Part 2

And steals up the skies to protect her own.

She leans her breast 'gainst his cradle-rim

While her small star-children gaze down on him.

Stars are his brothers; clouds his dreams;

His mother's arms are the pale moon-beams.

When meadows again grow gold and gray,

He wakes from sleep and runs forth to play.

But every night from behind God's throne

The moon-mother steals to protect her own.

TO A YOUNG GIRL WHO SAID SHE WAS NOT BEAUTIFUL

It's not her hair and it's not her feet,

Nor the way she walks with her head held high;

It's not because her eye-brows meet

Like a bird's wings over a glimpse of sky;

And it isn't her voice like April bloom

Rustling through an orchard's gloom--

It's none of these; not her wide gray eye,

Nor her crumpled mouth like a rose-bud red

Round which the snows of the jasmine spread.

Though her long white hands

Are like lilies of Lent,

Palely young and purely bent

O'er her breast, where God stands,

It's none of these.

Flowers and trees

With her to compare

Are too little rare.

Though the grass yearns up to touch her feet,

She is loved for this--she is sweet, sweet, sweet.

HALLOWE'EN

_Hark to the patter of the rain,

Voices of dead things come again:

Feet that rustle the lush wet grass,

Lips that mutter, "Alas! Alas!"

And shadows that grope o'er my window-pane._

Poor outcast souls, you saw my light

And thought that I, on such a night,

Would pity take and bid you in

To warm your hands, so palely thin,

Before my fire which blazeth bright.

You come from hells of ice-cold clay

So pent that, striving every way,

You may not stir the coffin-lid;

And well you know that, if you did,

Darkness would come and not the day.

Darkness! With you 'tis ever dark;

No joy of skyward-mounting lark

Or blue of swallow on the wing

Can penetrate and comfort bring

You, where you lie all cramp'd and stark.

Deep sunk beneath the secret mould,

You hear the worm his length unfold

And slime across your frail roof-plank,

And tap, and vanish, like the rank

Foul memory of a sin untold.

And this your penance in the tomb:

To weave upon the mind's swift loom

White robes, to garb remorsefully

A _Better Life_--which may not be

Or, when it comes, may seal your doom.

Thus, side by side, through all the year,

Yet just apart, you wake and hear,

As men on land the ocean's strum,

Your Dead World's hushed delirium

Which, sounding distant, yet is near.

So near that, could he lean aside,

The bridegroom well might touch his bride

And reach her flesh, which once was fair,

And, slow across the pale lips where

He kissed her, feel his fingers glide.

So distant, that he can but weep

Whene'er she moans his name in sleep:

A cold-grown star, with light all spent,

She gropes the abyssmal firmament.

He hears her surging in the Deep.

Ever throughout the year 'tis thus

Till drones the dream-toned Angelus

Of Hallowe'en; then, underground,

Unto dead ears its voice doth sound

Like Christ's voice, crying, "_Lazarus_."

Palsied with haste the dead men rise

Groaning, because their unused eyes

Can scarce endure Earth's blackest night;

It wounds them as 'twere furious light

And stars were flame-clouds in the skies.

What tenderness and sad amaze

Must grieve lost spirits when they gaze

Beneath a withered moon, and view

The ancient happiness they knew--

The live, sweet world and all its ways!

Ho, Deadmen! for a night you're free

Till Dawn leads back Captivity.

To make your respite seem more dear

Mutter throughout your joy this fear:

"Who knows, within the coming year,

That God, our gaoler, may not die;

Then, who'll remember where we lief

Who then will come to set us free f

Through all the ages this may be

Our final night of liberty."

Aye, hoard your moments miserly.

And yet .... and yet, it is His rain

That drives against my window-pane.

Oh, surely all Earth's dead have rest

And stretch at peace in God's own breast,

And never can return again!

And yet . . . .

UNSEEN

Oh mother, why are you weeping

When aLl the world's asleeping?

Rest ye, rest ye, mother,

I am near, dear, near.

Not beneath the moon-drenched grass

Do I turn to hear you pass--

You would see me walk beside you, if your eyes

saw dear.

Oh mother, why are you crying?

There was no loss in dying.

Rest ye, rest ye, mother,

Have no fear, no fear.

Still long hangs my golden hair,

But the body that I wear

Treads more kindly and more lightly, could you

hear, dear, hear.

She has stayed her eyes from weeping;

She is sleeping, sweetly sleeping.

Rest ye, weary mother,

I am here, dear, here.

Now the dawn-wind fans her cheek,

And she knows not that I speak--

But my arms are warm about her, could her eyes

see clear.

WHY THEY LOVED HIM

So kindly was His love to us,

(We had not heard of love before),

That all our life grew glorious

When He had halted at our door.

So meekly did He love us men,

Though blind we were with shameful sin,

He touched our eyes with tears, and then

Led God's tall angels flaming in.

He dwelt with us a little space,

As mothers do in childhood's years;

And still we can discern His face

Wherever Joy or Love appears.

He made our virtues all His own,

And lent them grace we could not give;

And now our world seems His alone,

And while we live He seems to live.

He took our sorrows and our pain,

And hid their torture in His breast;

Till we received them back again

To find on each His grief impressed.

He clasped our children in His arms,

And showed us where their beauty shone;

He took from us our gray alarms,

And put Death's icy armor on.

So gentle were His ways with us

That crippled souls had ceased to sigh;

On them He laid His hands, and thus

They gloried at His passing by.

Without reproof or word of blame,

As mothers do in childhood's years,

He kissed our lips, in spite of shame,

And stayed the passage of our tears.

So tender was His love to us,

(We had not learnt to love before),

That we grew like to Him, and thus

Men sought His grace in us once more.

April fields and England's flowers,

English friends and April showers,

April voices o'er the sea

Calling, calling unto me:

Oh, why tarry, why delay!

Hither lies the meadow-way;

No such meadows shalt thou see,

Oh, come back to Arcady."

Happy English Arcady

Thou art calling, calling me

Through thin flutes as frail as Pan

Fingered, when long since he ran

Careless as these foreign flowers,

Trailing through these tropic bowers

All their largess of gold leaf,

Piling splendors sheaf on sheaf.

Some there be who think Pan dead,

Say his nymphs and flutings sped;

I know better, I have seen

Where his racing feet have been.

Still I hear the dead god's voice--

England's; Had my soul the choice,

It should wade through starry bloom

Knee-deep to the brown-burnt broom.

April fields and April flowers,

April friends and April showers,

England shouting o'er the sea,

Calling, calling unto me.

CHILDISH TRAVELLING

Ah, little child, as you lie in my breast,

Leaning your hair of gold close to my face,

Flushed in the gathering glow of the West,

Where shall we travel--to what joyous place?

Shall we refashion our castles in Spain,

Or sail to the Indies with Sinbad again,

Or noiselessly drift to where tired stars wane--

Shall it be Africa, Sinbad or Spain?

Speak, little child, and together we'll go

Back to the musical dreamlands we know.

Dear little child, you have wandered to rest.

While you are sleeping I wonder and think

Where you will go, and what land will be best

Treading for such baby feet, and I shrink.

Should they be hillsides of laughing and song,

Or gardens of mercy and righting of wrong,

Of weeping, or triumph, or love growing strong,

Journeys of shouting, of sorrow or song?

I can but love you and kiss your gold hair,

Happy in hoping that Christ may be there.

THE IVORY LATCH

Rattle the Ivory Latch of Love

And who will unbar the gate?

Ask no questions, my dearest love,

But wait--wait--wait.

Ah, will she be haughty Isabeau,

Pale Isodore, or Kate?

_Hush, dearest dear, some day you'll know,

Be not importunate._

Perchance I might love Isodore,

I think I could love Kate;

I have no fears for Isabeau

Should she unbar the gate.

_Perchance she may be Isabeau,

Perhaps she will be Kate;

But which, dear heart, you'll never know,

Till you have learned to wait._

THE ONCE SUNG SONG

Christ along the Road to Fame,

When all birds were singing,

Pluck't white lilies as He came,

Set the blue-bells ringing;

Poppies flared in strident flame

When they heard His singing.

Further up the Road to Fame

Birds grew still in sorrow;

Though His feet were very lame

Courage did He borrow,

Singing as He onward came,

Dreaming of the morrow.

Crimsoned by the Road of Fame

Christ passed sick and dying.

Through the hedges, red with shame,

Crippled men there lying,

Seeing how He singing came,

Marvelled at their sighing.

Distant down the Road to Fame,

When all else ceased singing,

Messengers of music came--

Little echoes winging

Withered hearts with wings of flame--

Fragments of Christ's singing.

SPRING

_Sing, sing,

Spring and birth!

A maid shall be mother of all the earth._

Winter's bones lie bare and bleak,

Scattered white on the mountain peak.

Through stark woods the Madonna Spring

Glides with her unborn offering.

Where she treads dead flowers stir

And raise their heads to gaze after her,

And trees make dense their boughs with green

That her motherhood may not be seen.

Summer lies hid 'neath her girlish breast;

Till her babe is bom she shall find no rest.

Yet is she glad in her wandering

And weaves meek songs 'gainst her mothering.

_Birth, birth,

Lave and mirth!

Spring is Madonna of all the earth_.

A LULLABY

Son of God, thou little child

O'er whose sleep the Virgin smiled,

Guard us, though this night be wild,

From Lilith--Lilith.

Guard us, though our watch be slack,

Guard us, though the night be black,

Though this night all stars should lack

From Lilith--Lilith.

Stay her steps from drawing nigh,

Kiss my baby lest he cry,

And she hear him, and he die

From Lilith--Lilith.

Son of God, thou little child

O'er whose sleep the Virgin smiled,

May his soul be unbeguiled

By Lilith--Lilith.

UNANSWERABLE QUESTIONS

Is there light of moon or sun

In the land where thou hast gone?

Does the rush of wind and rain

Smite thy woodlands green again?

Do dawn-birds rise up and sing,

Sunrise. Sunrise," heralding?

Dost thou fear, as once, the stark

Hours of panther-footed dark?

Oh, little maiden, sweetly frail,

Naught can these empty words avail.

For thee I clasp God's mantle fast,

Praying till night is overpast.

THE HILL-TOWER

_A ROMANCE_

_"Bianca of the yellow hair,

With witch-face white as ivory,

Yield to our might that we may bear

Thy body back to Rimini."_

And thus the foemen cried all day

And strove to daunt with fierce display

Of armoured strength her maiden heart,

So that with them she might depart

From out that hill-tower where with three

She'd held the pass right fearlessly--

So that with them she might depart

To shameful death in Rimini.

Bianca, child of Abramo

The despot lord of Reggio,

Had set our country-side on flame

With the binning torch of her beauty's fame,

And a deadman's hate of her deadly name.

For she had gazed with cold gray eyes

On Rufo--he now starkly lies

Deep in a sculptured sepulchre,

Smitten with death through love of her.

Rufo, the heir of Ugo Count

Qf Rimini and vast amount

Of warrior-men and chivalry,

Had come to claim her haughtily;

But had scorched his soul in her golden hair.

As a wounded beast creeps to his lair,

So he vilely died by slow degrees

Of heart-break and a sore disease,

Till his eyes grew glazed and ceased to stir,

And his life gave out for his love of her.

Then Ugo swore a mighty oath,

By God's own Christ and by Christ's truth,

Though I go unarmed and go alone,

For my son's death she shall atone.

I'll take this witch of Reggio

And through the flames will make her go,

Till her sweet red lips grow cracked and sere,

Till her eyes are scarred and mad with fear,

Till her false young tongue cannot speak love's

name,

Till her tender feet drop off with flame--

Till she hath naught left that men desire

She shall pass and pass through consuming fire."

This was the oath which he did swear

When he cursed her face in his hate of her.

So Ugo rode on Reggio

And called on the name of Abramo,

Claiming the body of her who wrought

Love's enchantments and made distraught

The souls of the lovers who came to her,

And told of the oath which he did swear.

They bade him stand without the wall

And bore his tidings to the hall.

From early mom he stood till eve,

And still no message did receive.

When night was falling, dusk and dim,

A city harlot drew nigh to him

And grayly glimmered along the wall,

And stopped where the Count was standing tall.

What news," he cried, "from Abramo,

Must I raze this city of Reggio?"

He reared his plume to its towering height.

She leaned far out in the waning light.

He clutched with one hand his saddle-bow

And saw her smile when she answered, "No,"

And spat on his face and strained down on

him.

He rode away 'neath the crescent rim

Of a new-made moon through an olive-grove,

And evil passions within him strove;

In anger he gained the shining sea

Which silvers the shores of Rimini.

There he made great stir and called out his men,

And marshalled their ranks on a level fen,

And clothed them in black and gave beside

His knights black stallions which to ride,

And ordered no singing. "For," said he,

We mourn one dead in Rimini."

Over the hills he caused to go

His sombre ranks to Reggio;

Through pleasant valleys and dew-drenched woods

His horsemen paced in their sable hoods

With no shrill of bugle or revelry,

Like angels of Death's dread company.

At night they stole to the dty-wall

And clustered beneath the ramparts tall;

And hearkened for noise of warlike din,

And found no breath of strife within;

And watched for lights in the houses' eyes,

And saw but the stars within the skies.

Then as one voice they raised the shout,

The echo eddied their cry about,

We call on you men of Reggio

To give us the daughter of Abramo,

That she pass and pass through consuming fire

Till she hath naught left that men desire.

Give us the daughter of Abramo."

Swift and dread, dark-robed and dim,

Like thunder about a crater's brim,

They surged round the city at dead of night

And chased their shadows in stately flight,

And swept the circle with beating hoof,

And flashed their blades on high as proof

Of the hate they had; nor ceased to moan

Like men long dead 'neath the charnel-stone,

Give us the daughter of Abramo."

The dawn was groping up the sky,

An early bird was heard to cry;

Forth from the gate with haunted eyes

Four figures crept in leper's guise,

And two had long and yellow hair

And none had face or body bare.

Swiftly they ran from tree to tree

And wound their way all secretly

Through gloom and grove to the rising sun,

And through that day did onward run

Till evening came, and they drew at length

To the lonely might and granite strength

Of the hill-tower in the narrow pass

Where refuge and a safety was.

Then did they lock and bar the door

And armed themselves, for they knew before

Another moon should flood the sky

They would hear Count Ugo's hunting cry,

Yield to us, daughter of Abramo."

Two frail maids, two boyish men,

Lovers all in the good days when

Only the sun was in the sky

Nor clouds of grief came trailing by;

Two brave maids and two brave men

Now, in an hour of darkness, when

Only the clouds were in the sky

Loved more dearly than formerly.

Corrado, page of Bianca's court,

Had loved his mistress and long had sought

To speak his heart but feared, for he

Was a love-child owned of no family.

Celia was her half-sister,

Wondrous sweet and like to her,

So like that she had fled lest she

For Bianca's self should mistaken be.

Ciro, son of a noble name,

Loved this girl, therefore he came

To give his life, if need should be,

He loved her life so utterly.

Oft in the hush of a summer's night

When earth has rest from the savage might

Of flaming suns, and starlight sheds

Kindness of dew on flowers' heads,

And birds have got them away to rest,

These lads had whispered breast to breast

Of the joy they felt and happy thrills

When they heard so much as the shaken frills

Of these they loved in the passing by;

And then, betwixt a sob and sigh,

Had dreamed of a day when they should wed.

Vain dream! Vain dream! now here, instead,

With Bianca fled to the hill-side tower

They should strain and hearken hour by hour,

With clutching hands and bated breath,

For man's last bride--the Woman, Death.

And thus they sat a lengthy while

Till one face lit with a wandering smile:

Come now, my lords," Bianca said,

Why sit ye heavy-eyed and sad?

Men say ye each have loved a maid;

Surely, I think, I should be glad

To draw so near for an hour or two

The maid I loved, though well I knew

The early mom should find me dead."

Then he who loved her, laughed and said,

Yea, lady mine, I will be bold

Too long my love hath lain untold;

Yet mine was not an unshared sorrow

But grief for thine and thy sad to-morrow

If my lord, thy father, fail to send

His cavalry."

'God will defend

His maid," she said, "God will provide.

But, if to Rimini I ride,

I shall be glad recalling this,

That thou did'st not withhold thy kiss

When all my loves had forsaken me."

Aye love, brief love, sweet love," sighed he,

Thou art more than life--far more, far more."

So through that night, by the fast-locked door,

They spake of lové till they drooped to sleep,

Nor heard at dawn the wary creep

Of one who traced the outer-wall,

And found the marks of their foot-fall.

When mists were lifting off the sky

They sprang from dreams at a sudden cry,

And gazed with startled eyes around:

"'Tis naught," they laughed, "'twas a country

sound--

A late-awakened bird did call,

A wind blew through the water-fall.

'Tis naught--'tis naught."

But afar they heard

A wail not made by beast or bird;

A hungry moan, long-drawn and low,

"Give us the daughter of Abramo."

She stretched her arms along the wall

And leant aside as she would fall,

And cowered low 'neath her yellow hair

As though its weight were too much to bear.

And, "Oh, sweet God, dear God," she cried,

Hark how they come! They ride, they ride!

What ill have I ever done to Thee

That men should bum my fair body?

Stoop from Thy skies and succour me."

"Yea, God hath stooped. Fear not, dear heart,

For I and Ciro will play God's part,

And Celia sweet shall comfort thee

While we brand these dogs of Rimini."

With hurried feet they clomb the stair

And quickly gained the outer air,

And ghostly saw through the morning haze

The winding funeral arrays

Of Ugo's knights and warrior-men.

Dumbly they watched, and heard often

Their hunting cry borne down the breeze.

Corrado laughed with an ugly ease,

And thus it is he comes with these:

Strong stallions, lances, Genoese--

To take one slim and fragrant girl!

Oh, Ciro mine, our hands shall hurl

These valiant fighters from the wall,

Though we be lads and they be tall.

If God there be above us all,

Then love shall give us strength this day."

Down on the stones they kneeled to pray

That He who brought their lives to be

Should crown their loves with victory.

They rose and flew their heraldry:

An evening star, a saffron sea,

And on the sea, the star below,

The dry-shod pard of Reggio.

No answer made the sable foe,

But round the tower, with footsteps slow,

Paced till his journeys numbered three;

Then from the host one silently,

Thrust on a spear for mockery,

And raised the head of Abramo.

Swift round the tower in mirthless rout

They raced and tossed the words about,

_"Bianca of the yellow hair,

With witch-face white as ivory,

Yield to our might that we may bear

Thy body back to Rimini,_"

'Twas thus the foemen cried all day

And strove to daunt with fierce display

Of armoured strength her maiden heart,

So that with them she might depart

To shameful death in Rimini.

Bianca, in the vault below,

Crouched at her prayers and did not know

This death, and of her father's shame;

But heard their shouts and heard her name.

Oh, little hands," she softly sighed,

Wherefore should ye be crucified,

What have ye done that men should see

Naught in your grace, save witchery?

Oh, yellow hair, so like the sun,

What is this sin that thou hast done

That men should have such hate of thee?

And sweet grave face of ivory,

So made for love and for desire,

Why should they crave thee for the fire?

Fire of love was meant for thee."

Her sister bent and kissed the hands

Which hung straight down like two white wands,

And hid her lips in a yellow tress,

And kissed the breasts where they met the dress,

And laid her cheek on the weary face

To wipe away each tear's distress,

To cleanse of grief each grievous place.

And this for thee," she said and kissed.

And this for thee," and held each wrist.

And this for thee," and met the lips.

As priest in sacred water dips

His hand at last confessional

To purge each thoroughfare of sense

And bring again lost innocence,

So she made pure and perfect all.

Shrill through their peace shrieked the battle-

call,

Per Jesum Christum! Reggio!

Have at them Death! They fall, they fall!"

And hoarse, hard-breathed, the wall below,

Surged up the wrath of the hungry foe,

Give USs the daughter of Abramo."

Fierce through that day the struggle went,

And blood was spilt and swords were bent.

The sun sank bloody in the West;

The day died bitter and unblest.

The mountains strained against the sky

And angrily, as they would try

To wrench from earth their trampled gowns.

An eagle o'er the upland downs

Hung poised, then beat his wings, as he

Refused to share man's cruelty.

At nightfall, when the host withdrew,

A spearman, whom they counted dead,

In dying strength raised up his head

And sped a poisoned dart, which slew

Ciro, who from the tower's height

Leaned out to watch the evening light.

And thus of four there remained but three.

Celia clomb the winding stair

And thought of how her yellow hair

Could save the three, if she should dare

To yield herself to Rimini.

For I am very like to her,"

She said, "so like that if I were

To feign myself for my sister

By night--this night if I should go,

I think the Count would never know

Till they were safe and I was burned."

The last bend in the stair she turned

And halted as she gained the roof,

And stretched her gaze abroad for proof

Of where her lover might keep guard.

There, where a shafted moonbeam barred

An alcove of gray masonry,

His face shone out, so tranquilly

She thought him sleeping; but his eyes

Were wide, intent on her and wise

Beyond the sight of living men.

Softly she called to him and, when

He answered not, 'twas then she knew. . .

She kissed his forehead, and withdrew

Her tired feet adown the stair.

Bianca kneeled entranced in prayer

And noticed not her passing by,

But counted fast her rosaRy.

Corrado, touched upon the arm,

Reeled as he turned in fierce alarm.

She said, "We change the watch this hour.

I will abide; guard you the tower."

Then, as he set his foot to go,

Kiss me, dear friend, for you must know

We may not ever meet again,

This war has brought us so much pain."

He gazed on her a tender while,

And wondered at the gracious smile

Around her lips. "While we are four,"

He said, "we need not fear this war;

Love is more than life ... far more, far more."

She answered, "Not while we are four."

Ah, have no fear at all," he said;

"She prays for us, see how her head

Is bowed in reverence to God."

He took his sword and clanking trod

The stone-paved vault and winding stair,