Chapter 6

THE MASKED FACE

I FOUND me in a great surging space, At either end a door, And I said: “What is this giddying place, With no firm-fixéd floor, That I knew not of before?” “It is Life,” said a mask-clad face.

I asked: “But how do I come here, Who never wished to come; Can the light and air be made more clear, The floor more quietsome, And the doors set wide? They numb Fast-locked, and fill with fear.”

The mask put on a bleak smile then, And said, “O vassal-wight, There once complained a goosequill pen To the scribe of the Infinite Of the words it had to write Because they were past its ken.”

IN A WHISPERING GALLERY

THAT whisper takes the voice Of a Spirit’s compassionings Close, but invisible, And throws me under a spell At the kindling vision it brings; And for a moment I rejoice, And believe in transcendent things That would mould from this muddy earth A spot for the splendid birth Of everlasting lives, Whereto no night arrives; And this gaunt gray gallery A tabernacle of worth On this drab-aired afternoon, When you can barely see Across its hazed lacune If opposite aught there be Of fleshed humanity Wherewith I may commune; Or if the voice so near Be a soul’s voice floating here.

THE SOMETHING THAT SAVED HIM

IT was when Whirls of thick waters laved me Again and again, That something arose and saved me; Yea, it was then.

In that day Unseeing the azure went I On my way, And to white winter bent I, Knowing no May.

Reft of renown, Under the night clouds beating Up and down, In my needfulness greeting Cit and clown.

Long there had been Much of a murky colour In the scene, Dull prospects meeting duller; Nought between.

Last, there loomed A closing-in blind alley, Though there boomed A feeble summons to rally Where it gloomed.

The clock rang; The hour brought a hand to deliver; I upsprang, And looked back at den, ditch and river, And sang.

THE ENEMY’S PORTRAIT

HE saw the portrait of his enemy, offered At auction in a street he journeyed nigh, That enemy, now late dead, who in his life-time Had injured deeply him the passer-by. “To get that picture, pleased be God, I’ll try, And utterly destroy it; and no more Shall be inflicted on man’s mortal eye A countenance so sinister and sore!”

And so he bought the painting. Driving homeward, “The frame will come in useful,” he declared, “The rest is fuel.” On his arrival, weary, Asked what he bore with him, and how he fared, He said he had bid for a picture, though he cared For the frame only: on the morrow he Would burn the canvas, which could well be spared, Seeing that it portrayed his enemy.

Next day some other duty found him busy; The foe was laid his face against the wall; But on the next he set himself to loosen The straining-strips. And then a casual call Prevented his proceeding therewithal; And thus the picture waited, day by day, Its owner’s pleasure, like a wretched thrall, Until a month and more had slipped away.

And then upon a morn he found it shifted, Hung in a corner by a servitor. “Why did you take on you to hang that picture? You know it was the frame I bought it for.” “It stood in the way of every visitor, And I just hitched it there.”—“Well, it must go: I don’t commemorate men whom I abhor. Remind me ’tis to do. The frame I’ll stow.”

But things become forgotten. In the shadow Of the dark corner hung it by its string, And there it stayed—once noticed by its owner, Who said, “Ah me—I must destroy that thing!” But when he died, there, none remembering, It hung, till moved to prominence, as one sees; And comers pause and say, examining, “I thought they were the bitterest enemies?”

IMAGININGS

SHE saw herself a lady With fifty frocks in wear, And rolling wheels, and rooms the best, And faithful maidens’ care, And open lawns and shady For weathers warm or drear.

She found herself a striver, All liberal gifts debarred, With days of gloom, and movements stressed, And early visions marred, And got no man to wive her But one whose lot was hard.

Yet in the moony night-time She steals to stile and lea During his heavy slumberous rest When homecome wearily, And dreams of some blest bright-time She knows can never be.

ON THE DOORSTEP

THE rain imprinted the step’s wet shine With target-circles that quivered and crossed As I was leaving this porch of mine; When from within there swelled and paused A song’s sweet note; And back I turned, and thought, “Here I’ll abide.”

The step shines wet beneath the rain, Which prints its circles as heretofore; I watch them from the porch again, But no song-notes within the door Now call to me To shun the dripping lea And forth I stride.

_Jan._ 1914.

SIGNS AND TOKENS

SAID the red-cloaked crone In a whispered moan:

“The dead man was limp When laid in his chest; Yea, limp; and why But to signify That the grave will crimp Ere next year’s sun Yet another one Of those in that house— It may be the best— For its endless drowse!”

Said the brown-shawled dame To confirm the same:

“And the slothful flies On the rotting fruit Have been seen to wear While crawling there Crape scarves, by eyes That were quick and acute; As did those that had pitched On the cows by the pails, And with flaps of their tails Were far away switched.”

Said the third in plaid, Each word being weighed:

“And trotting does In the park, in the lane, And just outside The shuttered pane, Have also been heard— Quick feet as light As the feet of a sprite— And the wise mind knows What things may betide When such has occurred.”

Cried the black-craped fourth, Cold faced as the north:

“O, though giving such Some head-room, I smile At your falterings When noting those things Round your domicile! For what, what can touch One whom, riven of all That makes life gay, No hints can appal Of more takings away!”

PATHS OF FORMER TIME

NO; no; It must not be so: They are the ways we do not go.

Still chew The kine, and moo In the meadows we used to wander through;

Still purl The rivulets and curl Towards the weirs with a musical swirl;

Haymakers As in former years Rake rolls into heaps that the pitchfork rears;

Wheels crack On the turfy track The waggon pursues with its toppling pack.

“Why then shun— Since summer’s not done— All this because of the lack of one?”

Had you been Sharer of that scene You would not ask while it bites in keen

Why it is so We can no more go By the summer paths we used to know!

1913.

THE CLOCK OF THE YEARS

“A spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up.”

AND the Spirit said, “I can make the clock of the years go backward, But am loth to stop it where you will.” And I cried, “Agreed To that. Proceed: It’s better than dead!”

He answered, “Peace”; And called her up—as last before me; Then younger, younger she freshed, to the year I first had known Her woman-grown, And I cried, “Cease!—

“Thus far is good— It is enough—let her stay thus always!” But alas for me. He shook his head: No stop was there; And she waned child-fair, And to babyhood.

Still less in mien To my great sorrow became she slowly, And smalled till she was nought at all In his checkless griff; And it was as if She had never been.

“Better,” I plained, “She were dead as before! The memory of her Had lived in me; but it cannot now!” And coldly his voice: “It was your choice To mar the ordained.”

1916.

AT THE PIANO

A WOMAN was playing, A man looking on; And the mould of her face, And her neck, and her hair, Which the rays fell upon Of the two candles there, Sent him mentally straying In some fancy-place Where pain had no trace.

A cowled Apparition Came pushing between; And her notes seemed to sigh, And the lights to burn pale, As a spell numbed the scene. But the maid saw no bale, And the man no monition; And Time laughed awry, And the Phantom hid nigh.

THE SHADOW ON THE STONE

I WENT by the Druid stone That broods in the garden white and lone, And I stopped and looked at the shifting shadows That at some moments fall thereon From the tree hard by with a rhythmic swing, And they shaped in my imagining To the shade that a well-known head and shoulders Threw there when she was gardening.

I thought her behind my back, Yea, her I long had learned to lack, And I said: “I am sure you are standing behind me, Though how do you get into this old track?” And there was no sound but the fall of a leaf As a sad response; and to keep down grief I would not turn my head to discover That there was nothing in my belief.

Yet I wanted to look and see That nobody stood at the back of me; But I thought once more: “Nay, I’ll not unvision A shape which, somehow, there may be.” So I went on softly from the glade, And left her behind me throwing her shade, As she were indeed an apparition— My head unturned lest my dream should fade.

_Begun_ 1913: _finished_ 1916.

IN THE GARDEN (M. H.)

WE waited for the sun To break its cloudy prison (For day was not yet done, And night still unbegun) Leaning by the dial.

After many a trial— We all silent there— It burst as new-arisen, Throwing a shade to where Time travelled at that minute.

Little saw we in it, But this much I know, Of lookers on that shade, Her towards whom it made Soonest had to go.

1915.

THE TREE AND THE LADY

I HAVE done all I could For that lady I knew! Through the heats I have shaded her, Drawn to her songsters when summer has jaded her, Home from the heath or the wood.

At the mirth-time of May, When my shadow first lured her, I’d donned my new bravery Of greenth: ’twas my all. Now I shiver in slavery, Icicles grieving me gray.

Plumed to every twig’s end I could tempt her chair under me. Much did I treasure her During those days she had nothing to pleasure her; Mutely she used me as friend.

I’m a skeleton now, And she’s gone, craving warmth. The rime sticks like a skin to me; Through me Arcturus peers; Nor’lights shoot into me; Gone is she, scorning my bough!

AN UPBRAIDING

NOW I am dead you sing to me The songs we used to know, But while I lived you had no wish Or care for doing so.

Now I am dead you come to me In the moonlight, comfortless; Ah, what would I have given alive To win such tenderness!

When you are dead, and stand to me Not differenced, as now, But like again, will you be cold As when we lived, or how?

THE YOUNG GLASS-STAINER

“THESE Gothic windows, how they wear me out With cusp and foil, and nothing straight or square, Crude colours, leaden borders roundabout, And fitting in Peter here, and Matthew there!

“What a vocation! Here do I draw now The abnormal, loving the Hellenic norm; Martha I paint, and dream of Hera’s brow, Mary, and think of Aphrodite’s form.”

_Nov._ 1893.

LOOKING AT A PICTURE ON AN ANNIVERSARY

BUT don’t you know it, my dear, Don’t you know it, That this day of the year (What rainbow-rays embow it!) We met, strangers confessed, But parted—blest?

Though at this query, my dear, There in your frame Unmoved you still appear, You must be thinking the same, But keep that look demure Just to allure.

And now at length a trace I surely vision Upon that wistful face Of old-time recognition, Smiling forth, “Yes, as you say, It is the day.”

For this one phase of you Now left on earth This great date must endue With pulsings of rebirth?— I see them vitalize Those two deep eyes!

But if this face I con Does not declare Consciousness living on Still in it, little I care To live myself, my dear, Lone-labouring here!

_Spring_ 1913.

THE CHOIRMASTER’S BURIAL

HE often would ask us That, when he died, After playing so many To their last rest, If out of us any Should here abide, And it would not task us, We would with our lutes Play over him By his grave-brim The psalm he liked best— The one whose sense suits “Mount Ephraim”— And perhaps we should seem To him, in Death’s dream, Like the seraphim.

As soon as I knew That his spirit was gone I thought this his due, And spoke thereupon. “I think,” said the vicar, “A read service quicker Than viols out-of-doors In these frosts and hoars. That old-fashioned way Requires a fine day, And it seems to me It had better not be.”

Hence, that afternoon, Though never knew he That his wish could not be, To get through it faster They buried the master Without any tune.

But ’twas said that, when At the dead of next night The vicar looked out, There struck on his ken Thronged roundabout, Where the frost was graying The headstoned grass, A band all in white Like the saints in church-glass, Singing and playing The ancient stave By the choirmaster’s grave.

Such the tenor man told When he had grown old.

THE MAN WHO FORGOT

AT a lonely cross where bye-roads met I sat upon a gate; I saw the sun decline and set, And still was fain to wait.

A trotting boy passed up the way And roused me from my thought; I called to him, and showed where lay A spot I shyly sought.

“A summer-house fair stands hidden where You see the moonlight thrown; Go, tell me if within it there A lady sits alone.”

He half demurred, but took the track, And silence held the scene; I saw his figure rambling back; I asked him if he had been.

“I went just where you said, but found No summer-house was there: Beyond the slope ’tis all bare ground; Nothing stands anywhere.

“A man asked what my brains were worth; The house, he said, grew rotten, And was pulled down before my birth, And is almost forgotten!”

My right mind woke, and I stood dumb; Forty years’ frost and flower Had fleeted since I’d used to come To meet her in that bower.

WHILE DRAWING IN A CHURCH-YARD

“IT is sad that so many of worth, Still in the flesh,” soughed the yew, “Misjudge their lot whom kindly earth Secludes from view.

“They ride their diurnal round Each day-span’s sum of hours In peerless ease, without jolt or bound Or ache like ours.

“If the living could but hear What is heard by my roots as they creep Round the restful flock, and the things said there, No one would weep.”

“‘Now set among the wise,’ They say: ‘Enlarged in scope, That no God trumpet us to rise We truly hope.’”

I listened to his strange tale In the mood that stillness brings, And I grew to accept as the day wore pale That show of things.

“FOR LIFE I HAD NEVER CARED GREATLY”

FOR Life I had never cared greatly, As worth a man’s while; Peradventures unsought, Peradventures that finished in nought, Had kept me from youth and through manhood till lately Unwon by its style.

In earliest years—why I know not— I viewed it askance; Conditions of doubt, Conditions that leaked slowly out, May haply have bent me to stand and to show not Much zest for its dance.

With symphonies soft and sweet colour It courted me then, Till evasions seemed wrong, Till evasions gave in to its song, And I warmed, until living aloofly loomed duller Than life among men.

Anew I found nought to set eyes on, When, lifting its hand, It uncloaked a star, Uncloaked it from fog-damps afar, And showed its beams burning from pole to horizon As bright as a brand.

And so, the rough highway forgetting, I pace hill and dale Regarding the sky, Regarding the vision on high, And thus re-illumed have no humour for letting My pilgrimage fail.

POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM

“MEN WHO MARCH AWAY” (SONG OF THE SOLDIERS)

WHAT of the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away?

Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye, Who watch us stepping by With doubt and dolorous sigh? Can much pondering so hoodwink you! Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye?

Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see— Dalliers as they be— England’s need are we; Her distress would leave us rueing: Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see!

In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just, And that braggarts must Surely bite the dust, Press we to the field ungrieving, In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just.

Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away.

_September_ 5, 1914.

HIS COUNTRY

[He travels southward, and looks around;] I journeyed from my native spot Across the south sea shine, And found that people in hall and cot Laboured and suffered each his lot Even as I did mine.

[and cannot discern the boundary] Thus noting them in meads and marts It did not seem to me That my dear country with its hearts, Minds, yearnings, worse and better parts Had ended with the sea.

[of his native country;] I further and further went anon, As such I still surveyed, And further yet—yea, on and on, And all the men I looked upon Had heart-strings fellow-made.

[or where his duties to his fellow-creatures end;] I traced the whole terrestrial round, Homing the other side; Then said I, “What is there to bound My denizenship? It seems I have found Its scope to be world-wide.”

[nor who are his enemies] I asked me: “Whom have I to fight, And whom have I to dare, And whom to weaken, crush, and blight? My country seems to have kept in sight On my way everywhere.”

1913.

ENGLAND TO GERMANY IN 1914

“O ENGLAND, may God punish thee!” —Is it that Teuton genius flowers Only to breathe malignity Upon its friend of earlier hours? —We have eaten your bread, you have eaten ours, We have loved your burgs, your pines’ green moan, Fair Rhine-stream, and its storied towers; Your shining souls of deathless dowers Have won us as they were our own:

We have nursed no dreams to shed your blood, We have matched your might not rancorously, Save a flushed few whose blatant mood You heard and marked as well as we To tongue not in their country’s key; But yet you cry with face aflame, “O England, may God punish thee!” And foul in onward history, And present sight, your ancient name.

_Autumn_ 1914.

ON THE BELGIAN EXPATRIATION

I DREAMT that people from the Land of Chimes Arrived one autumn morning with their bells, To hoist them on the towers and citadels Of my own country, that the musical rhymes

Rung by them into space at meted times Amid the market’s daily stir and stress, And the night’s empty star-lit silentness, Might solace souls of this and kindred climes.

Then I awoke; and lo, before me stood The visioned ones, but pale and full of fear; From Bruges they came, and Antwerp, and Ostend,

No carillons in their train. Foes of mad mood Had shattered these to shards amid the gear Of ravaged roof, and smouldering gable-end.

_October_ 18, 1914.

AN APPEAL TO AMERICA ON BEHALF OF THE BELGIAN DESTITUTE

SEVEN millions stand Emaciate, in that ancient Delta-land:— We here, full-charged with our own maimed and dead, And coiled in throbbing conflicts slow and sore, Can poorly soothe these ails unmerited Of souls forlorn upon the facing shore!— Where naked, gaunt, in endless band on band Seven millions stand.

No man can say To your great country that, with scant delay, You must, perforce, ease them in their loud need: We know that nearer first your duty lies; But—is it much to ask that you let plead Your lovingkindness with you—wooing-wise— Albeit that aught you owe, and must repay, No man can say?

_December_ 1914.

THE PITY OF IT

I WALKED in loamy Wessex lanes, afar From rail-track and from highway, and I heard In field and farmstead many an ancient word Of local lineage like “Thu bist,” “Er war,”

“Ich woll,” “Er sholl,” and by-talk similar, Nigh as they speak who in this month’s moon gird At England’s very loins, thereunto spurred By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are.

Then seemed a Heart crying: “Whosoever they be At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we,

“Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame; May their familiars grow to shun their name, And their brood perish everlastingly.”

_April_ 1915.

IN TIME OF WARS AND TUMULTS

“WOULD that I’d not drawn breath here!” some one said, “To stalk upon this stage of evil deeds, Where purposelessly month by month proceeds A play so sorely shaped and blood-bespread.”

Yet had his spark not quickened, but lain dead To the gross spectacles of this our day, And never put on the proffered cloak of clay, He had but known not things now manifested;

Life would have swirled the same. Morns would have dawned On the uprooting by the night-gun’s stroke Of what the yester noonshine brought to flower;

Brown martial brows in dying throes have wanned Despite his absence; hearts no fewer been broke By Empery’s insatiate lust of power.

1915.

IN TIME OF “THE BREAKING OF NATIONS” {235}

I

Only a man harrowing clods In a slow silent walk With an old horse that stumbles and nods Half asleep as they stalk.

II

Only thin smoke without flame From the heaps of couch-grass; Yet this will go onward the same Though Dynasties pass.

III

Yonder a maid and her wight Come whispering by: War’s annals will cloud into night Ere their story die.

1915.

CRY OF THE HOMELESS AFTER THE PRUSSIAN INVASION OF BELGIUM

“INSTIGATOR of the ruin— Whichsoever thou mayst be Of the masterful of Europe That contrived our misery— Hear the wormwood-worded greeting From each city, shore, and lea Of thy victims: “Conqueror, all hail to thee!”

“Yea: ‘All hail!’ we grimly shout thee That wast author, fount, and head Of these wounds, whoever proven When our times are throughly read. ‘May thy loved be slighted, blighted, And forsaken,’ be it said By thy victims, ‘And thy children beg their bread!’