Part 2

Deep in my heart the holy stream, The stream of quietude, was born, Whose waters wandering clouds of dream And marvellous idle shapes adorn; My breath was like the breath of a child Asleep,--yet rooted in repose, Multitudinous swift and wild My branching, flowering thoughts arose. So heart, breath, mind, while I spoke no word, Conspired. Suddenly I heard My song with the blackbird’s close.

A RHYME OF FAITH

Say ye “Lo the heavens frown, Soon the thundercloud shall burst, Towering faith shall be flung down. We--thank God--expect the worst.”

Cowardly blasphemers, hark! _Credo_ shall my motto be, _Credo_--all the sky is dark-- _Quia Impossibile_.

THE SHINING POND

Against the sky’s pale rim The cottage and the trees stood dim. But in the glow, More tense, Of the little shining pond that lay below, The darkened outlines were drawn clear, Sharp to my sense.

And gazing there My vision became Empty and passive, no more than a frame For the silver water that burned and burned ....

At last, when I turned, My soul was a mirror, on whose surface lay Without a flaw Each momentary thing I saw,-- Then slipped away.

And I heard Each faint noise, Hardly listening.

I heard The noise of the cockchafers around me,-- Not only the sound As they boomed in their flight, Above, in the dim light, But as they busily stirred Loosening Heavy body and horny wing, Blundering free Out of the thicket of the may-tree.

I saw the flower look up pale-eyed From the tangled grass, And the pale moth climb up, half awake, with quivering wing, And still to the side Of the sedges cling,-- Then like a ghost through the brown air pass.

And nowhere, Everywhere, The fall, Hollow and clear, Of the cuckoo’s sounding call.

And yet so quiet ... every tree (But most the poplar tree, Shooting up Confidently To the sky’s white cup) Appeared eternal.

Suddenly, out beyond The dark, I heard a chime. It told of eternity, not of time, It told that the quiet hour was one With the quiet ages gone, With the quiet hours to be Eternally.

Shadow crept over the shining pond. I fell into a deep Trance, an illumined sleep.

THE HAUNTED STREET

Only the faint-echoing fall of my feet Sounded in the empty street, Where noisily an hour or so ago The townpeople wandered--men, all sorts and types, Swinging leisurely to and fro, Laughing and lounging, pulling at their pipes; Big-featured women; boys with caps aslant To hint them men of the world; slim girls with scant White summer dresses that in dubious light Fluttered and gleamed to the sight Like pallid moth-wings. Now the populous street Was empty: not a phantom lingered there, Not a ghost of sound on the air Save, as I passed, for my echoing feet.

The moon was hidden; hardly a candle shone At any upper window, and the stars Were dim as candles: from the shops and bars The glimmer of light was gone. A few arc-lamps at intervals threw Mock moonlight on the mimic waterway Of the wheel-burnished road; And the road lay Cool and rejoicing, lightened of its load Of travelling life--as a tired face may lie Smooth of its furrows, the unquiet day Forgotten, the importunity Of thought and emotion folded away And shuttered off by Sleep.

Only my footsteps sounded in the road.

Suddenly I stopped. For I felt a faint light creep Up to me and touch me, and lo, behind a cloud-veil The harvest Moon gradually climbing the ascent To the open firmament! The vapours like lit foam Dripped and glittered, as I watched her battle against the tide, Then huddled again more close and strove to hide Her scattering silver with dull monochrome; Yet with a final stroke did she prevail, Unflinching out of the stormy water sail, Astonish the dark night, and roam Splendid in triumph on her ocean-home.

And, as I watched, it seemed My eyes were nothing but hollows filled to the brim with light, And my body was unsubstantial, and the flood unearthly streamed Through and through me, body and soul, immovable, absorbed in sight.

Along the sombre rank Of ordinary houses the lustre spread Until their level surfaces showed blank And staring-white, and dead. No longer now as images of Sleep Could I feel them, folding away In recesses deep The voices and the passing feet of day: Rather I felt them solid, cold, intense, Shining on the glass of my moonlit sense Like naked tombstones. They seemed to me The only reality: My conscious being Was from its centre all Diverted to its outward wall, From the thinking and willing soul to the touching, seeing, Receptive surface. I lost All sense of separation. I was one With the tomblike stone. The bar of my humanity I crossed, Drawn outward as the houses drew more near, Till they and I for body had only a gleaming wall, For spirit a vague fear.

The pulse of Time stopped.

There was no sound Anywhere, No motion in the street around, In my soul’s eclipse I could not stir.

Yet some hidden impulse suddenly broke the spell, For inward, inward, struggling through the barrier Of my dumb sense I drove. I smote the silent bell At the door of my heart angrily, bidding it answer me With a semblance of actual sound. Driven by the tyranny Of tangible outward horror into my soul I fought, Striving to win the images that dwell In the quiet inmost rooms of intricate-carven thought.

There I conjured a vision of summer’s ripe content, Gold corn in the valley, gold gorse on the hill, The gold sun shining, the air full of scent, The common turf paved with gold tormentil; The air basking lazily, full of the sound of bees, And a slow stream washing the boughs of trailing willow-trees.

There I found a garden where tall hollyhocks And double-flowered larkspurs towered side by side, Groups of slender columbine and crimson-hearted phlox, Old-fashioned lavender and pink and London pride: And in that close and quiet garden did I find The faces of my dearest friends, intimate and kind.

But a hurry of other faces like a shadow-show, Faces remote and strange, crowded unbidden before me, Faces at first I did not know ... Yet some of them bore me Manifest hate or love,--gazing on me As a familiar friend or enemy. Gradually I felt the answering passions stir And days forgotten from a buried past rise; Gradually Like objects with pale outlines whitening the gloom Of a dark room, Out of a misty blurr The faces grew familiar to my eyes.

And yet, as I dimly knew With a dazed, half-conscious knowing, These images coming and going,-- These faces old and young That grew In a moment, unfolded And faded,--out of a past that never was mine were sprung: Not mine, although they so remoulded me Under their strong control That memory seemed to be slowly drawn up out of my soul To join them and make them a part Of my own years, Linking them to the passions of my heart, Old hopes and old fears.

In a while shone out Distinct among them all, beneath a rout Of dusky hair, one face Of quick eager impulsive grace; And memory arose in me till I burned With a full-kindled fire Of worship and love, seeing no failure, no flaw In her loveliness.... then memory turned, Memory and the strength of desire, To hate, fierce hate, hate fiercer for a memory of shame, Of a wrong that I had done to her. I saw With different eyes her beauty and I hated it. Darkness and agony were in me: I shook: I bit on my lip; there was dew Of sweat on my hand, on my forehead; I knew My soul no longer was mine but lit with the flame Of alien passions, possessing me, driving me ...

Emptily, Emptily on either side the motionless line Of tomblike houses gaped upon me-- Their emptiness spoke, they gave me an answer, they told That only the cold Bodies of those who slept Lay in their hold: The hot unsleeping passions were abroad Thronging the white road, Pressing around me, into me. They had crept Deep into me more subtle than sleep; My soul was strangled: I could not shake them off: I struggled in vain ...

But with a saving throb of pain The power of motion came to me again, And down the length of that echoing street of dread, While the beautiful mockery of the white moon still looked down On the sleeping town, Quick in the stillness I fled.

Printed in the United States of America.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

The Sea-Maid: quote marks in the poem have been left as-is.

The use of ellipsis has been edited to match the original book.