Chapter 2

I take my holiday then and my rest Away from the dun life here about me, Old hours re-greeting With the quiet sense that bring they must Such throbs as at first, till I house with dust, And in the numbness my heartsome zest For things that were, be past repeating When spring comes round.

TO THE MOON

“WHAT have you looked at, Moon, In your time, Now long past your prime?” “O, I have looked at, often looked at Sweet, sublime, Sore things, shudderful, night and noon In my time.”

“What have you mused on, Moon, In your day, So aloof, so far away?” “O, I have mused on, often mused on Growth, decay, Nations alive, dead, mad, aswoon, In my day!”

“Have you much wondered, Moon, On your rounds, Self-wrapt, beyond Earth’s bounds?” “Yea, I have wondered, often wondered At the sounds Reaching me of the human tune On my rounds.”

“What do you think of it, Moon, As you go? Is Life much, or no?” “O, I think of it, often think of it As a show God ought surely to shut up soon, As I go.”

COPYING ARCHITECTURE IN AN OLD MINSTER (_Wimborne_)

HOW smartly the quarters of the hour march by That the jack-o’-clock never forgets; Ding-dong; and before I have traced a cusp’s eye, Or got the true twist of the ogee over, A double ding-dong ricochetts.

Just so did he clang here before I came, And so will he clang when I’m gone Through the Minster’s cavernous hollows—the same Tale of hours never more to be will he deliver To the speechless midnight and dawn!

I grow to conceive it a call to ghosts, Whose mould lies below and around. Yes; the next “Come, come,” draws them out from their posts, And they gather, and one shade appears, and another, As the eve-damps creep from the ground.

See—a Courtenay stands by his quatre-foiled tomb, And a Duke and his Duchess near; And one Sir Edmund in columned gloom, And a Saxon king by the presbytery chamber; And shapes unknown in the rear.

Maybe they have met for a parle on some plan To better ail-stricken mankind; I catch their cheepings, though thinner than The overhead creak of a passager’s pinion When leaving land behind.

Or perhaps they speak to the yet unborn, And caution them not to come To a world so ancient and trouble-torn, Of foiled intents, vain lovingkindness, And ardours chilled and numb.

They waste to fog as I stir and stand, And move from the arched recess, And pick up the drawing that slipped from my hand, And feel for the pencil I dropped in the cranny In a moment’s forgetfulness.

TO SHAKESPEARE AFTER THREE HUNDRED YEARS

BRIGHT baffling Soul, least capturable of themes, Thou, who display’dst a life of common-place, Leaving no intimate word or personal trace Of high design outside the artistry Of thy penned dreams, Still shalt remain at heart unread eternally.

Through human orbits thy discourse to-day, Despite thy formal pilgrimage, throbs on In harmonies that cow Oblivion, And, like the wind, with all-uncared effect Maintain a sway Not fore-desired, in tracks unchosen and unchecked.

And yet, at thy last breath, with mindless note The borough clocks but samely tongued the hour, The Avon just as always glassed the tower, Thy age was published on thy passing-bell But in due rote With other dwellers’ deaths accorded a like knell.

And at the strokes some townsman (met, maybe, And thereon queried by some squire’s good dame Driving in shopward) may have given thy name, With, “Yes, a worthy man and well-to-do; Though, as for me, I knew him but by just a neighbour’s nod, ’tis true.

“I’ faith, few knew him much here, save by word, He having elsewhere led his busier life; Though to be sure he left with us his wife.” —“Ah, one of the tradesmen’s sons, I now recall . . . Witty, I’ve heard . . . We did not know him . . . Well, good-day. Death comes to all.”

So, like a strange bright bird we sometimes find To mingle with the barn-door brood awhile, Then vanish from their homely domicile— Into man’s poesy, we wot not whence, Flew thy strange mind, Lodged there a radiant guest, and sped for ever thence.

1916.

QUID HIC AGIS?

I

WHEN I weekly knew An ancient pew, And murmured there The forms of prayer And thanks and praise In the ancient ways, And heard read out During August drought That chapter from Kings Harvest-time brings; —How the prophet, broken By griefs unspoken, Went heavily away To fast and to pray, And, while waiting to die, The Lord passed by, And a whirlwind and fire Drew nigher and nigher, And a small voice anon Bade him up and be gone,— I did not apprehend As I sat to the end And watched for her smile Across the sunned aisle, That this tale of a seer Which came once a year Might, when sands were heaping, Be like a sweat creeping, Or in any degree Bear on her or on me!

II

When later, by chance Of circumstance, It befel me to read On a hot afternoon At the lectern there The selfsame words As the lesson decreed, To the gathered few From the hamlets near— Folk of flocks and herds Sitting half aswoon, Who listened thereto As women and men Not overmuch Concerned at such— So, like them then, I did not see What drought might be With me, with her, As the Kalendar Moved on, and Time Devoured our prime.

III

But now, at last, When our glory has passed, And there is no smile From her in the aisle, But where it once shone A marble, men say, With her name thereon Is discerned to-day; And spiritless In the wilderness I shrink from sight And desire the night, (Though, as in old wise, I might still arise, Go forth, and stand And prophesy in the land), I feel the shake Of wind and earthquake, And consuming fire Nigher and nigher, And the voice catch clear, “What doest thou here?”

_The Spectator_ 1916. During the War.

ON A MIDSUMMER EVE

I IDLY cut a parsley stalk, And blew therein towards the moon; I had not thought what ghosts would walk With shivering footsteps to my tune.

I went, and knelt, and scooped my hand As if to drink, into the brook, And a faint figure seemed to stand Above me, with the bygone look.

I lipped rough rhymes of chance, not choice, I thought not what my words might be; There came into my ear a voice That turned a tenderer verse for me.

TIMING HER (_Written to an old folk-tune_)

LALAGE’S coming: Where is she now, O? Turning to bow, O, And smile, is she, Just at parting, Parting, parting, As she is starting To come to me?

Where is she now, O, Now, and now, O, Shadowing a bough, O, Of hedge or tree As she is rushing, Rushing, rushing, Gossamers brushing To come to me?

Lalage’s coming; Where is she now, O; Climbing the brow, O, Of hills I see? Yes, she is nearing, Nearing, nearing, Weather unfearing To come to me.

Near is she now, O, Now, and now, O; Milk the rich cow, O, Forward the tea; Shake the down bed for her, Linen sheets spread for her, Drape round the head for her Coming to me.

Lalage’s coming, She’s nearer now, O, End anyhow, O, To-day’s husbandry! Would a gilt chair were mine, Slippers of vair were mine, Brushes for hair were mine Of ivory!

What will she think, O, She who’s so comely, Viewing how homely A sort are we! Nothing resplendent, No prompt attendant, Not one dependent Pertaining to me!

Lalage’s coming; Where is she now, O? Fain I’d avow, O, Full honestly Nought here’s enough for her, All is too rough for her, Even my love for her Poor in degree.

She’s nearer now, O, Still nearer now, O, She ’tis, I vow, O, Passing the lea. Rush down to meet her there, Call out and greet her there, Never a sweeter there Crossed to me!

Lalage’s come; aye, Come is she now, O! . . . Does Heaven allow, O, A meeting to be? Yes, she is here now, Here now, here now, Nothing to fear now, Here’s Lalage!

BEFORE KNOWLEDGE

WHEN I walked roseless tracks and wide, Ere dawned your date for meeting me, O why did you not cry Halloo Across the stretch between, and say:

“We move, while years as yet divide, On closing lines which—though it be You know me not nor I know you— Will intersect and join some day!”

Then well I had borne Each scraping thorn; But the winters froze, And grew no rose; No bridge bestrode The gap at all; No shape you showed, And I heard no call!

THE BLINDED BIRD

SO zestfully canst thou sing? And all this indignity, With God’s consent, on thee! Blinded ere yet a-wing By the red-hot needle thou, I stand and wonder how So zestfully thou canst sing!

Resenting not such wrong, Thy grievous pain forgot, Eternal dark thy lot, Groping thy whole life long; After that stab of fire; Enjailed in pitiless wire; Resenting not such wrong!

Who hath charity? This bird. Who suffereth long and is kind, Is not provoked, though blind And alive ensepulchred? Who hopeth, endureth all things? Who thinketh no evil, but sings? Who is divine? This bird.

“THE WIND BLEW WORDS”

THE wind blew words along the skies, And these it blew to me Through the wide dusk: “Lift up your eyes, Behold this troubled tree, Complaining as it sways and plies; It is a limb of thee.

“Yea, too, the creatures sheltering round— Dumb figures, wild and tame, Yea, too, thy fellows who abound— Either of speech the same Or far and strange—black, dwarfed, and browned, They are stuff of thy own frame.”

I moved on in a surging awe Of inarticulateness At the pathetic Me I saw In all his huge distress, Making self-slaughter of the law To kill, break, or suppress.

THE FADED FACE

HOW was this I did not see Such a look as here was shown Ere its womanhood had blown Past its first felicity?— That I did not know you young, Faded Face, Know you young!

Why did Time so ill bestead That I heard no voice of yours Hail from out the curved contours Of those lips when rosy red; Weeted not the songs they sung, Faded Face, Songs they sung!

By these blanchings, blooms of old, And the relics of your voice— Leavings rare of rich and choice From your early tone and mould— Let me mourn,—aye, sorrow-wrung, Faded Face, Sorrow-wrung!

THE RIDDLE

I

STRETCHING eyes west Over the sea, Wind foul or fair, Always stood she Prospect-impressed; Solely out there Did her gaze rest, Never elsewhere Seemed charm to be.

II

Always eyes east Ponders she now— As in devotion— Hills of blank brow Where no waves plough. Never the least Room for emotion Drawn from the ocean Does she allow.

THE DUEL

“I AM here to time, you see; The glade is well-screened—eh?—against alarm; Fit place to vindicate by my arm The honour of my spotless wife, Who scorns your libel upon her life In boasting intimacy!

“‘All hush-offerings you’ll spurn, My husband. Two must come; one only go,’ She said. ‘That he’ll be you I know; To faith like ours Heaven will be just, And I shall abide in fullest trust Your speedy glad return.’”

“Good. Here am also I; And we’ll proceed without more waste of words To warm your cockpit. Of the swords Take you your choice. I shall thereby Feel that on me no blame can lie, Whatever Fate accords.”

So stripped they there, and fought, And the swords clicked and scraped, and the onsets sped; Till the husband fell; and his shirt was red With streams from his heart’s hot cistern. Nought Could save him now; and the other, wrought Maybe to pity, said:

“Why did you urge on this? Your wife assured you; and ’t had better been That you had let things pass, serene In confidence of long-tried bliss, Holding there could be nought amiss In what my words might mean.”

Then, seeing nor ruth nor rage Could move his foeman more—now Death’s deaf thrall— He wiped his steel, and, with a call Like turtledove to dove, swift broke Into the copse, where under an oak His horse cropt, held by a page.

“All’s over, Sweet,” he cried To the wife, thus guised; for the young page was she. “’Tis as we hoped and said ’t would be. He never guessed . . . We mount and ride To where our love can reign uneyed. He’s clay, and we are free.”

AT MAYFAIR LODGINGS

HOW could I be aware, The opposite window eyeing As I lay listless there, That through its blinds was dying One I had rated rare Before I had set me sighing For another more fair?

Had the house-front been glass, My vision unobscuring, Could aught have come to pass More happiness-insuring To her, loved as a lass When spouseless, all-alluring? I reckon not, alas!

So, the square window stood, Steadily night-long shining In my close neighbourhood, Who looked forth undivining That soon would go for good One there in pain reclining, Unpardoned, unadieu’d.

Silently screened from view Her tragedy was ending That need not have come due Had she been less unbending. How near, near were we two At that last vital rending,— And neither of us knew!

TO MY FATHER’S VIOLIN

DOES he want you down there In the Nether Glooms where The hours may be a dragging load upon him, As he hears the axle grind Round and round Of the great world, in the blind Still profound Of the night-time? He might liven at the sound Of your string, revealing you had not forgone him.

In the gallery west the nave, But a few yards from his grave, Did you, tucked beneath his chin, to his bowing Guide the homely harmony Of the quire Who for long years strenuously— Son and sire— Caught the strains that at his fingering low or higher From your four thin threads and eff-holes came outflowing.

And, too, what merry tunes He would bow at nights or noons That chanced to find him bent to lute a measure, When he made you speak his heart As in dream, Without book or music-chart, On some theme Elusive as a jack-o’-lanthorn’s gleam, And the psalm of duty shelved for trill of pleasure.

Well, you can not, alas, The barrier overpass That screens him in those Mournful Meads hereunder, Where no fiddling can be heard In the glades Of silentness, no bird Thrills the shades; Where no viol is touched for songs or serenades, No bowing wakes a congregation’s wonder.

He must do without you now, Stir you no more anyhow To yearning concords taught you in your glory; While, your strings a tangled wreck, Once smart drawn, Ten worm-wounds in your neck, Purflings wan With dust-hoar, here alone I sadly con Your present dumbness, shape your olden story.

1916.

THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

THIS statue of Liberty, busy man, Here erect in the city square, I have watched while your scrubbings, this early morning, Strangely wistful, And half tristful, Have turned her from foul to fair;

With your bucket of water, and mop, and brush, Bringing her out of the grime That has smeared her during the smokes of winter With such glumness In her dumbness, And aged her before her time.

You have washed her down with motherly care— Head, shoulders, arm, and foot, To the very hem of the robes that drape her— All expertly And alertly, Till a long stream, black with soot,

Flows over the pavement to the road, And her shape looms pure as snow: I read you are hired by the City guardians— May be yearly, Or once merely— To treat the statues so?

“Oh, I’m not hired by the Councilmen To cleanse the statues here. I do this one as a self-willed duty, Not as paid to, Or at all made to, But because the doing is dear.”

Ah, then I hail you brother and friend! Liberty’s knight divine. What you have done would have been my doing, Yea, most verily, Well, and thoroughly, Had but your courage been mine!

“Oh I care not for Liberty’s mould, Liberty charms not me; What’s Freedom but an idler’s vision, Vain, pernicious, Often vicious, Of things that cannot be!

“Memory it is that brings me to this— Of a daughter—my one sweet own. She grew a famous carver’s model, One of the fairest And of the rarest:— She sat for the figure as shown.

“But alas, she died in this distant place Before I was warned to betake Myself to her side! . . . And in love of my darling, In love of the fame of her, And the good name of her, I do this for her sake.”

Answer I gave not. Of that form The carver was I at his side; His child, my model, held so saintly, Grand in feature, Gross in nature, In the dens of vice had died.

THE BACKGROUND AND THE FIGURE (_Lover’s Ditty_)

I think of the slope where the rabbits fed, Of the periwinks’ rockwork lair, Of the fuchsias ringing their bells of red— And the something else seen there.

Between the blooms where the sod basked bright, By the bobbing fuchsia trees, Was another and yet more eyesome sight— The sight that richened these.

I shall seek those beauties in the spring, When the days are fit and fair, But only as foils to the one more thing That also will flower there!

THE CHANGE

OUT of the past there rises a week— Who shall read the years O!— Out of the past there rises a week Enringed with a purple zone. Out of the past there rises a week When thoughts were strung too thick to speak, And the magic of its lineaments remains with me alone.

In that week there was heard a singing— Who shall spell the years, the years!— In that week there was heard a singing, And the white owl wondered why. In that week, yea, a voice was ringing, And forth from the casement were candles flinging Radiance that fell on the deodar and lit up the path thereby.

Could that song have a mocking note?— Who shall unroll the years O!— Could that song have a mocking note To the white owl’s sense as it fell? Could that song have a mocking note As it trilled out warm from the singer’s throat, And who was the mocker and who the mocked when two felt all was well?

In a tedious trampling crowd yet later— Who shall bare the years, the years!— In a tedious trampling crowd yet later, When silvery singings were dumb; In a crowd uncaring what time might fate her, Mid murks of night I stood to await her, And the twanging of iron wheels gave out the signal that she was come.

She said with a travel-tired smile— Who shall lift the years O!— She said with a travel-tired smile, Half scared by scene so strange; She said, outworn by mile on mile, The blurred lamps wanning her face the while, “O Love, I am here; I am with you!” . . . Ah, that there should have come a change!

O the doom by someone spoken— Who shall unseal the years, the years!— O the doom that gave no token, When nothing of bale saw we: O the doom by someone spoken, O the heart by someone broken, The heart whose sweet reverberances are all time leaves to me.

_Jan.-Feb._ 1913.

SITTING ON THE BRIDGE (_Echo of an old song_)

SITTING on the bridge Past the barracks, town and ridge, At once the spirit seized us To sing a song that pleased us— As “The Fifth” were much in rumour; It was “Whilst I’m in the humour, Take me, Paddy, will you now?” And a lancer soon drew nigh, And his Royal Irish eye Said, “Willing, faith, am I, O, to take you anyhow, dears, To take you anyhow.”

But, lo!—dad walking by, Cried, “What, you lightheels! Fie! Is this the way you roam And mock the sunset gleam?” And he marched us straightway home, Though we said, “We are only, daddy, Singing, ‘Will you take me, Paddy?’” —Well, we never saw from then If we sang there anywhen, The soldier dear again, Except at night in dream-time, Except at night in dream.

Perhaps that soldier’s fighting In a land that’s far away, Or he may be idly plighting Some foreign hussy gay; Or perhaps his bones are whiting In the wind to their decay! . . . Ah!—does he mind him how The girls he saw that day On the bridge, were sitting singing At the time of curfew-ringing, “Take me, Paddy; will you now, dear? Paddy, will you now?”

GREY’S BRIDGE.

THE YOUNG CHURCHWARDEN

WHEN he lit the candles there, And the light fell on his hand, And it trembled as he scanned Her and me, his vanquished air Hinted that his dream was done, And I saw he had begun To understand.

When Love’s viol was unstrung, Sore I wished the hand that shook Had been mine that shared her book While that evening hymn was sung, His the victor’s, as he lit Candles where he had bidden us sit With vanquished look.

Now her dust lies listless there, His afar from tending hand, What avails the victory scanned? Does he smile from upper air: “Ah, my friend, your dream is done; And ’tis _you_ who have begun To understand!

“I TRAVEL AS A PHANTOM NOW”

I TRAVEL as a phantom now, For people do not wish to see In flesh and blood so bare a bough As Nature makes of me.

And thus I visit bodiless Strange gloomy households often at odds, And wonder if Man’s consciousness Was a mistake of God’s.

And next I meet you, and I pause, And think that if mistake it were, As some have said, O then it was One that I well can bear!

1915.

LINES TO A MOVEMENT IN MOZART’S E-FLAT SYMPHONY

SHOW me again the time When in the Junetide’s prime We flew by meads and mountains northerly!— Yea, to such freshness, fairness, fulness, fineness, freeness, Love lures life on.

Show me again the day When from the sandy bay We looked together upon the pestered sea!— Yea, to such surging, swaying, sighing, swelling, shrinking, Love lures life on.

Show me again the hour When by the pinnacled tower We eyed each other and feared futurity!— Yea, to such bodings, broodings, beatings, blanchings, blessings, Love lures life on.

Show me again just this: The moment of that kiss Away from the prancing folk, by the strawberry-tree!— Yea, to such rashness, ratheness, rareness, ripeness, richness, Love lures life on.

_Begun November_ 1898.