettered by Betsey in the fly And hampered in the train.

And now you’re here. Well, it may be The sun _does_ rise in Battersea Although to-day be dark, Life is not shorn of loves and hates While there are sparrows on the slates And keepers in the Park:

And you yourself will come to learn The ways of London and in turn Assume your cockney cares, Like other folk who live in flats, Chasing your purely abstract rats Upon the concrete stairs.

TO MY SISTER DOROTHY, WITH A PASTE BROOCH

Time, cunning smith, hath set you in my heart Like stones in silver none may wrest apart; Not counterfeit as these our loves shall stay When sullen-footed Time hath paced away.

SESTINA

TO D. E.

I saw myself encircled in the grey Of your grey eyes, Dear Love, as in a glass; In place of lurking glooms I come their way As idle ghosts through magic mirrors pass Or shifty clouds bewilder a spring day Or windy shadows dusk the summer grass.

And as swift sickles lop the hedge-row grass, As ghosts scent out the dawn with faces grey And flee before the stirring feet of day, As magic shivers in a splintered glass, So all the shaken pictures of me pass Even with the moving of your head away.

Yet would your head be ever turned my way, Only our peace is fugitive as grass:— Beyond the clapping lintels footsteps pass, Shake the snared joy from quiet’s cobweb grey— O who drinks silence from a jolted glass, Who deals in stillness on a market-day?

Our joys go begging for a gentle day, They are swayed as weed-stems in a water-way, Hurt as blind lips that drain a broken glass, Blown down by breath as petals flung on grass, Thinned as gold hair dull sorrow braids with grey, Lopped short as willow-tufts where cattle pass.

This noisy horde of minutes never pass, This patchwork crew;—they throng us day by day, Hint of silk linings to their cloaks of grey, Cleave out strong-elbowed their ungentle way, Bruise the poor joy as legions tread the grass, Or as wet fingers rub a moaning glass.

There is no day ringed round with seas of glass, No island day, where like-faced minutes pass Fingered on gathered mouth through breathless grass With close-girt garment lest the bloom of day Be brushed or pollen spilt along their way,— Or lest my face be shook from your eyes’ grey.

O dear grey eyes, though ruder minutes pass And dusk the glass, your heart is turned my way Wherein all day my face springs up like grass.

LULLABY FOR A LITTLE GIRL

Now candle-flames disperse the rout Of shadows and their giant wars; And though the roof of night without Be spanned with dusk and set with stars, ’Tis lullaby, The elm-tops cry, And lullaby, the leaves that pass In stealth across the window-glass.

The comb shall sleek your drooping head And through the darling tangles go And all your night attire is spread Before the fire to face the glow, And lullaby, The cinders sigh, For ev’ry rosy palace gone, Fall’n in their dwarfish Ilion.

Now rest, your prayers said aright And timely supped your milky bowl, Your little body all as white And sweet as your unsoilèd soul; And lullaby, Her melody, Who from the quilted bedside goes, A-tiptoe, when your eye-lids close.

RONDEAU OF SARUM CLOSE

In Sarum Close, when she had said her say, He stood bare-headed where dim vapours lay Heavy on vacant lawn, athwart the stone Of that great pile that stands unsought, alone,— Himself as still and derelict as they. Here, when morn’s gleaming hand had rolled away From the green plot of this their week-old play Her misty curtain, each to each was shown, In Sarum Close.

Void the discoloured fane before him lay, Void the dark-sodded precincts,—far away One closed a window, night’s appeal had grown Perchance too urgent, even as his own Had seemed to her whose friendship did with day In Sarum close.

THE KNOBBY-GREEN