Part 3

In a strange land they dwell, too far away From sunlight and the common mirth of men Ever to come within our casual ken. We see them not, but if by chance we stray Down cypress aisles when the wan summer day Draws to a thin and sickly close, we hear Murmur of mad speech by some watery weir Or languid laughter and faint sound of play.

They never see the dawn; like the pale moths That haunt lugubrious shadows of dim trees They celebrate their lunar mysteries At woodland shrines, where with green thyrsus rods And weak limbs wrapped in silken sensuous cloths They chant the names of their dead pagan gods.

[ACROSS THE TAUT STRINGS]

Across the taut strings of my yearning soul Pass fingers of all fleet and beautiful things: Comings of dawn and moonlight glimmerings, Mid-summer hush and Sabbath bells that toll Over broad fields, a sound of thrushes' wings Near sunset hour, a girl with lips apart, Wonder and laughter,--these have touched my heart And left their music lingering on its strings.

At twilight of some gray, eventual year, A few late friends will turn, with trembling breath, From the raw mound of earth that hides my face.... Yet I shall still find beauty, even in death, And some lone traveller of the night will hear An echo of music in that quiet place.

ESCAPE

They danced beneath the stars, a crazy rout With antic steps that had some little grace; And one leapt high with song and frenzied shout, And one ran silent with a gleaming face.

They danced until the shy moon looking down Deemed herself lost above some Grecian glade; A mile away the trim New England town Echoed the Bacchanalian din they made.

And still they danced, until the moon sank low, Blushing a little, and night's diadem Of stars grew pale before the eastern glow.... And with the dawn their keepers came for them.

ON A STREET CORNER

But all the time you spoke I did not hear The words you said. I only heard a far Faint sound of summer waters and a clear Calling of music from some lonely star. I thought I heard the lisp of falling dew In a dark meadow where no breezes stirred.... Then all at once the noisy street, and you Smiling at me because I had not heard!

SEA-BURIAL

Over the sands the swollen tide came creeping, Over the sands beneath the gleaming moon; At first it seemed a child's uncertain croon, And then a sound of many mourners weeping. Then all at once a crested wave was sweeping Around the still form in the moonlight there, Twining its silver fingers in her hair.... And yet it could not rouse her from her sleeping.

With dawn the tide went seaward, bearing her In its strong arms that clung so tenderly, And laid her in a strange place far away Where the tall seaweeds rise and never stir.... And there she sleeps, while pass alternately The brooding night and the green luminous day.

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DUDLEY POORE

A RENAISSANCE PICTURE

Calm little figure, ivy-crowned, How long beneath the barren tree Where this pale, martyred god has found Surcease from his long agony, You watch with an untroubled gaze Life move on its accustomed ways!

Within your childish heart there dwells No sorrow that uprising dims Your eye, whence not a teardrop wells For pity of those writhen limbs, Or for the travail of a race Consummate in one lifeless face.

Though tinkling caravans go by Forever over twilight sands, With myrrh and cassia laden high For other shrines in other lands, No weight of grief thereat you know, But softly on your pan-pipes blow.

From what dim mountain have you strayed, Where, ringed by the Hellenic seas, You dwelt in an untrodden glade Sacred to woodland deities, Along whose faint paths went at dawn Endymion or a dancing faun?

From groves where sacrificing throngs Called you by some fair Grecian name, With ritual meet and choric songs, Strange, that to this dark hill you came To seek, unmindful of their loss, A refuge underneath the cross.

There is some deeper secret lies Hidden out of human sight In keeping of those tranquil eyes That shine with such immortal light, And in their shadows gleam and glow While still upon your pipes you blow.

All but inscrutable, your gaze Declares your place is even here, Sharing this martyr's cup of praise, And year by sadly westering year, Till the last altar lights grow dim, Dividing sovereignty with him.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN

Some strange and exquisite desire Has thrilled this flowering almond tree Whose branches shake so wistfully, Else wherefore does it bloom in fire? Why scatter pollen on the air, Marry its pale buds each to each, The year's unkindly tempests bear, Or to the calm clear sunlight reach?

Yet I can give that hope no name, Nor that divine emotion share, For, though I see it flowering there, Because our speech is not the same The passionate secret must lie hid Burdened with unexpressed delight, Where none of all man's race can bid It forth, or voice its beauty right.

There's nought in earth or heaven knows That hope for which our being longs, The stars are busied with their songs, The universal springtime flows From sun to sun in scorn of man, Careless if he be quick or dead, Or if this earth, as it began, Be voiceless and untenanted.

THE TREE OF STARS

There stands a tree where no man knows, And like an earthly tree it grows, Save that upon its branches wide The earth and all the stars beside, The chilly moon and the great sun, The little planets, one by one, Are hung like fruit to redden there And ripen in the heavenly air.

And when the seeds are round and full The watchful gods will come and pull The ripened fruit from off the tree; And then that heavenly company Will bear the shining planets in And garner them in a deep bin And sort them out, and save the seed To plant new trees in time of need.

AFTER RAIN

All day the heavy skies have lowered, Long beaten by autumnal rain; The lilac's withered leaves lie showered Where little rain-pools star the plain; All things that for a season flowered Sink back to earth again.

Strange, then, that with the year's decrease And out of gathering dusk you rise Seeking love's ultimate surcease, Phantom, whose memory-haunted eyes Know that there never can be peace Hoped-for, till memory dies.

In vain where these dead leaves lie strown Where all things, bending earthward, fail, Like a young spirit newly flown, Flower-fragile, blossom-like and pale, You search; and must fly back, a blown Rose leaf on the cold gale.

You might have rested but for this: That love's intense flame burning through The shuddering body with a kiss Woke in the prisoned spirit, too, So keen an ecstasy of bliss As could, for all they made amiss, Nor life nor death undo.

_COR CORDIUM_

Deep in a heart, beneath o'er-hanging boughs, Love built himself a house, And whoso entered in, Love bade him stay, Nor ever from that feast to come away Dissatisfied or weary of the fare Love set him there.

Forever through the groves and glades Kind thoughts went softly to and fro, And memories like white-footed maids With gentle tread would come and go Among the ever-garrulous trees. And through the branches overhead I know not what sweet spirits strayed, Or what commandant spirit led Their mazy dances, but one played So deftly on a psaltery That they for joy must needs keep singing; All the chambers of Love's house With that sweet minstrelsy were ringing. Faces to the windows came, Tears to happy eyelids started, Feeling, as by sudden flame, Their cares and their sad hearts disparted, Each old clinging sorrow dead.

All who ever guested there To each other, murmuring, said: "In this heart breathes purer air, The thoughts that move across this sky Have had a more mysterious birth, Are lovelier, float more statelily Than clouds across the sky of earth." All guests within that heart's deep wood, All friends together in that house, High converse held with an aerial brood, With spirit-folk kept delicate carouse; None ever turned ungreeted from that door. (Sorrow himself was guest a weary while,) But yesterday when I passed by once more, Met me no welcoming smile, Nor any breath the unwavering branch to stir, Silent each glad aerial chorister; Three drowsy poppies brooded by the wall, Lonely and tall.

Then, as I leaned above their crimson bloom, The flower of day grew old and withered, Night with a sigh sat down beside her loom Winding her shuttle with a silver thread. Suddenly from the starlit plains of air Ethereal tumult, airy tempest blew, Immortal music showering everywhere, Flashed to the earth in an harmonious dew, Leaped jubilant from cloud to craggy cloud, Binding the moon in a melodious chain, Storming the troubled stars, a luminous crowd, Dropping in fiery streaks to earth again. From out the windows of God's house Faint as a far-echoing wave, The angels, bending their calm brows, Song for song in answer gave; And faster than a falcon flies, Thronging spirits in a cluster Passed before my dazzled eyes, Shedding an aerial lustre, Burning with translucent fire, Shaking from their dewy wings Wild, ineffable desire Of starry and immortal things, Torturing with delicious pain Past telling sweet, the bewildered heart, Piercing the poor mortal brain With beauty, a keen fiery dart. Ah! Even as an oracle Whose soul a god has breathed upon, The beauteousness unbearable Possessed me so all strength was gone. Smitten by a barbed joy, My sense with rapturous pain grew dim, Joy pierced me as it would destroy. Still higher rose the celestial hymn. And then of all that starry throng That streamed toward the upper sky, One spirit darted down again, And stood upon a bough near by. "Even I unsealed thy sight," he said. Alas, that shape I did not know, For he was so transfigured, So circled by the unearthly glow Of his pulsating aureole; I who so well the flesh had known I did not know the soul. With troubled eyes he bended down, And all about me where I stood Every blossom, every tree, All the branches of that wood Were trembling in their ecstasy. They knew ere I had half divined. But at his voice old dreams awoke In dusty chambers of the mind, And when again he softly spoke With sudden tears mine eyes were wet. And lowlier still he bent his head: "Dost thou, dear friend, not know me yet?" "Yes, for I know thy voice," I said. "Dear Phantom, this immortal guise, This disembodied self of thine, Hath dazed mine unacquainted eyes. Thou dweller on the steps divine, Thou image of a god's desire, Thou spark of the celestial flame Art fashioned out of wind and fire And elements without a name; What sacred fingers mingled them And trembled with a god's delight? Thy body is a burning gem, Thy limbs are chrysolite. A glory hangs about thy head For thou in thine immortal lot In heaven's own light art garmented. I know thee, yet I know thee not." Then he, with shining eyes half shut, Radiantly standing there: "I did but change my leafy hut For a mansion in the air, The eerie wood, the enchanted ground, The dim, bird-haunted glades we trod, Grew all untuneful when I found A dwelling in the heart of God. I latched the gate at dawn of day, I planted poppies by the door, To His retreats I came away And I shall wander thence no more. The windy heights are all my love, The spheral lights, the spheral chimes, The trailing fires, the hosts that move In concourse through sidereal climes; I troop with the celestial choirs; We have not any wish to be Sad pilgrims, torn by sad desires, Wayfarers of mortality. The husk of flesh we have put by; The dark seeds planted in the earth Have blossomed in the upper sky, In airy gardens have new birth."

There did he make an end, for O Those spirits, singing, darted by again, And at the showering sound he trembled so I saw his earthly dalliance gave him pain, And cried in sorrow, "O my friend, farewell! Now from the luminous, paradisal bands, Gabriel, Israfel, Ithuriel, Beckon to you with their exulting hands."

THE WITHERED LEAF, THE FADED FLOWER BE MINE

The withered leaf, the faded flower be mine, The broken shrine, All things that knowing beauty for a day Have passed away To dwell in the illimitable wood Of quietude, Undying, radiant, young, Passed years among.

No blighting wind upon their beauty blows, The altar glows With flames unquenchable and bright By day, by night; Secure from envious time's deflowering breath They know no death, But silently, imperishably fair, Grow lovelier there.

He who adores too much the impending hour, The budding flower, Who knows not with what dyes an hour that's dead Is garmented, Who walks with glimmering shapes companionless, He cannot guess With how great love and thankfulness I praise The yesterdays.

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CUTHBERT WRIGHT

THE END OF IT

We met, and on the decorous drive touched hands, "Good-bye; a pleasant trip to you," I said. The sunlight slept upon the still uplands, Your figure fading in the dusty red I watched awhile, then turned with casual face To where a torrent glimmered down a glade, No human voice troubled the lovely place, Only the fall a cruel music made.

A time I lay and marked with curious stare The keen sun-lances quiver on the lawn, And thought on shrines all voiceless now and bare, The holy genius of their boughs withdrawn, Till with hoarse cry the train that you were on Stabbed the indifference of the empty air ...

Then I awoke and knew that you were gone.

THE NEW PLATONIST

_Circa 1640_

Our loves as flowers fall to dust; The noblest singing hath an end; No man to his own soul may trust, Nor to the kind arms of his friend; Yet have I glimpsed by lonely tree, Bright baths of immortality.

My faultless teachers bid me fare The cypress path of blood and tears, Treading the thorny wold to where The painful Cross of Christ appears; 'Twas on another, sunnier hill I met you first, my miracle.

The painted windows burn and flame Up through the music-haunted air; These were my gods--and then you came With flowers crowned and sun-kissed hair, Making this northern river seem Some laughter-girdled Grecian stream.

When the fierce foeman of our race Marshals his lords of lust and pride, You spring within a moment's space, Full-armed and smiling to my side; O golden heart! The love you gave me Alone has saved and yet will save me.

Perchance we have no perfect city Beyond the wrack of these our wars, Till Death alone in sacred pity Wash with long sleep our wounds and scars; So much the more I praise in measure The generous gods for you, my treasure.

THE ROOM OVER THE RIVER

Good-night, my love, good-night; The wan moon holds her lantern high, And softly threads with nodding light The violet posterns of the sky, Below, the tides run swift and bright Into the sea.

Odours and sounds come in to us, Faint with the passion of this night, One little dream hangs luminous Above you in the scented light; Roses and mist, stars and bright dew Draw down to you.

How often in the dewy brake, I've heard above the sighing weirs, The night-bird singing for your sake His lonely song of love and tears; He too, sad heart, hath turned to rest, And sleep is best.

Flower of my soul! Let us be true To youth and love and all delight, Clean and refreshed and one with you I would be ever as to-night, And heed not what the day will bring, Nor anything.

And now the moon is safe away, Far off her carriage lampions flare, Lost in the sunken roads of day, They vanish in the icy air. Good-night, my love, good-night, Good-night.

THE FIDDLER

Once more I thought I heard him plain, That unseen fiddler in the lane, Under the timid twilight moon, Playing his visionary strain.

No other soul was in the place As up the hill I came apace; Though once I heard him every day, I never once have seen his face.

It was my immemorial year, When rhymes came fast and blood beat clear; He too, perchance, was then alive, Now separate ghosts, we wander here.

Sometimes his ghostly rondelay Broke on my dream at dawn of day, And through my open window stole The perfumed marvel of the May.

Sometimes in midnight lanes I heard The twitter of a darkling bird, As hidden from the ashen moon, The pathos of his music stirred.

O happy time! How goodly seemed The dauntless timeless dream I dreamed, Those dear imaginary sins, The joys that in one torrent streamed.

When moon and stars go out for aye, And I am dead and castaway, This autumn city I have loved Will know me not, but he will stay.

In faded suburbs he will play. Some other boy's brief morn away, Till sapphire windows palely burn Amid the undefeated gray.

And yet--sometimes I seem to know I shall not 'scape his phantom bow; More paramount than death or pain, This ghost will follow where I go.

In some well-kept untroubled hell Where frustrate souls like mine may dwell, I shall look up and hear his note Coming across the asphodel.

No shades will gather at his tune To dance their ghostly rigadoon, Only that lonely voice will cleave The everlasting afternoon.

FALSTAFF'S PAGE

_To Reginald Sheffield_

In blaze of curls and cowslip-colored coat He pranks a way before the wheezing Knight. Tall Windsor shows no blossom like this wight By park or sedgy pool or bearded moat; A skylark burbles in that milk-white throat, And I have heard him down a singing stream, Ere the brute morn shattered my happy dream Upon the sill, and weeping I awoke.

We had a music once; a poesie Sweet as a maiden, lissome as this lad, Full of rich merriment and gentle joy;

That other England lives and laughs in thee, A peal of morris-music, blithe and glad, Thou spray of bloom! Thou flower of a boy!

A DULL SUNDAY

(_After Debussy_)

It has been a long day, A long, long day; And now in floods of twilight, In long green waves of sunset softly flowing, Evening. It is evening over the great towns, It is evening in our hearts.

And though the last frail tendrils And flowers of incense Have long ago uncurled themselves around The cynical Cathedral, I hear the thin white voices of children, Little girls and little boys, Calling the name of Jesus And His most Sacred Heart, Singing about a kind of parish heaven, A little walled city, all golden and lilac, Like the one seen by Francois Villon's mother In an old, bituminous, smoke-bitten painting Of the Middle Ages.

And in this faith she wished to live and die.

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[Transcriber's Note: Untitled poems whose titles are omitted in the body of the text as originally published have had their conventional "first line" titles (as seen in the table of contents) added to the body of this transcription. They are enclosed in square brackets as an indication to the reader.]