Chapter 4

There passing through (a step or so— Neither mamma nor nurse need know!) From your nice nurseries you would pass, Like Alice through the Looking-Glass Or Gerda following Little Ray, To wondrous countries far away. Well, and just so this volume can Transport each little maid or man Presto from where they live away Where other children used to play. As from the house your mother sees You playing round the garden trees, So you may see if you but look Through the windows of this book Another child far, far away And in another garden play. But do not think you can at all, By knocking on the window, call That child to hear you. He intent Is still on his play-business bent. He does not hear, he will not look, Nor yet be lured out of this book. For long ago, the truth to say, He has grown up and gone away; And it is but a child of air That lingers in the garden there.

FOR RICHMOND’S GARDEN WALL

WHEN Thomas set this tablet here, Time laughed at the vain chanticleer; And ere the moss had dimmed the stone, Time had defaced that garrison. Now I in turn keep watch and ward In my red house, in my walled yard Of sunflowers, sitting here at ease With friends and my bright canvases. But hark, and you may hear quite plain Time’s chuckled laughter in the lane.

HAIL, GUEST, AND ENTER FREELY!

HAIL, guest, and enter freely! All you see Is, for your momentary visit, yours; and we Who welcome you are but the guests of God, And know not our departure.

LO, NOW, MY GUEST

LO, now, my guest, if aught amiss were said, Forgive it and dismiss it from your head. For me, for you, for all, to close the date, Pass now the ev’ning sponge across the slate; And to that spirit of forgiveness keep Which is the parent and the child of sleep.

SO LIVE, SO LOVE, SO USE THAT FRAGILE HOUR

SO live, so love, so use that fragile hour, That when the dark hand of the shining power Shall one from other, wife or husband, take, The poor survivor may not weep and wake.

AD SE IPSUM

DEAR sir, good-morrow! Five years back, When you first girded for this arduous track, And under various whimsical pretexts Endowed another with your damned defects, Could you have dreamed in your despondent vein That the kind God would make your path so plain? Non nobis, domine! O, may He still Support my stumbling footsteps on the hill!

BEFORE THIS LITTLE GIFT WAS COME

BEFORE this little gift was come The little owner had made haste for home; And from the door of where the eternal dwell, Looked back on human things and smiled farewell. O may this grief remain the only one! O may our house be still a garrison Of smiling children, and for evermore The tune of little feet be heard along the floor!

GO, LITTLE BOOK—THE ANCIENT PHRASE

GO, little book—the ancient phrase And still the daintiest—go your ways, My Otto, over sea and land, Till you shall come to Nelly’s hand.

How shall I your Nelly know? By her blue eyes and her black brow, By her fierce and slender look, And by her goodness, little book!

What shall I say when I come there? You shall speak her soft and fair: See—you shall say—the love they send To greet their unforgotten friend!

Giant Adulpho you shall sing The next, and then the cradled king: And the four corners of the roof Then kindly bless; and to your perch aloof, Where Balzac all in yellow dressed And the dear Webster of the west Encircle the prepotent throne Of Shakespeare and of Calderon, Shall climb an upstart.

There with these You shall give ear to breaking seas And windmills turning in the breeze, A distant undetermined din Without; and you shall hear within The blazing and the bickering logs, The crowing child, the yawning dogs, And ever agile, high and low, Our Nelly going to and fro.

There shall you all silent sit, Till, when perchance the lamp is lit And the day’s labour done, she takes Poor Otto down, and, warming for our sakes, Perchance beholds, alive and near, Our distant faces reappear.

MY LOVE WAS WARM

MY love was warm; for that I crossed The mountains and the sea, Nor counted that endeavour lost That gave my love to me.

If that indeed were love at all, As still, my love, I trow, By what dear name am I to call The bond that holds me now

DEDICATORY POEM FOR “UNDERWOODS”

TO her, for I must still regard her As feminine in her degree, Who has been my unkind bombarder Year after year, in grief and glee, Year after year, with oaken tree; And yet betweenwhiles my laudator In terms astonishing to me— To the Right Reverend The Spectator I here, a humble dedicator, Bring the last apples from my tree.

In tones of love, in tones of warning, She hailed me through my brief career; And kiss and buffet, night and morning, Told me my grandmamma was near; Whether she praised me high and clear Through her unrivalled circulation, Or, sanctimonious insincere, She damned me with a misquotation— A chequered but a sweet relation, Say, was it not, my granny dear?

Believe me, granny, altogether Yours, though perhaps to your surprise. Oft have you spruced my wounded feather, Oft brought a light into my eyes— For notice still the writer cries. In any civil age or nation, The book that is not talked of dies. So that shall be my termination: Whether in praise or execration, Still, if you love me, criticise!

FAREWELL

FAREWELL, and when forth I through the Golden Gates to Golden Isles Steer without smiling, through the sea of smiles, Isle upon isle, in the seas of the south, Isle upon island, sea upon sea, Why should I sail, why should the breeze? I have been young, and I have counted friends. A hopeless sail I spread, too late, too late. Why should I from isle to isle Sail, a hopeless sailor?

THE FAR-FARERS

THE broad sun, The bright day: White sails On the blue bay: The far-farers Draw away.

Light the fires And close the door. To the old homes, To the loved shore, The far-farers Return no more.

COME, MY LITTLE CHILDREN, HERE ARE SONGS FOR YOU

COME, my little children, here are songs for you; Some are short and some are long, and all, all are new. You must learn to sing them very small and clear, Very true to time and tune and pleasing to the ear.

Mark the note that rises, mark the notes that fall, Mark the time when broken, and the swing of it all. So when night is come, and you have gone to bed, All the songs you love to sing shall echo in your head.

HOME FROM THE DAISIED MEADOWS

HOME from the daisied meadows, where you linger yet— Home, golden-headed playmate, ere the sun is set; For the dews are falling fast And the night has come at last. Home with you, home and lay your little head at rest, Safe, safe, my little darling, on your mother’s breast. Lullaby, darling; your mother is watching you; she’ll be your guardian and shield. Lullaby, slumber, my darling, till morning be bright upon mountain and field. Long, long the shadows fall. All white and smooth at home your little bed is laid. All round your head be angels.

EARLY IN THE MORNING I HEAR ON YOUR PIANO

EARLY in the morning I hear on your piano You (at least, I guess it’s you) proceed to learn to play. Mostly little minds should take and tackle their piano While the birds are singing in the morning of the day.

FAIR ISLE AT SEA

FAIR Isle at Sea—thy lovely name Soft in my ear like music came. That sea I loved, and once or twice I touched at isles of Paradise.

LOUD AND LOW IN THE CHIMNEY

LOUD and low in the chimney The squalls suspire; Then like an answer dwindles And glows the fire, And the chamber reddens and darkens In time like taken breath. Near by the sounding chimney The youth apart Hearkens with changing colour And leaping heart, And hears in the coil of the tempest The voice of love and death. Love on high in the flute-like And tender notes Sounds as from April meadows And hillside cotes; But the deep wood wind in the chimney Utters the slogan of death.

I LOVE TO BE WARM BY THE RED FIRESIDE

I LOVE to be warm by the red fireside, I love to be wet with rain: I love to be welcome at lamplit doors, And leave the doors again.

AT LAST SHE COMES

AT last she comes, O never more In this dear patience of my pain To leave me lonely as before, Or leave my soul alone again.

MINE EYES WERE SWIFT TO KNOW THEE

MINE eyes were swift to know thee, and my heart As swift to love. I did become at once Thine wholly, thine unalterably, thine In honourable service, pure intent, Steadfast excess of love and laughing care: And as she was, so am, and so shall be. I knew thee helpful, knew thee true, knew thee And Pity bedfellows: I heard thy talk With answerable throbbings. On the stream, Deep, swift, and clear, the lilies floated; fish Through the shadows ran. There, thou and I Read Kindness in our eyes and closed the match.

FIXED IS THE DOOM

FIXED is the doom; and to the last of years Teacher and taught, friend, lover, parent, child, Each walks, though near, yet separate; each beholds His dear ones shine beyond him like the stars. We also, love, forever dwell apart; With cries approach, with cries behold the gulph, The Unvaulted; as two great eagles that do wheel in air Above a mountain, and with screams confer, Far heard athwart the cedars. Yet the years Shall bring us ever nearer; day by day Endearing, week by week, till death at last Dissolve that long divorce. By faith we love, Not knowledge; and by faith, though far removed, Dwell as in perfect nearness, heart to heart. We but excuse Those things we merely are; and to our souls A brave deception cherish. So from unhappy war a man returns Unfearing, or the seaman from the deep; So from cool night and woodlands to a feast May someone enter, and still breathe of dews, And in her eyes still wear the dusky night.

MEN ARE HEAVEN’S PIERS

MEN are Heaven’s piers; they evermore Unwearying bear the skyey floor; Man’s theatre they bear with ease, Unfrowning cariatides! I, for my wife, the sun uphold, Or, dozing, strike the seasons cold. She, on her side, in fairy-wise Deals in diviner mysteries, By spells to make the fuel burn And keep the parlour warm, to turn Water to wine, and stones to bread, By her unconquered hero-head. A naked Adam, naked Eve, Alone the primal bower we weave; Sequestered in the seas of life, A Crusoe couple, man and wife, With all our good, with all our will, Our unfrequented isle we fill; And victor in day’s petty wars, Each for the other lights the stars. Come then, my Eve, and to and fro Let us about our garden go; And, grateful-hearted, hand in hand Revisit all our tillage land, And marvel at our strange estate, For hooded ruin at the gate Sits watchful, and the angels fear To see us tread so boldly here. Meanwhile, my Eve, with flower and grass Our perishable days we pass; Far more the thorn observe—and see How our enormous sins go free— Nor less admire, beside the rose, How far a little virtue goes.

THE ANGLER ROSE, HE TOOK HIS ROD

THE angler rose, he took his rod, He kneeled and made his prayers to God. The living God sat overhead: The angler tripped, the eels were fed

SPRING CAROL

WHEN loud by landside streamlets gush, And clear in the greenwood quires the thrush, With sun on the meadows And songs in the shadows Comes again to me The gift of the tongues of the lea, The gift of the tongues of meadows.

Straightway my olden heart returns And dances with the dancing burns; It sings with the sparrows; To the rain and the (grimy) barrows Sings my heart aloud— To the silver-bellied cloud, To the silver rainy arrows.

It bears the song of the skylark down, And it hears the singing of the town; And youth on the highways And lovers in byways Follows and sees: And hearkens the song of the leas And sings the songs of the highways.

So when the earth is alive with gods, And the lusty ploughman breaks the sod, And the grass sings in the meadows, And the flowers smile in the shadows, Sits my heart at ease, Hearing the song of the leas, Singing the songs of the meadows.

TO WHAT SHALL I COMPARE HER?

TO what shall I compare her, That is as fair as she? For she is fairer—fairer Than the sea. What shall be likened to her, The sainted of my youth? For she is truer—truer Than the truth.

As the stars are from the sleeper, Her heart is hid from me; For she is deeper—deeper Than the sea. Yet in my dreams I view her Flush rosy with new ruth— Dreams! Ah, may these prove truer Than the truth.

WHEN THE SUN COMES AFTER RAIN

WHEN the sun comes after rain And the bird is in the blue, The girls go down the lane Two by two.

When the sun comes after shadow And the singing of the showers, The girls go up the meadow, Fair as flowers.

When the eve comes dusky red And the moon succeeds the sun, The girls go home to bed One by one.

And when life draws to its even And the day of man is past, They shall all go home to heaven, Home at last.

LATE, O MILLER

LATE, O miller, The birds are silent, The darkness falls. In the house the lights are lighted. See, in the valley they twinkle, The lights of home. Late, O lovers, The night is at hand; Silence and darkness Clothe the land.

TO FRIENDS AT HOME

TO friends at home, the lone, the admired, the lost The gracious old, the lovely young, to May The fair, December the beloved, These from my blue horizon and green isles, These from this pinnacle of distances I, The unforgetful, dedicate.

I, WHOM APOLLO SOMETIME VISITED

I, WHOM Apollo sometime visited, Or feigned to visit, now, my day being done, Do slumber wholly; nor shall know at all The weariness of changes; nor perceive Immeasurable sands of centuries Drink of the blanching ink, or the loud sound Of generations beat the music down.

TEMPEST TOSSED AND SORE AFFLICTED

TEMPEST tossed and sore afflicted, sin defiled and care oppressed, Come to me, all ye that labour; come, and I will give ye rest. Fear no more, O doubting hearted; weep no more, O weeping eye! Lo, the voice of your redeemer; lo, the songful morning near.

Here one hour you toil and combat, sin and suffer, bleed and die; In my father’s quiet mansion soon to lay your burden by. Bear a moment, heavy laden, weary hand and weeping eye. Lo, the feet of your deliverer; lo, the hour of freedom here.

VARIANT FORM OF THE PRECEDING POEM

COME to me, all ye that labour; I will give your spirits rest; Here apart in starry quiet I will give you rest. Come to me, ye heavy laden, sin defiled and care opprest, In your father’s quiet mansions, soon to prove a welcome guest. But an hour you bear your trial, sin and suffer, bleed and die; But an hour you toil and combat here in day’s inspiring eye. See the feet of your deliverer; lo, the hour of freedom nigh.

I NOW, O FRIEND, WHOM NOISELESSLY THE SNOWS

I NOW, O friend, whom noiselessly the snows Settle around, and whose small chamber grows Dusk as the sloping window takes its load:

* * * * *

The kindly hill, as to complete our hap, Has ta’en us in the shelter of her lap; Well sheltered in our slender grove of trees And ring of walls, we sit between her knees; A disused quarry, paved with rose plots, hung With clematis, the barren womb whence sprung The crow-stepped house itself, that now far seen Stands, like a bather, to the neck in green. A disused quarry, furnished with a seat Sacred to pipes and meditation meet For such a sunny and retired nook. There in the clear, warm mornings many a book Has vied with the fair prospect of the hills That, vale on vale, rough brae on brae, upfills Halfway to the zenith all the vacant sky To keep my loose attention. . . . Horace has sat with me whole mornings through: And Montaigne gossiped, fairly false and true; And chattering Pepys, and a few beside That suit the easy vein, the quiet tide, The calm and certain stay of garden-life, Far sunk from all the thunderous roar of strife. There is about the small secluded place A garnish of old times; a certain grace Of pensive memories lays about the braes: The old chestnuts gossip tales of bygone days. Here, where some wandering preacher, blest Lazil, Perhaps, or Peden, on the middle hill Had made his secret church, in rain or snow, He cheers the chosen residue from woe. All night the doors stood open, come who might, The hounded kebbock mat the mud all night. Nor are there wanting later tales; of how Prince Charlie’s Highlanders . . .

* * * * *

I have had talents, too. In life’s first hour God crowned with benefits my childish head. Flower after flower, I plucked them; flower by flower Cast them behind me, ruined, withered, dead. Full many a shining godhead disappeared. From the bright rank that once adorned her brow The old child’s Olympus

* * * * *

Gone are the fair old dreams, and one by one, As, one by one, the means to reach them went, As, one by one, the stars in riot and disgrace, I squandered what . . .

There shut the door, alas! on many a hope Too many; My face is set to the autumnal slope, Where the loud winds shall . . .

There shut the door, alas! on many a hope, And yet some hopes remain that shall decide My rest of years and down the autumnal slope.

* * * * *

Gone are the quiet twilight dreams that I Loved, as all men have loved them; gone! I have great dreams, and still they stir my soul on high— Dreams of the knight’s stout heart and tempered will. Not in Elysian lands they take their way; Not as of yore across the gay champaign, Towards some dream city, towered . . . and my . . . The path winds forth before me, sweet and plain, Not now; but though beneath a stone-grey sky November’s russet woodlands toss and wail, Still the white road goes thro’ them, still may I, Strong in new purpose, God, may still prevail.

* * * * *

I and my like, improvident sailors!

* * * * *

At whose light fall awaking, all my heart Grew populous with gracious, favoured thought, And all night long thereafter, hour by hour, The pageant of dead love before my eyes Went proudly, and old hopes with downcast head Followed like Kings, subdued in Rome’s imperial hour, Followed the car; and I . . .

SINCE THOU HAST GIVEN ME THIS GOOD HOPE, O GOD

SINCE thou hast given me this good hope, O God, That while my footsteps tread the flowery sod And the great woods embower me, and white dawn And purple even sweetly lead me on From day to day, and night to night, O God, My life shall no wise miss the light of love; But ever climbing, climb above Man’s one poor star, man’s supine lands, Into the azure steadfastness of death, My life shall no wise lack the light of love, My hands not lack the loving touch of hands; But day by day, while yet I draw my breath, And day by day, unto my last of years, I shall be one that has a perfect friend. Her heart shall taste my laughter and my tears, And her kind eyes shall lead me to the end.

GOD GAVE TO ME A CHILD IN PART

GOD gave to me a child in part, Yet wholly gave the father’s heart: Child of my soul, O whither now, Unborn, unmothered, goest thou?

You came, you went, and no man wist; Hapless, my child, no breast you kist; On no dear knees, a privileged babbler, clomb, Nor knew the kindly feel of home.

My voice may reach you, O my dear— A father’s voice perhaps the child may hear; And, pitying, you may turn your view On that poor father whom you never knew.

Alas! alone he sits, who then, Immortal among mortal men, Sat hand in hand with love, and all day through With your dear mother wondered over you.

OVER THE LAND IS APRIL

OVER the land is April, Over my heart a rose; Over the high, brown mountain The sound of singing goes. Say, love, do you hear me, Hear my sonnets ring? Over the high, brown mountain, Love, do you hear me sing?

By highway, love, and byway The snows succeed the rose. Over the high, brown mountain The wind of winter blows. Say, love, do you hear me, Hear my sonnets ring? Over the high, brown mountain I sound the song of spring, I throw the flowers of spring. Do you hear the song of spring? Hear you the songs of spring?

LIGHT AS THE LINNET ON MY WAY I START

LIGHT as the linnet on my way I start, For all my pack I bear a chartered heart. Forth on the world without a guide or chart, Content to know, through all man’s varying fates, The eternal woman by the wayside waits.

COME, HERE IS ADIEU TO THE CITY

COME, here is adieu to the city And hurrah for the country again. The broad road lies before me Watered with last night’s rain. The timbered country woos me With many a high and bough; And again in the shining fallows The ploughman follows the plough.

The whole year’s sweat and study, And the whole year’s sowing time, Comes now to the perfect harvest, And ripens now into rhyme. For we that sow in the Autumn, We reap our grain in the Spring, And we that go sowing and weeping Return to reap and sing.

IT BLOWS A SNOWING GALE

IT blows a snowing gale in the winter of the year; The boats are on the sea and the crews are on the pier. The needle of the vane, it is veering to and fro, A flash of sun is on the veering of the vane. Autumn leaves and rain, The passion of the gale.

NE SIT ANCILLÆ TIBI AMOR PUDOR

THERE’S just a twinkle in your eye That seems to say I _might_, if I Were only bold enough to try An arm about your waist. I hear, too, as you come and go, That pretty nervous laugh, you know; And then your cap is always so Coquettishly displaced.

Your cap! the word’s profanely said. That little top-knot, white and red, That quaintly crowns your graceful head, No bigger than a flower, Is set with such a witching art, Is so provocatively smart, I’d like to wear it on my heart, An order for an hour!

O graceful housemaid, tall and fair, I love your shy imperial air, And always loiter on the stair When you are going by. A strict reserve the fates demand; But, when to let you pass I stand, Sometimes by chance I touch your hand And sometimes catch your eye.

TO ALL THAT LOVE THE FAR AND BLUE

TO all that love the far and blue: Whether, from dawn to eve, on foot The fleeing corners ye pursue, Nor weary of the vain pursuit; Or whether down the singing stream, Paddle in hand, jocund ye shoot, To splash beside the splashing bream Or anchor by the willow root: