Part 2
Lo, earth that bows before the wind, With wild green children overgrown, And all her bosoms, many-whinned, Receive me as their own.
The birds are hushed and fled: the cows Have ceased at last to make long moan. They only think to browse and browse Until the night is grown.
The wind is stiller than it was, And dumbness holds the closing day. The earth says not a word, because It has no word to say.
The dear soft grasses under foot Are silent to the listening ear. Yet beauty never can be mute, And some will always hear.
_18 September 1913_
X
RICHARD JEFFERIES
(LIDDINGTON CASTLE)
I see the vision of the Vale Rise teeming to the rampart Down, The fields and, far below, the pale Red-roofédness of Swindon town.
But though I see all things remote, I cannot see them with the eyes With which ere now the man from Coate Looked down and wondered and was wise.
He knew the healing balm of night, The strong and sweeping joy of day, The sensible and dear delight Of life, the pity of decay.
And many wondrous words he wrote, And something good to man he showed, About the entering in of Coate, There, on the dusty Swindon road.
_19 September 1913_
XI
J. B.
There’s still a horse on Granham hill, And still the Kennet moves, and still Four Miler sways and is not still. But where is her interpreter?
The downs are blown into dismay, The stunted trees seem all astray, Looking for someone clad in grey And carrying a golf-club thing;
Who, them when he had lived among, Gave them what they desired, a tongue. Their words he gave them to be sung Perhaps were few, but they were true.
The trees, the downs, on either hand, Still stand, as he said they would stand. But look, the rain in all the land Makes all things dim with tears of him.
And recently the Kennet croons, And winds are playing widowed tunes. --He has not left our “toun o’ touns,” But taken it away with him!
_October 1913_
XII
THE OTHER WISE MAN
(SCENE: _A valley with a wood on one side and a road running up to a distant hill: as it might be, the valley to the east of West Woods, that runs up to Oare Hill, only much larger._ TIME: _Autumn. Four wise men are marching hillward along the road._)
ONE WISE MAN
I wonder where the valley ends? On, comrades, on.
ANOTHER WISE MAN
The rain-red road, Still shining sinuously, bends Leagues upwards.
A THIRD WISE MAN
To the hill, O friends, To seek the star that once has glowed Before us; turning not to right Nor left, nor backward once looking. Till we have clomb--and with the night We see the King.
ALL THE WISE MEN
The King! The King!
THE THIRD WISE MAN
Long is the road but--
A FOURTH WISE MAN
Brother, see, There, to the left, a very aisle Composed of every sort of tree--
THE FIRST WISE MAN
Still onward--
THE FOURTH WISE MAN
Oak and beech and birch, Like a church, but homelier than church, The black trunks for its walls of tile; Its roof, old leaves; its floor, beech nuts; The squirrels its congregation--
THE SECOND WISE MAN
Tuts! For still we journey--
THE FOURTH WISE MAN
But the sun weaves A water-web across the grass, Binding their tops. You must not pass The water cobweb.
THE THIRD WISE MAN
Hush! I say. Onward and upward till the day--
THE FOURTH WISE MAN
Brother, that tree has crimson leaves. You’ll never see its like again. Don’t miss it. Look, it’s bright with rain--
THE FIRST WISE MAN
O prating tongue. On, on.
THE FOURTH WISE MAN
And there A toad-stool, nay, a goblin stool. No toad sat on a thing so fair. Wait, while I pluck--and there’s--and here’s A whole ring ... what?... berries?
(_The Fourth Wise Man drops behind, botanizing._)
THE WISEST OF THE REMAINING THREE WISE MEN
O fool! Fool, fallen in this vale of tears His hand had touched the plough: his eyes Looked back: no more with us, his peers, He’ll climb the hill and front the skies And see the Star, the King, the Prize. But we, the seekers, we who see Beyond the mists of transiency-- Our feet down in the valley still Are set, our eyes are on the hill. Last night the star of God has shone, And so we journey, up and on, With courage clad, with swiftness shod, All thoughts of earth behind us cast, Until we see the lights of God, --And what will be the crown at last?
ALL THREE WISE MEN
On, on.
(_They pass on: it is already evening when the Other Wise Man limps along the road, still botanizing._)
THE OTHER WISE MAN
A vale of tears, they said! A valley made of woes and fears, To be passed by with muffled head Quickly. I have not seen the tears, Unless they take the rain for tears, And certainly the place is wet. Rain laden leaves are ever licking Your cheeks and hands ... I can’t get on. There’s a toad-stool that wants picking. There, just there, a little up, What strange things to look upon With pink hood and orange cup! And there are acorns, yellow--green ... They said the King was at the end. They must have been Wrong. For here, here, I intend To search for him, for surely here Are all the wares of the old year, And all the beauty and bright prize, And all God’s colours meetly showed, Green for the grass, blue for the skies, Red for the rain upon the road; And anything you like for trees, But chiefly yellow brown and gold, Because the year is growing old And loves to paint her children these. I tried to follow ... but, what do you think? The mushrooms here are pink! And there’s old clover with black polls Black-headed clover, black as coals, And toad-stools, sleek as ink! And there are such heaps of little turns Off the road, wet with old rain: Each little vegetable lane Of moss and old decaying ferns, Beautiful in decay, Snatching a beauty from whatever may Be their lot, dark-red and luscious: till there pass’d Over the many-coloured earth a grey Film. It was evening coming down at last. And all things hid their faces, covering up Their peak or hood or bonnet or bright cup In greyness, and the beauty faded fast, With all the many-coloured coat of day. Then I looked up, and lo! the sunset sky Had taken the beauty from the autumn earth. Such colour, O such colour, could not die. The trees stood black against such revelry Of lemon-gold and purple and crimson dye. And even as the trees, so I Stood still and worshipped, though by evening’s birth I should have capped the hills and seen the King. The King? The King? I must be miles away from my journey’s end; The others must be now nearing The summit, glad. By now they wend Their way far, far, ahead, no doubt. I wonder if they’ve reached the end. If they have, I have not heard them shout.
_1 December 1913_
XIII
THE SONG OF THE UNGIRT RUNNERS
We swing ungirded hips, And lightened are our eyes, The rain is on our lips, We do not run for prize. We know not whom we trust Nor whitherward we fare, But we run because we must Through the great wide air.
The waters of the seas Are troubled as by storm. The tempest strips the trees And does not leave them warm. Does the tearing tempest pause? Do the tree-tops ask it why? So we run without a cause ’Neath the big bare sky.
The rain is on our lips, We do not run for prize. But the storm the water whips And the wave howls to the skies. The winds arise and strike it And scatter it like sand, And we run because we like it Through the broad bright land.
XIV
GERMAN RAIN
The heat came down and sapped away my powers. The laden heat came down and drowned my brain, Till through the weight of overcoming hours I felt the rain.
Then suddenly I saw what more to see I never thought: old things renewed, retrieved. The rain that fell in England fell on me, And I believed.
XV
WHOM THEREFORE WE IGNORANTLY WORSHIP
These things are silent. Though it may be told Of luminous deeds that lighten land and sea, Strong sounding actions with broad minstrelsy Of praise, strange hazards and adventures bold, We hold to the old things that grow not old: Blind, patient, hungry, hopeless (without fee Of all our hunger and unhope are we), To the first ultimate instinct, to God we hold.
They flicker, glitter, flicker. But we bide, We, the blind weavers of an intense fate, Asking but this--that we may be denied: Desiring only desire insatiate, Unheard, unnamed, unnoticed, crucified To our unutterable faith, we wait.
XVI
TO POETS
We are the homeless, even as you, Who hope and never can begin. Our hearts are wounded through and through Like yours, but our hearts bleed within. We too make music, but our tones ’Scape not the barrier of our bones.
We have no comeliness like you. We toil, unlovely, and we spin. We start, return: we wind, undo: We hope, we err, we strive, we sin, We love: your love’s not greater, but The lips of our love’s might stay shut.
We have the evil spirits too That shake our soul with battle-din. But we have an eviller spirit than you We have a dumb spirit within: The exceeding bitter agony But not the exceeding bitter cry.
XVII
A hundred thousand million mites we go Wheeling and tacking o’er the eternal plain, Some black with death--and some are white with woe. Who sent us forth? Who takes us home again?
And there is sound of hymns of praise--to whom? And curses--on whom curses?--snap the air. And there is hope goes hand in hand with gloom. And blood and indignation and despair.
And there is murmuring of the multitude And blindness and great blindness, until some Step forth and challenge blind Vicissitude Who tramples on them: so that fewer come.
And nations, ankle-deep in love or hate, Throw darts or kisses all the unwitting hour Beside the ominous unseen tide of fate; And there is emptiness and drink and power.
And some are mounted on swift steeds of thought And some drag sluggish feet of stable toil. Yet all, as though they furiously sought, Twist turn and tussle, close and cling and coil.
A hundred thousand million mites we sway Writhing and tossing on the eternal plain, Some black with death--but most are bright with Day! Who sent us forth? Who brings us home again?
XVIII
DEUS LOQUITUR
That’s what I am: a thing of no desire, With no path to discover and no plea To offer up, so be my altar fire May burn before the hearth continuously, To be For wayward men a steadfast light to see.
They know me in the morning of their days, But ere noontide forsake me, to discern New lore and hear new riddles. But moonrays Bring them back footsore, humble, bent, a-burn To turn And warm them by my fire which they did spurn.
They flock together like tired birds. “We sought Full many stars in many skies to see. But ever knowledge disappointment brought. Thy light alone, Lord, burneth steadfastly.” Ah me! Then it is I who fain would wayward be.
XIX
TWO SONGS FROM IBSEN’S DRAMATIC POEMS
I BRAND
Thou trod’st the shifting sand path where man’s race is. The print of thy soft sandals is still clear. I too have trodden it those prints a-near, But the sea washes out my tired foot-traces. And all that thou hast healed and holpen here I yearned to heal and help and wipe the tear Away. But still I trod unpeopled spaces. I had no twelve to follow my pure paces. For I had thy misgivings and thy fear, Thy crown of scorn, thy suffering’s sharp spear, Thy hopes, thy longings--only not thy dear Love (for my crying love would no man hear), Thy will to love, but not thy love’s sweet graces, That deep firm foothold which no sea erases. I think that thou wast I in bygone places In an intense eliminated year. Now born again in days that are more drear I wander unfulfilled: and see strange faces.
II PEER GYNT
When he was young and beautiful and bold We hated him, for he was very strong. But when he came back home again, quite old, And wounded too, we could not hate him long.
For kingliness and conquest pranced he forth Like some high-stepping charger bright with foam. And south he strode and east and west and north With need of crowns and never need of home.
Enraged we heard high tidings of his strength And cursed his long forgetfulness. We swore That should he come back home some eve at length. We would deny him, we would bar the door!
And then he came. The sound of those tired feet! And all our home and all our hearts are his, Where bitterness, grown weary, turns to sweet, And envy, purged by longing, pity is.
And pillows rest beneath the withering cheek, And hands are laid the battered brows above, And he whom we had hated, waxen weak, First in his weakness learns a little love.
XX
If I have suffered pain It is because I would. I willed it. ’Tis no good To murmur or complain. I have not served the law That keeps the earth so fair And gives her clothes to wear Raiment of joy and awe.
For all that bow to bless That law shall sure abide. But man shall not abide, And hence his gloriousness. Lo, evening earth doth lie All-beauteous and all peace. Man only does not cease From striving and from cry.
Sun sets in peace: and soon The moon will shower her peace. O law-abiding moon, You hold your peace in fee! Man, leastways, will not be Down-bounden to these laws. Man’s spirit sees no cause To serve such laws as these.
There yet are many seas For man to wander in. He yet must find out sin, If aught of pleasance there Remain for him to store, His rovings to increase, In quest of many a shore Forbidden still to fare.
Peace sleeps the earth upon, And sweet peace on the hill. The waves that whimper still At their long law-serving (O flowing sad complaint!) Come on and are back drawn. Man only owns no king, Man only is not faint.
You see, the earth is bound. You see, the man is free. For glorious liberty He suffers and would die. Grudge not then suffering Or chastisemental cry. O let his pain abound, Earth’s truant and earth’s king!
XXI
TO GERMANY
You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other’s dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.
When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other’s truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We’ll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain.
XXII
All the hills and vales along Earth is bursting into song, And the singers are the chaps Who are going to die perhaps. O sing, marching men, Till the valleys ring again. Give your gladness to earth’s keeping, So be glad, when you are sleeping.
Cast away regret and rue, Think what you are marching to. Little live, great pass. Jesus Christ and Barabbas Were found the same day. This died, that went his way. So sing with joyful breath. For why, you are going to death. Teeming earth will surely store All the gladness that you pour.
Earth that never doubts nor fears, Earth that knows of death, not tears, Earth that bore with joyful ease Hemlock for Socrates, Earth that blossomed and was glad ’Neath the cross that Christ had, Shall rejoice and blossom too When the bullet reaches you. Wherefore, men marching On the road to death, sing! Pour your gladness on earth’s head, So be merry, so be dead.
From the hills and valleys earth Shouts back the sound of mirth, Tramp of feet and lilt of song Ringing all the road along. All the music of their going, Ringing swinging glad song-throwing, Earth will echo still, when foot Lies numb and voice mute. On, marching men, on To the gates of death with song, Sow your gladness for earth’s reaping, So you may be glad, though sleeping, Strew your gladness on earth’s bed, So be merry, so be dead.
XXIII
LE REVENANT
He trod the oft-remembered lane (Now smaller-seeming than before When first he left his father’s door For newer things), but still quite plain
(Though half-benighted now) upstood Old landmarks, ghosts across the lane That brought the Bygone back again: Shorn haystacks and the rooky wood; The guide post, too, which once he clomb To read the figures: fourteen miles To Swindon, four to Clinton Stiles, And only half a mile to home:
And far away the one homestead, where-- Behind the day now not quite set So that he saw in silhouette Its chimneys still stand black and bare--
He noticed that the trees were not So big as when he journeyed last That way. For greatly now he passed Striding above the hedges, hot
With hopings, as he passed by where A lamp before him glanced and stayed Across his path, so that his shade Seemed like a giant’s moving there.
The dullness of the sunken sun He marked not, nor how dark it grew, Nor that strange flapping bird that flew Above: he thought but of the One....
He topped the crest and crossed the fence, Noticed the garden that it grew As erst, noticed the hen-house too (The kennel had been altered since).
It seemed so unchanged and so still. (Could it but be the past arisen For one short night from out of prison?) He reached the big-bowed window-sill,
Lifted the window sash with care, Then, gaily throwing aside the blind, Shouted. It was a shock to find That he was not remembered there.
At once he felt not all his pain, But murmuringly apologised, Turned, once more sought the undersized Blown trees, and the long lanky lane,
Wondering and pondering on, past where A lamp before him glanced and stayed Across his path, so that his shade Seemed like a giant’s moving there.
XXIV
LOST
Across my past imaginings Has dropped a blindness silent and slow. My eye is bent on other things Than those it once did see and know.
I may not think on those dear lands (O far away and long ago!) Where the old battered signpost stands And silently the four roads go
East, west, south and north, And the cold winter winds do blow. And what the evening will bring forth Is not for me nor you to know.
XXV
EXPECTANS EXPECTAVI
From morn to midnight, all day through, I laugh and play as others do, I sin and chatter, just the same As others with a different name.
And all year long upon the stage I dance and tumble and do rage So vehemently, I scarcely see The inner and eternal me.
I have a temple I do not Visit, a heart I have forgot, A self that I have never met, A secret shrine--and yet, and yet This sanctuary of my soul Unwitting I keep white and whole Unlatched and lit, if Thou should’st care To enter or to tarry there.
With parted lips and outstretched hands And listening ears Thy servant stands, Call Thou early, call Thou late, To Thy great service dedicate.
_May 1915_
XXVI
TWO SONNETS
I
Saints have adored the lofty soul of you. Poets have whitened at your high renown. We stand among the many millions who Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down. You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried To live as of your presence unaware. But now in every road on every side We see your straight and steadfast signpost there.
I think it like that signpost in my land Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go Upward, into the hills, on the right hand, Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, A homeless land and friendless, but a land I did not know and that I wished to know.
II
Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, A merciful putting away of what has been.
And this we know: Death is not Life effete, Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen So marvellous things know well the end not yet.
Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say “Come, what was your record when you drew breath?” But a big blot has hid each yesterday So poor, so manifestly incomplete. And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.
_12 June 1915_
XXVII
When you see millions of the mouthless dead Across your dreams in pale battalions go, Say not soft things as other men have said, That you’ll remember. For you need not so. Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow. Nor honour. It is easy to be dead. Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto, “Yet many a better one has died before.” Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should you Perceive one face that you loved heretofore, It is a spook. None wears the face you knew. Great death has made all his for evermore.
XXVIII
There is such change in all those fields, Such motion rhythmic, ordered, free, Where ever-glancing summer yields Birth, fragrance, sunlight, immanency, To make us view our rights of birth. What shall we do? How shall we die? We, captives of a roaming earth, Mid shades that life and light deny. Blank summer’s surfeit heaves in mist; Dumb earth basks dewy-washed; while still We whom Intelligence has kissed Do make us shackles of our will. And yet I know in each loud brain, Round-clamped with laws and learning so, Is madness more and lust of strain Than earth’s jerked godlings e’er can know.
The false Delilah of our brain Has set us round the millstone going. O lust of roving! lust of pain! Our hair will not be long in growing. Like blinded Samson round we go. We hear the grindstone groan and cry. Yet we are kings, we know, we know. What shall we do? How shall we die?