Part 3

Muse, I will show thee, on a grassy mound Moving with tufted shadows, albeit bare Herself, for yet young April primes the air And bloom snow-laden boughs, the tree I love. London doth compass it with shores of sound And thrills the buds when there’s no breath above To shake its fountain beauty. Thus I came Along the courtly mere of thicket isles, And Spring entoil’d me in a hundred wiles, Bringing the heart content without a name. Broods, russet-plumed and emerald, steer’d on With arrowy wake adown the placid tide And in that gloomy pool there rode enskied, Aloof, the stately languor of a swan. But now the lake sets hither with a breeze And crooks the peel’d bole of its planes.—Ah, there Thou shall find audience—yon’s my shadowy love!— O’er head a rose-grey pigeon beat his wings About his ’lighted mate, and wooed the bough And passion born of sight of mortal things In warmth of living, moved and moves me now As from the careless height that sways above Floateth his voice, the soul of greening trees.

2

Approaching ’twixt the herald saplings pale Whose light arrayment is a whirl of green Of flamelets dropping for a virgin veil, I come. Though Hades’ crocus-jets are stayed, Soft! for a golden troop instead upsprung Gossips apart in yon unfooted glade. Broke we on earshot of that frolic tongue Straightway would all be husht, they being afraid To sing’t to simple ear of mutest maid.

3

But thou, still silver Spirit, unappall’d Standest alone, and with thy senses dim Feeling the first warmth fledge the unleaféd limb Hearest not tread of mine, O Sun-enthrall’d! What buried God conceived thee, and forestall’d In the dull depth thy white and glistering graces— That fume of netted drops and subtle laces And listening statue-air, by men miscall’d? Shower o’er the blue, and sister of blown surf! Dream-daughter of the silences of turf! Couldst thou but waken and recall the Mind Lifts thee to image, then could I reveal Wherefore thou seem’st remember’d and I feel In thee mine own dream risen and divined!

4

Surely the hymn that charm’d thee from the grass Fashion’d me also, and the selfsame lyre Sounded accords that out of darkness pass And in thy beauty and my song conspire? The drum of streets, the fever of our homes, Clangours and murk metallurgy of gnomes, All are by thee unheard, who dost ignore The wisdom of the wise, in dead pasts now Dungeon’d as never to ascend; but thou Whose being is for the light, and hath no care To know itself nor root from whence it sprang, Wouldst only murmur, in the heavenly air, “_The sun, the sun!_” if but thy spirit sang!

5

O might I show thee by the lute’s devising Man, from thy soft turf, flown with light, arising! Him, too, doth hope, the boon without a pang, Summon with thrilling finger forth to hang— To cast a heaving soul to the wave of wind, Sun-passion’d and earth-lodged. Ah, Tree serene Dilating in the glow of the unseen, We and our roofs and towers magnifical— Our Fame’s heroic head against the sky— Our loves—and all That, with our briefness perfect, rise and die,— Like thee must find Beauty in a besieging of the dark; Our glories on expectancy embark, And the height of our ecstasy— The touch of infinity— Is blind.

A CHARGE

If thou hast squander’d years to grave a gem Commission’d by thy absent Lord, and while ’Tis incomplete, Others would bribe thy needy skill to them— Dismiss them to the street!

Shouldst thou at last discover Beauty’s grove, At last be panting on the fragrant verge, But in the track, Drunk with divine possession, thou meet Love— Turn, at her bidding, back.

When round thy ship in tempest Hell appears, And every spectre mutters up more dire To snatch control And loose to madness thy deep-kennell’d Fears— Then, to the helm, O Soul!

Last; if upon the cold green-mantling sea Thou cling, alone with Truth, to the last spar, Both castaway And one must perish—let it not be he Whom thou art sworn to obey!

SONG FOR THE FUNERAL OF A BOY

1

On stems from silver woods Carry him, young companions, to the glen Where white Olympus broods; Flushes of rustlers shall precede you then By bush and glade Low-thrilling and afraid; And as along its curve of shore ye pass The dark tarn ruddied with the pine shall glass, Moving to hymns out of its lonely ken, The boy’s light bier, with beaded rushes laid.

2

In beeches shall the fawn An hoof suspend, to learn from that clear sound His eager mate withdrawn For ever unto free and sylvan ground. Up in her hold The wide-wing’d Azure cold Mantling in gyre on gyre shall mark him come By root-paven paths borne, and great bee’s hum Swing through your brief procession, winding round The endless alleys up that Mountain old.

3

In some low space of green Where fleecy mists, bright runnels newly rain’d, And springing wands are seen But nothing yet to gnarlëd eld attain’d Let his head nigh The chrisom violet lie; And put at hand the sling to him most dear, The sheaf of arrows light, the dauntless spear, The lute untroubled on the heart unstain’d; Then, taking hands around him, sing good-bye.

4

Praise limbs that robb’d the cloud Of vengeful eagles, and for this rough nest, This egg, embraced the loud And everlasting sea-crag’s salty breast! Praise to the face That smiled on nothing base! Hymn ye the laughter of his happy soul— His secret kindness to your secret dole; The heavenly-minded brook shall mourn him best When ye have kiss’d his cheek, quitting the place.

5

This ditty from the brake, This rainbow from the waters, fades; and Night That little pyre shall take In flame and cloud;—but O! when the bloom of light With breathless glow Along the tops of snow Tells out to all the valleys Night is done,— Think of the boy, ye young companions bright, Not without joy; for he hath loved and gone As dews that on the uplands shine and go!

COME, LET US MAKE LOVE DEATHLESS

Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I, Seeing that our footing on the Earth is brief— Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die Mocking at all that passes their belief. For standard of our love not theirs we take: If we go hence to-day Fill the high cup that is so soon to break With richer wine than they!

Ay, since beyond these walls no heavens there be Joy to revive or wasted youth repair, I’ll not bedim the lovely flame in thee Nor sully the sad splendour that we wear. Great be the love, if with the lover dies Our greatness past recall, And nobler for the fading of those eyes The world seen once for all.

CLAVIERS AT NIGHT

_I watch’d a white-hair’d Figure like a breeze Pass, with a smile, down the bare galleries And heard his ancient fingers, as he went, Muse on the heart of each blind instrument._

SPINET

Shoaling through twilight to my silver tinglings The great-ruff’d ladies beset with pearl Come out with the gallants in gems of Cadiz In lofty capriols with loud spur-jinglings In Roman galliard and in blithe coranto Learnt in far Otranto Brought home in the galleys of the Earl— Storm-riding galleys of the haughty Earl— To English vallies. They come With reverences stately at meeting In mockeries sedately retreating And stomachers and buckles and rings Shake a maze of jewels to the measured strings, Of trembling jewels.

Ay, moonlight’s fair in yew-clipt alleys, And young Love fledges His shafts ’twixt cypress hedges. Follow the rout, and watch in gentle wind The springing moonbeam of the fountain sway’d Like to a mountain maid Who turns with poisëd jar From bubbling hollow cool.

“Behold, how’t tosses rain of Pleiads hither Into main blackness of the pool— Rings ever shimmering out and sheen reborn; So, thou and I, lady, must die To wake, as echoes wake, of yonder horn With voiceless over the hills of morn. Ah, satin-quilted kirtle, Ah, pearled bosom, Let slip one flake of blossom, Deign but a sprig of myrtle, To the poor Fool, panting on his bended knee!” But silent grow the long swards cedar-shaded Where the young loves were sitting; And lo, in the silver-candled hall The bat is flitting, flitting. The tapestries are dusk upon the wall And the ladies bright, brocaded, All, with their blushes, faded.

HARPSICHORD

Now ye, the delicate patterers of the hush, Wings, hither! Scarce-rustlers of the sere involvéd leaf Who mourn for summers past with elfin grief, Ye who can hear along the inmost lawn Ebbings and flowings shrill When subtle ballads net the rime-cold daffodil And drift over the blue turf so nigh dumb They startle not from’s gloom e’en the airy fawn. Old Antony on his Nile-barge at dawn Caught your deck-walkings countless overhead And eased with ye a heart eclipsed and dead. Come swift, come soon Drift, like a veil over the moon, And rising round this crumbling Keep Shed ye, upon the sleepless, sleep.

CLAVICHORD

Wherefore, poor Fool, dost lie— Love, cap and bells put by— On thy pallet-bed so stark? “I am girt, soul and limb, Gainst horror dim. Ear tense to hark Mine eyeballs strain and swim Drowning in foamy dark. Comes no shock Nor earthly feet But the heart’s blood, ebb’d with the chill tower-clock To a single beat, Clots to a fear That God may appear— None other eye being near— And bare of his mantle of law Stand, a giant Spirit beautiful Sombre, pale, in avenging mail, Wings folded, on this planet’s skull; And before Him dropping like fine rain, A veil o’ the cloud o’ the dust of kings Noiseless descending the old Abyss ... Ah then, after this How gentle through the dark paths of the brain Comes the faint noise of outer things; The whirr and shower of wings— Satin shufflings of ivy leaves Ranging like bees the leaden pane— Jolting of carters, cries of falconers— The blessed courtyard stirs That do in mercy say Thou hast another day.”

THE MAN DIGGING

The isle was barren. Far as hawk may scan In moors it roll’d up to a headland bare Save for one narrow patch, by ceaseless care Sumptuous with corn. Against the sky a Man Digging the waste I saw,—bow’d veteran A stubborn spade he drave in stubborn ground And root and rock flung sheer without a sound Over the bleak edge.... Then anew began.

“You, who have lodged in the teeth of the abyss Your cabin low, and triumph rich as this Wrung from the ocean-bitter mountain side, What help’d you most to bring such treasure out?” He stood, and after scrutiny replied, “The thing on which I lean, the Spade of Doubt.”

SCHIEHALLION

Far the grey loch runs Up to Schiehallion. Lap, lap the water flows Where my wee boatie rows; Greenly a star shows Over Schiehallion.

She that I wander’d wi’ Over Schiehallion,— How far ayont your ken, Crags of the merry glen, Stray’d she, that wander’d then Down fra Schiehallion!

Sail of the wild swan Turn to Schiehallion! Here where the rushes rise Low the black hunter lies; Beat thou the pure skies Back to Schiehallion!

THE SHELL

I am a Shell out of the Asian sea, But my sad Pearl is gone, Risen to be Goddess—Venus green is she And I cast up alone.

Yet some night shall her brilliance stoop and take Unto her ear this shell, And hear the whisper of her own heart-break ... All that I serve to tell.

THE ROCK OF CLOUD

We heard a chanting in the fog On the frore face of the sea, And stay’d the galley like a log To sound that mystery.

And men throng’d up into the bow And hail’d the curling rack, “_What demon or what spirit thou?_” And the lone voice came back,

Came as of one so evil-starr’d That he hath done with grief, In monotone as keen and hard As the bell swung from a reef:

“Human I am—would I were foam— Row hither; ye may hear Yet shall not save nor bring me home Seek ye a thousand year.”

“_Keep a stout hope._” “I keep no hope.” “_Man alive_” “Spare your toil—” “_We are upon thee!_” “Nay, no rope Over the gap shall coil.”

“_Who art thou?_” “I was Pilot once On many a ship of mark: Went aboard—spoke to none—but steer’d; And dropt off in the dark.

“But one night—Christ!—we struck—we sank. I reach’d this rock of wings Whereby from every boulder’s flank The brown sea-ribbon swings.

“Here, where the sole eye of the Sun Did scorch my body bare, A great Sea-Spirit rose, and shone In the water thrill’d with hair....

“She lay back on the green abyss Beautiful; her spread arms Soothed to a poise—a sob—of bliss Huge thunders and alarms.

“Her breasts as pearl were dull and pure, Her body’s chasted light Swam like a cloud; her eyes unsure From the great depths were bright.

“There was no thing of bitterness In aught that she could say; She call’d my soul, as down a coast The Moon calls bay beyond bay And they rise—back o’ the uttermost— Away, and yet away:—

“‘I chose thee from the sinking crews— I bore thee up alive— Now durst thou follow me and choose Under the world to dive?

“‘Come! we will catch when stars are out The black wave’s spitting crest And still, when the Bull of Dawn shall spout, Be washing on abreast;

“‘Or thee a flame under the seas Paven with suns I’ll hide, Deathless and boundless and at ease In any shape to glide.

“‘All waters that on Earth have well’d At last to me repair,— All mountains starr’d with cities melt Into my dreamy air.

“‘Set on thy peak under the brink I’ll shew thee Storms above, The stuff of kingdoms:—they shall sink While thou dost teach me love; On beaches white as the young Moons I’ll sit, and fathom love.’”...

· · · · ·

“_And what saidst thou?_” “From over sea I felt a sighing burn That made this jagg’d rock seem to me More delicate than fern;

“And faint as moth-wings I could hear Tops of the pine-tree sway And the last words spoken in mine ear Before the break of day.

“And I cried out agonied at heart For her that sleeps at home, ‘Brightness, I will not know thine art, Nor to thy country come!’

“Straightway she sank—smiling so pale— But from the seethe up-broke— Never thrash’d off by gust or gale— White, everlasting smoke.

“It feels all over me with stealth Of languor that appals; It laps my fierce heart in a wealth Of soft and rolling walls;

“This mist no life may pass, save these Wave-wing’d, with shrieking voice; Stars I discern not, nor the seas—” “_O, dost not rue thy choice?_”

“Rue it? Now get back to the Deep, For I doubt if men ye be: No;—I must keep a steady helm By the star I cannot see.”

Passion o’ man! we sprang to oars, And sought on, weeping loud, All night in earshot of the shores But never through the cloud.

SHE COMES NOT WHEN NOON IS ON THE ROSES

She comes not when Noon is on the roses— Too bright is Day. She comes not to the Soul till it reposes From work and play.

But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices Roll in from Sea, By starlight and by candlelight and dreamlight She comes to me.

THE NIGHT

I put aside the branches That clothe the Door in gloom; A glow-worm lit the pathway And a lamp out of her room Shook down a stifled greeting: How could it greet aright The thirst of years like deserts That led up to this night?

But she, like sighing forests, Stole on me—full of rest, Her hair was like the sea’s wave, Whiteness was in her breast,— (_So does one come, at night, upon a wall of roses._)

As in a stone of crystal The cloudy web and flaw

Turns, at a flash, to rainbows, Wing’d I became—I saw I sang;—but human singing Ceased, in a burning awe.

Slow, amid leaves, in silence— Rapt as the holy pray— Flame into flame we trembled And the world sank away.

MAURYA’S SONG

Rushes that grow by the black water When will I see you more? When will the sorrowful heart forget you, Land of the green, green shore? When will the field and the small cabin See us more In the old country?

What is to me all the gold yonder? She that bore me is gone. Knees that dandled and hands that blessed me Colder than any stone; Stranger to me than the face of strangers Are my own In the old country.

Vein o’ my heart, from the lone mountain The smoke of the turf will die And the stream that sang to the young childer Run down alone from the sky: On the door-stone, grass,—and the cloud lying Where they lie In the old country.

Tired with the day’s monotony of dreaméd joys I turn to a requickening voice, A voice whose low tone devastates with nightly thrill The cities I have wrought at will: Stone forts depart, and armies heroic flee away Like the wild snow of spray. Deep down the green Broceliande’s branch’d corridors That voice of April pours; Light as a bird’s light shadow fled across my pages A touch disturbs the ages, And the crags and spears of Troy and the courts of Charlemain, Odin, and the splendid strain Of Cuchullain’s self, that with his heart’s high brother strove,— Fade, at the low voice I love.

YOU WERE STAY’D

You were stay’d in heart on heaven, I by none but you forgiven,— You unto your Light are taken, I of all, in you, forsaken.

Where the night is never broken Where for long no speech hath spoken, There the ears no longer hearken, There the eyeballs wane and darken.

Yet at hours my soul—so bounded— By that gloom like blood surrounded— Sees in ancient daylight burning— Hears departed feet returning.

THE BLOOM

Who are these ancients, gnarl’d and moss’d and weigh’d This way and that, under the sluggard blue And shine of morning—these whose arms are laid Low to the grasses and the sheets of dew— These bowers ruggëd within and thickly knit But feather’d over with a roseate white So frail that the breeze’s touch dismantles it And brings from cradled nurseries in flight— Snow-soft—the petals down In shadows green to drown?

We are the matrons. Bent are we and riven Under such years of ripeness manifold That unto us a special grace is given,— To wear a virgin’s beauty being old. Noiseless we wear it; round us in the croft These whisperers are leaves of other trees, Babblers that have not learn’d by fruitage oft To shade the heart with wide serenities On tendons knit to bear Sweetness in stormy air.

IN THE ROMAN AMPHITHEATRE, VERONA

Two architects of Italy—austere Men who could fashion nothing small—refused To die with life, and for their purpose used This dim and topless Amphitheatre.

Some Cæsar trench’d the orb of its ellipse And call’d on distant provinces to swell Resonant arches whence his World could scan, Tier above tier, the fighters and the ships.

But Dante—having raised, as dreamer can, Higher tenfold these walls immutable— Sole in the night arena, grew aware He was himself the thing spectacular Seized by the ever-thirsting gaze of Hell,— Here, on the empty sand, a banish’d man.

A WINTER SONG

_To Alice Meynell_