Chapter 4

The throbbing chords of violin and lute, The lustre of lean tapers in dark eyes, Fair colours, beauteous flowers, faint-bloomed fruit Made earth seem Paradise

To them that dwelt within this lonely house: Like children of the gods in lasting peace, They ate, sang, danced, as if each day's carouse Need never pause, nor cease.

Some to the hunt would wend, with hound and horn, And clash of silver, beauty, bravery, pride, Heeding not one who on white horse upborne With soundless hoofs did ride.

Dreamers there were who watched the hours away Beside a fountain's foam. And in the sweet Of phantom evening, 'neath the night-bird's lay, Did loved with loved-one meet.

All, all were children, for, the long day done, They barred the heavy door against lightfoot fear; And few words spake though one known face was gone, Yet still seemed hovering near.

They heaped the bright fire higher; poured dark wine; And in long revelry dazed the questioning eye; Curtained three-fold the heart-dismaying shine Of midnight streaming by.

They shut the dark out from the painted wall, With candles dared the shadow at the door, Sang down the faint reiterated call Of those who came no more.

Yet clear above that portal plain was writ, Confronting each at length alone to pass Out of its beauty into night star-lit, That word "Alas!"

THE LISTENERS

"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- "Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

TIME PASSES

There was nought in the Valley But a Tower of Ivory, Its base enwreathed with red Flowers that at evening Caught the sun's crimson As to Ocean low he sped.

Lucent and lovely It stood in the morning Under a trackless hill; With snows eternal Muffling its summit, And silence ineffable.

Sighing of solitude Winds from the cold heights Haunted its yellowing stone; At noon its shadow Stretched athwart cedars Whence every bird was flown.

Its stair was broken, Its starlit walls were Fretted; its flowers shone Wide at the portal, Full-blown and fading, Their last faint fragrance gone.

And on high in its lantern A shape of the living Watched o'er a shoreless sea, From a Tower rotting With age and weakness, Once lovely as ivory.

BEWARE!

An ominous bird sang from its branch, "Beware, O Wanderer! Night 'mid her flowers of glamourie spilled Draws swiftly near:

"Night with her darkened caravans, Piled deep with silver and myrrh, Draws from the portals of the East, O Wanderer near."

"Night who walks plumèd through the fields Of stars that strangely stir-- Smitten to fire by the sandals of him Who walks with her."

THE JOURNEY

Heart-sick of his journey was the Wanderer; Footsore and parched was he; And a Witch who long had lurked by the wayside, Looked out of sorcery.

"Lift up your eyes, you lonely Wanderer," She peeped from her casement small; "Here's shelter and quiet to give you rest, young man, And apples for thirst withal."

And he looked up out of his sad reverie, And saw all the woods in green, With birds that flitted feathered in the dappling, The jewel-bright leaves between.

And he lifted up his face towards her lattice, And there, alluring-wise, Slanting through the silence of the long past, Dwelt the still green Witch's eyes.

And vaguely from the hiding-place of memory Voices seemed to cry; "What is the darkness of one brief life-time To the deaths thou hast made us die?

"Heed not the words of the Enchantress Who would us still betray!" And sad with the echo of their reproaches, Doubting, he turned away.

"I may not shelter beneath your roof, lady, Nor in this wood's green shadow seek repose, Nor will your apples quench the thirst A homesick wanderer knows."

"'Homesick' forsooth!" she softly mocked him: And the beauty in her face Made in the sunshine pale and trembling A stillness in that place.

And he sighed, as if in fear, that young Wanderer, Looking to left and to right, Where the endless narrow road swept onward, Till in distance lost to sight.

And there fell upon his sense the brier, Haunting the air with its breath, And the faint shrill sweetness of the birds' throats, Their tent of leaves beneath.

And there was the Witch, in no wise heeding; Her arbour, and fruit-filled dish, Her pitcher of well-water, and clear damask-- All that the weary wish.

And the last gold beam across the green world Faltered and failed, as he Remembered his solitude and the dark night's Inhospitality.

And he looked upon the Witch with eyes of sorrow In the darkening of the day; And turned him aside into oblivion; And the voices died away....

And the Witch stepped down from her casement: In the hush of night he heard The calling and wailing in dewy thicket Of bird to hidden bird.

And gloom stole all her burning crimson, Remote and faint in space As stars in gathering shadow of the evening Seemed now her phantom face.

And one night's rest shall be a myriad, Midst dreams that come and go; Till heedless fate, unmoved by weakness, bring him This same strange by-way through:

To the beauty of earth that fades in ashes, The lips of welcome, and the eyes More beauteous than the feeble shine of Hesper Lone in the lightening skies:

Till once again the Witch's guile entreat him; But, worn with wisdom, he Steadfast and cold shall choose the dark night's Inhospitality.

HAUNTED

The rabbit in his burrow keeps No guarded watch, in peace he sleeps; The wolf that howls in challenging night Cowers to her lair at morning light; The simplest bird entwines a nest Where she may lean her lovely breast, Couched in the silence of the bough. But thou, O man, what rest hast thou?

Thy emptiest solitude can bring Only a subtler questioning In thy divided heart. Thy bed Recalls at dawn what midnight said. Seek how thou wilt to feign content, Thy flaming ardour's quickly spent; Soon thy last company is gone, And leaves thee--with thyself--alone.

Pomp and great friends may hem thee round, A thousand busy tasks be found; Earth's thronging beauties may beguile Thy longing lovesick heart awhile; And pride, like clouds of sunset, spread A changing glory round thy head; But fade will all; and thou must come, Hating thy journey, homeless, home.

Rave how thou wilt; unmoved, remote, That inward presence slumbers not, Frets out each secret from thy breast, Gives thee no rally, pause, nor rest, Scans close thy very thoughts, lest they Should sap his patient power away, Answers thy wrath with peace, thy cry With tenderest taciturnity.

SILENCE

With changeful sound life beats upon the ear; Yet, striving for release, The most seductive string's Sweet jargonings, The happiest throat's Most easeful, lovely notes Fall back into a veiling silentness.

Even 'mid the rumour of a moving host, Blackening the clear green earth, Vainly 'gainst that thin wall The trumpets call, Or with loud hum The smoke-bemuffled drum: From that high quietness no reply comes forth.

When, all at peace, two friends at ease alone Talk out their hearts,--yet still Between the grace-notes of The voice of love From each to each Trembles a rarer speech, And with its presence every pause doth fill.

Unmoved it broods, this all-encompassing hush Of one who stooping near, No smallest stir will make Our fear to wake; But yet intent Upon some mystery bent Harkens the lightest word we say, or hear.

WINTER DUSK

Dark frost was in the air without, The dusk was still with cold and gloom, When less than even a shadow came And stood within the room.

But of the three around the fire, None turned a questioning head to look, Still read a clear voice, on and on, Still stooped they o'er their book.

The children watched their mother's eyes Moving on softly line to line; It seemed to listen too--that shade, Yet made no outward sign.

The fire-flames crooned a tiny song, No cold wind moved the wintry tree; The children both in Faërie dreamed Beside their mother's knee.

And nearer yet that spirit drew Above that heedless one, intent Only on what the simple words Of her small story meant.

No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind, No memory her bosom stirred, Nor dreamed she, as she read to two, 'Twas surely three who heard.

Yet when, the story done, she smiled From face to face, serene and clear, A love, half dread, sprang up, as she Leaned close and drew them near.

THE GHOST

Peace in thy hands, Peace in thine eyes, Peace on thy brow; Flower of a moment in the eternal hour, Peace with me now.

Not a wave breaks, Not a bird calls, My heart, like a sea, Silent after a storm that hath died, Sleeps within me.

All the night's dews, All the world's leaves, All winter's snow Seem with their quiet to have stilled in life's dream All sorrowing now.

AN EPITAPH

Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare--rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?

"THE HAWTHORN HATH A DEATHLY SMELL"

The flowers of the field Have a sweet smell; Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme, And faint-heart pimpernel; But sweeter even than these, The silver of the may Wreathed is with incense for The Judgment Day.

An apple, a child, dust, When falls the evening rain, Wild brier's spicèd leaves, Breathe memories again; With further memory fraught, The silver of the may Wreathed is with incense for The Judgment Day.

Eyes of all loveliness-- Shadow of strange delight, Even as a flower fades Must thou from sight; But oh, o'er thy grave's mound, Till come the Judgment Day, Wreathed shall with incense he Thy sharp-thorned may.

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MOTLEY: 1918

* * * * *

THE LITTLE SALAMANDER

TO MARGOT

When I go free, I think 'twill be A night of stars and snow, And the wild fires of frost shall light My footsteps as I go; Nobody--nobody will be there With groping touch, or sight, To see me in my bush of hair Dance burning through the night.

THE LINNET

Upon this leafy bush With thorns and roses in it, Flutters a thing of light, A twittering linnet. And all the throbbing world Of dew and sun and air By this small parcel of life Is made more fair; As if each bramble-spray And mounded gold-wreathed furze, Harebell and little thyme, Were only hers; As if this beauty and grace Did to one bird belong, And, at a flutter of wing, Might vanish in song.

THE SUNKEN GARDEN

Speak not--whisper not; Here bloweth thyme and bergamot; Softly on the evening hour, Secret herbs their spices shower. Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh, Lean-stalked, purple lavender; Hides within her bosom, too, All her sorrows, bitter rue.

Breathe not--trespass not; Of this green and darkling spot, Latticed from the moon's beams, Perchance a distant dreamer dreams; Perchance upon its darkening air, The unseen ghosts of children fare, Faintly swinging, sway and sweep, Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep; While, unmoved, to watch and ward, Amid its gloomed and daisied sward, Stands with bowed and dewy head That one little leaden Lad.

THE RIDDLERS

"Thou solitary!" the Blackbird cried, "I, from the happy Wren, Linnet and Blackcap, Woodlark, Thrush, Perched all upon a sweetbrier bush, Have come at cold of midnight-tide To ask thee, Why and when Grief smote thy heart so thou dost sing In solemn hush of evening, So sorrowfully, lovelorn Thing-- Nay, nay, not sing, but rave, but wail, Most melancholic Nightingale? Do not the dews of darkness steep All pinings of the day in sleep? Why, then, when rocked in starry nest We mutely couch, secure, at rest, Doth thy lone heart delight to make Music for sorrow's sake?" A Moon was there. So still her beam, It seemed the whole world lay in dream, Lulled by the watery sea. And from her leafy night-hung nook Upon this stranger soft did look The Nightingale: sighed he:--

"'Tis strange, my friend; the Kingfisher But yestermorn conjured me here Out of his green and gold to say Why thou, in splendour of the noon, Wearest of colour but golden shoon, And else dost thee array In a most sombre suit of black? 'Surely,' he sighed, 'some load of grief, Past all our thinking--and belief-- Must weigh upon his back!' Do, then, in turn, tell me, If joy Thy heart as well as voice employ Why dost thou now most Sable, shine In plumage woefuller far than mine? Thy silence is a sadder thing Than any dirge I sing!"

Thus, then, these two small birds, perched there, Breathed a strange riddle both did share Yet neither could expound. And we--who sing but as we can, In the small knowledge of a man-- Have we an answer found? Nay, some are happy whose delight Is hid even from themselves from sight; And some win peace who spend The skill of words to sweeten despair Of finding consolation where Life has but one dark end; Who, in rapt solitude, tell o'er A tale as lovely as forlore, Into the midnight air.

MOONLIGHT

The far moon maketh lovers wise In her pale beauty trembling down, Lending curved cheeks, dark lips, dark eyes, A strangeness not her own. And, though they shut their lids to kiss, In starless darkness peace to win, Even on that secret world from this Her twilight enters in.

THE BLIND BOY

"I have no master," said the Blind Boy, "My mother, 'Dame Venus' they do call; Cowled in this hood she sent me begging For whate'er in pity may befall.

"Hard was her visage, me adjuring,-- 'Have no fond mercy on the kind! Here be sharp arrows, bunched in quiver, Draw close ere striking--thou art blind.'

"So stand I here, my woes entreating, In this dark alley, lest the Moon Point with her sparkling my barbed armoury Shine on my silver-lacèd shoon.

"Oh, sir, unkind this Dame to me-ward; Of the salt billow was her birth ... In your sweet charity draw nearer The saddest rogue on Earth!"

THE QUARRY

You hunted me with all the pack, Too blind, too blind, to see By no wild hope of force or greed Could you make sure of me.

And like a phantom through the glades, With tender breast aglow, The goddess in me laughed to hear Your horns a-roving go.

She laughed to think no mortal ever By dint of mortal flesh The very Cause that was the Hunt One moment could enmesh:

That though with captive limbs I lay, Stilled breath and vanquished eyes, He that hunts Love with horse and hound Hunts out his heart and eyes.

MRS. GRUNDY

"Step very softly, sweet Quiet-foot, Stumble not, whisper not, smile not: By this dark ivy stoop cheek and brow. Still even thy heart! What seest thou?..."

"High-coifed, broad-browed, aged, suave yet grim, A large flat face, eyes keenly dim, Staring at nothing--that's me!--and yet, With a hate one could never, no, never forget ..."

"This is my world, my garden, my home, Hither my father bade mother to come And bear me out of the dark into light, And happy I was in her tender sight.

"And then, thou frail flower, she died and went, Forgetting my pitiless banishment, And that Old Woman--an Aunt--she said, Came hither, lodged, fattened, and made her bed.

"Oh yes, thou most blessed, from Monday to Sunday, Has lived on me, preyed on me, Mrs. Grundy: Called me, 'dear Nephew'; on each of those chairs Has gloated in righteousness, heard my prayers.

"Why didst thou dare the thorns of the grove, Timidest trespasser, huntress of love? Now thou hast peeped, and now dost know What kind of creature is thine for foe.

"Not that she'll tear out thy innocent eyes, Poison thy mouth with deviltries. Watch thou, wait thou: soon will begin The guile of a voice: hark!..." "Come in, Come in!"

THE TRYST

Flee into some forgotten night and be Of all dark long my moon-bright company: Beyond the rumour even of Paradise come, There, out of all remembrance, make our home: Seek we some close hid shadow for our lair, Hollowed by Noah's mouse beneath the chair Wherein the Omnipotent, in slumber bound, Nods till the piteous Trump of Judgment sound. Perchance Leviathan of the deep sea Would lease a lost mermaiden's grot to me, There of your beauty we would joyance make-- A music wistful for the sea-nymph's sake: Haply Elijah, o'er his spokes of fire, Cresting steep Leo, or the heavenly Lyre, Spied, tranced in azure of inanest space, Some eyrie hostel, meet for human grace, Where two might happy be--just you and I-- Lost in the uttermost of Eternity. Think! In Time's smallest clock's minutest beat Might there not rest be found for wandering feet? Or, 'twixt the sleep and wake of Helen's dream, Silence wherein to sing love's requiem? No, no. Nor earth, nor air, nor fire, nor deep Could lull poor mortal longingness asleep. Somewhere there Nothing is; and there lost Man Shall win what changeless vague of peace he can.

ALONE

The abode of the nightingale is bare, Flowered frost congeals in the gelid air, The fox howls from his frozen lair: Alas, my loved one is gone, I am alone: It is winter.

Once the pink cast a winy smell, The wild bee hung in the hyacinth bell, Light in effulgence of beauty fell: Alas, my loved one is gone, I am alone: It is winter.

My candle a silent fire doth shed, Starry Orion hunts o'erhead; Come moth, come shadow, the world is dead: Alas, my loved one is gone, I am alone: It is winter.

THE EMPTY HOUSE

See this house, how dark it is Beneath its vast-boughed trees! Not one trembling leaflet cries To that Watcher in the skies-- "Remove, remove thy searching gaze, Innocent, of heaven's ways, Brood not, Moon, so wildly bright, On secrets hidden from sight."

"Secrets," sighs the night-wind, "Vacancy is all I find; Every keyhole I have made Wails a summons, faint and sad, No voice ever answers me, Only vacancy." "Once, once ..." the cricket shrills, And far and near the quiet fills With its tiny voice, and then Hush falls again.

Mute shadows creeping slow Mark how the hours go. Every stone is mouldering slow. And the least winds that blow Some minutest atom shake, Some fretting ruin make In roof and walls. How black it is Beneath these thick-boughed trees!

MISTRESS FELL

"Whom seek you here, sweet Mistress Fell?" "One who loved me passing well. Dark his eye, wild his face-- Stranger, if in this lonely place Bide such an one, then, prythee, say I am come here to-day."

"Many his like, Mistress Fell?" "I did not look, so cannot tell. Only this I surely know, When his voice called me, I must go; Touched me his fingers, and my heart Leapt at the sweet pain's smart."

"Why did he leave you, Mistress Fell?" "Magic laid its dreary spell.-- Stranger, he was fast asleep; Into his dream I tried to creep; Called his name, soft was my cry; He answered--not one sigh.

"The flower and the thorn are here; Falleth the night-dew, cold and clear; Out of her bower the bird replies, Mocking the dark with ecstasies, See how the earth's green grass doth grow, Praising what sleeps below!

"Thus have they told me. And I come, As flies the wounded wild-bird home. Not tears I give; but all that he Clasped in his arms, sweet charity; All that he loved--to him I bring For a close whispering."

THE GHOST

"Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful, Beyond all dreams to restore, I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither. And knock on the door."

"Who speaks?" "I--once was my speech Sweet as the bird's on the air, When echo lurks by the waters to heed; 'Tis I speak thee fair."

"Dark is the hour!" "Ay, and cold." "Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?" "Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearned in vain." "Long dead these to thine ..."

Silence. Still faint on the porch Brake the flames of the stars. In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand Over keys, bolts, and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast sorrow was there-- The sweet cheat gone.

THE STRANGER

In the woods as I did walk, Dappled with the moon's beam, I did with a Stranger talk, And his name was Dream.

Spurred his heel, dark his cloak, Shady-wide his bonnet's brim; His horse beneath a silvery oak Grazed as I talked with him.

Softly his breast-brooch burned and shone; Hill and deep were in his eyes; One of his hands held mine, and one The fruit that makes men wise.

Wondrously strange was earth to see, Flowers white as milk did gleam; Spread to Heaven the Assyrian Tree, Over my head with Dream.

Dews were still betwixt us twain; Stars a trembling beauty shed; Yet--not a whisper comes again Of the words he said.

BETRAYAL

She will not die, they say, She will but put her beauty by And hie away.

Oh, but her beauty gone, how lonely Then will seem all reverie, How black to me!

All things will sad be made And every hope a memory, All gladness dead.

Ghosts of the past will know My weakest hour, and whisper to me, And coldly go.

And hers in deep of sleep, Clothed in its mortal beauty I shall see, And, waking, weep.

Naught will my mind then find In man's false Heaven my peace to be: All blind, and blind.

THE CAGE

Why did you flutter in vain hope, poor bird, Hard-pressed in your small cage of clay? 'Twas but a sweet, false echo that you heard, Caught only a feint of day.

Still is the night all dark, a homeless dark. Burn yet the unanswering stars. And silence brings The same sea's desolate surge--sans bound or mark-- Of all your wanderings.

Fret now no more; be still. Those steadfast eyes, Those folded hands, they cannot set you free; Only with beauty wake wild memories-- Sorrow for where you are, for where you would be.

THE REVENANT

O all ye fair ladies with your colours and your graces, And your eyes clear in flame of candle and hearth, Toward the dark of this old window lift not up your smiling faces, Where a Shade stands forlorn from the cold of the earth.

God knows I could not rest for one I still was thinking of; Like a rose sheathed in beauty her spirit was to me; Now out of unforgottenness a bitter draught I'm drinking of, 'Tis sad of such beauty unremembered to be.

Men all all shades, O Woman.--Winds wist not of the way they blow. Apart from your kindness, life's at best but a snare. Though a tongue now past praise this bitter thing doth say, I know What solitude means, and how, homeless, I fare.