Chapter 3
DO you hear the bell? 'Tis a silver chime But it ringeth not in the bourne of time.
With the wind it swells, with the wind 'twill sink, Dying at last by the sea's dim brink.
By mortal hands the bell was hung By mortal hands 'tis never swung.
When the moon's at full and the long tide creeps It rings o'er the town that the deep sea keeps--
The town of Ys, that, unafraid, Cursed God's good bells for the noise they made,
Cursed them well and pulled them down From every belfry in the town!
For that sin of pride and that pride of sin, Deathly and soft, a Doom stole in.
It sucked through the stone, it stole through the street, It rose in the hall, silent and fleet;
Soundless it swept through the market-place Folding the town in a chill embrace;
No ruth it knew, it heard no call, Sinner and saint it gathered them all,
Gathered them all, while over them The bells they had cursed tolled requiem.
Do you hear the bell? When the full moon rides It rings o'er the town that the deep sea hides!
Time's Garden
YEARS are the seedlings which we careless sow In Time's bare garden. Dead they seem to be-- Dead years! We sigh and cover them with mould, But though the vagrant wind blow hot, blow cold, No hint of life beneath the dust we see; Then comes the magic hour when we are old, And lo! they stir and blossom wondrously.
Strange spectral blooms in spectral plots aglow! Here a great rose and here a ragged tare; And here pale, scentless blossoms without name, Robbed to enrich this poppy formed of flame; Here springs some hearts'ease, scattered unaware; Here, hawthorn-bloom to show the way Love came; Here, asphodel, to image Love's despair!
When I am old and master of the spell To raise these garden ghosts of memory, My feet will turn aside from common ways, Where common flowers mark the common days, To one green plot; and there I know will be Fairest of all (O perfect beyond praise!) The year you gave, beloved, your rosemary.
The Coming of Love
HOW shall I know? Shall I hear Love pass In the wind that sighs through the poplar tree? Shall I follow his passing over the grass By the prisoned scents which his footsteps free?
Shall I wake one day to a sky all blue And meet with Spring in a crowded street? Shall I open a door and, looking through, Find, on a sudden, the world more sweet?
How shall I know?--last night I lay Counting the hours' dreary sum With naught in my heart save a wild dismay And a fear that whispered, "Love is come!"
Premonition
LAST night I dreamed No dream of joy or sorrow, Yet, when I woke, I wept, Knowing the brightness of some far to-morrow Had darkened while I slept!
The Child
I MAY not lift him in my arms. His face I may not see-- Are angel hands more tender than a mother's hands may be? And does he smile to hear the song an angel stole from me?
The wise King said, "He cannot come but I will go to him!" O David! did you seek with words to make the grave less grim? And did you think to cheat, with words, the jealous seraphim?
So! he will learn of heaven--he, who scarcely knew the earth. All fullness waits the baby eyes that never looked on dearth-- The mystery of death usurps the mystery of birth!
What light has earth to give me for the light that heaven beguiled? What is the calm of heaven to him who has not known the wild?-- O, we are both bereft, bereft--the mother and the child!
Intrusion
I BUILT myself a pleasant house. Content was I to dwell in it-- Its door was fast against the wind With all the gusty swell of it.
It had two windows, high and clear, With trees and skies to shine through them, They were acquainted with the moon, And every star was mine through them.
Its walls were silent walls; its hearth Held little fires to gladden me-- And though the nights might weep outside No sob crept through to sadden me.
Then came your hand upon the latch (Although I had not sent for you) And all Outside came blowing in The way I had not meant it to!
Upon the hearth my tended flame Leapt to a blaze and died in it. The night sought out a hidden place I had forgot and sighed in it.
My window that had known the stars Seemed suddenly not high at all. The trees drew back; the friendly birds Swept dumbly by, too shy to call.
Said you: "It is a pleasant house, But surely somewhat small for two!"-- And at your word my walls fell down, Leaving no house at all, just you.
The Sea's Withholding
THE ladye's bower faced the sea, Its casements framed a sea-born day. She saw the fishers sail away, And, far and high, The gulls sweep by Within the hollow of the sky!
She saw the laggard twilight come And, chased by rippling wakes of foam, She saw the fisher fleet come home-- Brown sails a-sheen Against the green With shadows creeping in between!
She saw, when it was evening, all Day's banners stream in crimson rout Till night's soft finger blurred them out, And, high and far, A perfect star Shone where the keys of heaven are!
"O far and constant star," she said, "O passing sail, O passing bird, O passing day--bring you no word Of winds that steer His ship a-near? Where sails my love that sails not here?
"The days in splendid pageant pass, In lovely peace the nights go by, And day and night are sweet; but I-- I cannot say Lo, the bright day! Can it be dawn and love away?"
Love Unkind
OUT upon the bleak hillside, the bleak hillside, he lay-- Her lips were red, and red the stream that slipped his life away. Ah, crimson, crimson were her lips, but his were turning gray.
The troubled sky seemed bending low, bending low to hide The foam-white face so wild upturned from off the bleak hillside-- White as the beaten foam her face, and she was wond'rous eyed.
The soft, south-wind came creeping up, creeping stealthily To breathe upon his clay-cold face--but all too cold was he, Too cold for you to warm, south-wind, since cold at heart was she!
Sweet morning peeped above the hill, above the hill to find The shattered, useless, godlike thing the night had left behind-- Wept the sweet morn her crystal tears that love should prove unkind!
Christmas in Heaven
HOW hushed they were in Heaven that night, How lightly all the angels went, How dumb the singing spheres beneath Their many-candled tent!
How silent all the drifting throng Of earth-freed spirits, strangely torn By dim and half-remembered pain And joy but newly born!
The Glory in the Highest flamed With awful, unremembered ray-- But quiet as the falling dew Was He who went away.
So swift He went, His passing left A low, bright door in Heaven ajar-- With God it was a covenant, To man it seemed a star.
I Whispered to the Bobolink
I WHISPERED to the bobolink: "Sweet singer of the field, Teach me a song to reach a heart In maiden armor steeled."
"If there be such a song," sang he, "No bird can tell its mystery."
I bent above the sweetest rose, A deeper sweet to stir-- "O Rose," I begged, "what charm will wake The deep, sweet heart of her?"
"Alas, poor lover," sighed the rose, "The charm you seek no flower knows."
I wandered by the midnight lake Where heaven lay confessed "Tell me," I cried, "what draws the stars To lie upon your breast?"
The silence woke to soft reply "When Heaven stoops--demand not why!"
"Alas, sweet maid, love's potent charm I cannot beg or buy, I cannot wrest it from the wind Or steal it from the sky--"
Breathless, I caught her whisper low, "I love you--why, I do not know!"
You
SLANTING rain and a sky of gray, Drifting mist and a wind astray, The leaden end of a leaden day And you--away!
Light in the west! The sky's pale dome Gemmed with a star; a scented gloam Of bursting buds and rain-wet loam And you--at home!
The Mother
LAST night he lay within my arm, So small, so warm--a mystery To which God only held the key-- But mine to keep from fear and harm!
Ah! He was all my own, last night, With soft, persuasive, baby eyes, So wondering and yet so wise, And hands that held my finger tight.
Why was it that he could not stay-- Too rare a gift? Yet who could hold A treasure with securer hold Than I, to whom love taught the way?
As with a flood of golden light The first sun tipped earth's golden rim So all my world grew bright with him And with his going fell the night--
O God, is there an angel arm More strong, more tender than the rest? Lay Thou my baby on his breast To keep him safe from fear and harm!
The Vassal
WIND of the North, O far, wild wind Born of a far, lone sea-- When suns are soft and breezes kind Why are you kin to me?
Uncounted years above the sea, Rock-fortressed from its rage, The fishermen, your fathers, kept A barren heritage-- Grim as the sea they forced to pay The sea-toll of their wage.
And lo! The fate which made you hers And gave you of her best And set you in a sunny place, Down-sloping to the West, Forgot to change your fisher's heart Serf to the sea's unrest!
Wind of the North! O bitter wind, I hear the wild seas fret-- In the dim spaces of the mind They claim me vassal yet!
The Troubadour
THE wind blows salt from off the sea And sweet from where the land lies green; I travel down the great highway That runs so straight and white between-- I watch the sea-wind strain the sheet, The land-wind toss the yellow wheat!
Song is my mistress, fickle she, Yet dear beyond all dearth of speech; Child of the winds of land and sea She charms me with the charm of each-- Full soft and sweet she sings and then She sings wild songs for sailor-men!
No staff I carry in my hand, No pack I carry on my back, No foot of earth I call my own, For castle or for cot I lack-- I travel fast, I travel slow, And where my mistress bids I go!
My gems, the pearl upon the leaf At mystic hour of the morn; My gold, the gold that rims the sea A moment ere the day is born; And on my breezy couch o' nights The stars shine down--my taper lights!
Happy am I that sing of love, Yet from the thrall of love am free; Happy am I that sing of pain And quick forget what pain may be! I sing of death--and lo! To me Life is supremest ecstacy!
Indian Summer
I HAVE strayed from silent places, Where the days are dreaming always; And fair summer lies a-dying, Roses withered on her breast. I have stolen all her beauty, All her softness, all her sweetness; In her robe of folden sunshine I am drest.
I will breathe a mist about me Lest you see my face too clearly, Lest you follow me too boldly I will silence every song. Through the haze and through the silence You will know that I am passing; When you break the spell that holds you, I am gone!
The Unchanged
IF we could salvage Babylon From times's grim heap of dust and bones; If we could charm cool waters back To sing against her thirsty stones; If, on a day, We two should stray Down some long, Babylonian way-- Perhaps the strangest sight of all Would be the street boys playing ball.
If through Pompeii's agelong night A yellow sun again might shine, And little, sea-born breezes lift The hair of lovers sipping wine, If, in some fair, Dim temple there, We watched Pompeii come to prayer-- Not the strange altar would surprise But strangeness of familiar eyes!
Ay, should our magic straightly wake Atlantis from her sea-rocked sleep And we on some Processional Look down where dancing maidens leap, If one flushed maid Beside us stayed To tie more firm her loosened braid-- Would not the shaking wonder be To find her just like you and me?
Indifference
A BIRD, a wild-flower and a tree-- I care for them, not they for me.
I see all heaven in a pool-- But the frog there takes me for a fool.
To this dead thrush a tear I gave-- All Spring shall sing above my grave,
And naught I spend my heart upon Know lack or loss that I am gone--
A bird, a wild-flower and a tree, I cherish them; they suffer me!
Last Things
THERE is no one to do it for me, But I know what I shall do When the last dawn breaks o'er me And the last night is through.
I shall set in pleasant order The little books I knew, With flowers on the window ledge In a shallow bowl of blue.
I'll leave the out door swinging, (As it might swing for you) And on the clean swept door-sill Wild roses I shall strew--
So when pale Death comes trailing Her branch of sodden rue She'll gather up my gay content And know contentment too!
Callous Cupid
CUPID does not care for sighs Does not care for lover's weeping! Fair One, dry your pretty eyes, Cupid does not care for sighs, Laugh with him if you are wise, Steel the heart he has in keeping; Cupid does not care for sighs Does not care for lover's weeping!
The Meeting
SHE flitted by me on the stair-- A moment since I knew not of her. A look, a smile--she passed! but where She flitted by me on the stair Joy cradled exquisite despair; For who am I that I should love her? She flitted by me on the stair-- A moment since I knew not of her!
The Piper
I'VE heard the pipes of Pan Somewhere, just beyond,-- Over the edge of dawn, I think, Where the clouds hang soft on the world's dim brink, Where the red suns rise and the blue stars sink, I heard the pipes of Pan!
Hush! what you heard was the wind, The feet of the wind through the leaves, Or the sigh of the waking night as it stirred. Or a bird's note afar, Or the deep breath of June, Or the fall of a star, Or the shimmering skirts of the sea-slipping tide In the wake of the wandering moon!
Nay! 'twas the pipes of Pan! Somewhere--just beyond-- My soul awoke with a rapturous sigh (Would I wake my soul for a night bird's cry?) I heard the winds of the worlds sweep by To follow the pipes of Pan!
Stay! 'twas a voice that you heard, A voice that you love, in the wood, The vibrating note of a half spoken word-- For the great Pan is slain, Of his pipings we know not one magical strain, They have fled down the years of a world that was young Oh, ages and ages ago!
Nay, 'twas the pipes of Pan! Somewhere--just beyond-- Far as a star, yet piercing sweet, A passionate, poignant, rhythmic beat-- Till my mad blood raced with my racing feet To follow the piper--Pan!
Wanderlust
THE highways and the byways, the kind sky folding all, And never a care to drag me back and never a voice to call; Only the call of the long, white road to the far horizon's wall.
The glad seas and the mad seas, the seas on a night in June, And never a hand to beckon back from the path of the new-lit moon; Never a night that lasts too long or a dawn that breaks too soon!
The shrill breeze and the hill breeze, the sea breeze, fierce and bold, And never a breeze that gives the lie to a tale that a breeze has told; Always the tale of the strange and new in the countries strange and old.
The lone trail and the known trail, the trail you must take on trust, And never a trail without a grave where a wanderer's bones are thrust-- Never a look or a turning back till the dust shall claim the dust!
Gold
WHEN life wakened in the Spring All the world was gold and green! Sunlight lay on everything, Sailing cloud and soaring wing, Emerald banks where snow had been, Drifts of daffodils between.
When Life's pulse beat strong and high Shone the world in gold and blue! Canopied with turquoise sky Summer passed superbly by, Bluest midnight cupped the dew Golden morn might sparkle through!
Now that life would rest again Soft she lies in gold and brown, Brown the fields and gold the grain, Brown the little pools of rain, Gold the leaves that falter down To brown pavements in the town.
The Materialist
MY soul has left its tent of clay And seeks from star to star, 'Mid flaming worlds that are to be, And fruitful worlds that are, The Voice which spake and said "Live on!" (When Death said, "You may die") And sent my spirit wandering The stairway of the sky.
Still must I seek what on the earth I sought as fruitlessly-- The world I knew, the heaven I scorned Lost in infinity: Alone, and on the ageless breath Of cosmic whirlwinds spun, I hurtle through the outer dark Toward some fantastic sun!--
O God! how happy is the leaf, A sweet and soulless thing, Dying to live but in the green Of yet another Spring-- These heights, these depths, these flaming worlds, This stairway of the sky I'd give, had no Voice said "Live on!" When Death said, "You may die."
Tir Nan Og
THE breeze blows out from the land and it seeks the sea, O and O! that my sail were set and away-- Fast and free on its wings would my sailing be To the west: to the Tir Nan Og, where the blessed stay!
The darkness stirs, it awakes, it outspreads its arms, O and O! and the birds in their nests are still, The red-browed hill bleats low with the lamb's alarms, And a sound of singing comes from the slipping rill.
My soul is awake alone, all alone in the earth, O and O! and around is the lonely night. As with the sun, would my soul go forth to its birth-- O'er the darkling sea, to the west--to the light, to the light!
Do they say, "Be content with the land of the Innis Fail, O and O! there is friendship here, there is song." But they smile to your face, when you turn they stammer and rail And the song of the singer has tears and is over long!
A call comes out of the west and it calls a name, O and O! it is soft, it is far, it is low-- Sweet, so sweet that it touches my soul with a flame That burns the heart from my breast with the wish to go!
(Translated from the Celtic.)
The Little Man in Green
'TWAS a little man in green, And he sat upon a stone; And he sat there all alone, Whispering.
"One and two," so whispered he. ('Twas an ancient man and hoar) "One and two," and then no more-- Never, "Three".
Hawthorn trees were quick with May-- "Sir," said I, "Good-day to you"! But he counted. "One and two" In strange way.
Fool I was--oh, fool was I (Who should know the ways of them!) That I touched his cloak's green hem, Passing by.
I was fey with spring and mirth-- Speaking him without a thought-- Now is joy a thing forgot On the earth.
Ere the sweet thorn-buds were through, Wife and child doom-stricken lay, Cold as winter, white as spray-- "One and two!"
Now I seek eternally That grim Counter of the fen, Praying he may count again-- Counting, "Three".
* In the bad chance of a meeting with the "Little People" the mortal is cautioned not to speak to them nor to touch, but to pass by quickly with averted eye.--Old tale.
The Enchantress
I FEAR Eileen, the wild Eileen-- The eyes she lifts to mine, That laugh and laugh and never tell The half that they divine!
She draws me to her lonely cot Ayont the Tulloch Hill; And, laughing, draws me to her door And, laughing, holds me still.
I bless myself and bless myself, But in the holy sign, There seems to be no heart of love, To still the pain in mine.
The morning, bright above the moor, Is bright no more for me-- A weary bit of burning pain Is where my heart should be!
For since the wild, sweet laugh of her Has drawn me to her snare, The only sunlight in the world Is shining from her hair.
Yet well I know, ah, well I know Why 'tis so sweet and wild-- She slept beneath a faery thorn, She is a faery child!
And so I leave my mother lone, No meal to fill the pot, And follow, follow wild Eileen. If so I will or not.
I fear to meet her in the glen, Or seek her by the shore; I fear to lift her cabin's latch, But--should she come no more!--
O Eileen Og, O wild Eileen, My heart is wracked with fear Lest you should meet your faery kin, And, laughing, leave me here!
The Banshee
THE Banshee cries on the rising wind "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!" The dead to free and the quick to bind-- (Close fast the shutter and draw the blind!) "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"
Why are you paler my dearest dear? "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!" 'Tis but the wind in the elm tree near-- (Acushla, hush! lest the Banshee hear!) "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"
See, how the crackling fire up-springs, "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!" Up and up on its flame-red wings; Hark, how the cheerful kettle sings! "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"
Core of my heart! How cold your lips! "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!" White as the spray the wild wind whips, Still as your icy finger tips! "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"
On the rising wind the Banshee cries-- "O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!" I kiss your hair. I kiss your eyes-- The kettle is dumb; the red flame dies! "Ochone! Ochone! Ochone!"
The Witch
HER hair was gold and warm it lay Upon the pallor of her brow; Her eyes were deep, aye, deep and gray-- And in their depths he drowned his vow.
She wandered where the sands were wet, Weaving the sea-weed for a crown, And there at eve a monk she met-- A holy monk in cowl and gown.
She held him with her witch's stare (A sweet, child-look--it witched him well!) Upon his lip she froze the prayer, And in his ear she breathed a spell.
He babbled ever of her name And of her brow that gleamed like dawn, And of her lips--a lovely shame No holy man should think upon.
They hunted her along the sea, "Witch, Witch!" they cried and hissed their hate-- Her hair unbound fell to her knee And made a glory where she sate.
Her song she hushed and, wonder-eyed, She gazed upon their bell and book; The zealous priests were fain to hide Lest they be holden by her look.
Most innocent she seemed to be ("The Devil's sly!" the fathers say) Her eyes were dreaming eyes that see Things strange and fair and far away.
They stood her in the judgment hall. "Confess," they cried, "the blasting spell That holds yon crazed monk in thrall?" "Good sirs," she said, "he loved me well."
They haled her to a witch's doom, They matched her shining hair with flame-- But ever through the cloister's gloom The mad monk babbles of her name!
And, when the red sun droppeth down And wet sand gleameth ghostily, Men see her weave a sea-weed crown Between the twilight and the sea.
Fairy Singing
SHE was my love and the pulse of my heart; Lovely she was as the flowers that start Straight to the sun from the earth's tender breast, Sweet as the wind blowing out of the west-- Elana, Elana, my strong one, my white one, Soft be the wind blowing over your rest!
She crept to my side In the cold mist of morning. "O wirra" she cried, "'Tis farewell now, mavourneen! When the crescent moon hung Like a scythe in the sky, I heard in the silence The Little Folks cry.
"'Twas like a low sighing, A sobbing, a singing; It came from the west, Where the low moon was swinging: 'Elana, Elana' Was all of their crying. Mavrone! I must go-- To refuse them, I dare not. Alone I must go; They have called and they care not-- Naught do they care that they call me apart From the warmth and the light and the love of your heart. Hark! How their singing Comes winging, comes winging, Through your close arms, beloved, Straight to my heart!"
White grew her face as the thorn's tender bloom, White as the mist from the valley of doom! Swift was her going--her head on my breast Drooped like a flower that winter has pressed-- Elana, Elana! My strong one, my white one! Empty the arms that your beauty had blessed.
Killed in Action
MY father lived his three-score years; my son lived twenty-two; One looked long back on work well done, and one had all to do-- Yet which the better served his world, I know not, nor do you!
Life taught my father all her lore till he grew wise and gray, She did but whisper to my son before she turned away-- Yet which her deepest secret held only they two might say.
Peace brought my father restful days, with love and fame for wage; War gave my son an unmarked grave and an unwritten page-- Who shall declare which gift conveyed the greater heritage?
Spring Came In