Part 3

Chapter 33,047 wordsPublic domain

A breeze just shivers the green of the corn And sweeps it into a silver sea; Infinite sensitive shades new-born On hill and lea Over the land's lap flit and pass Like elusive tints in Venetian glass

Nature has painted you in pastel, You are her palette of tender hues, Little green England of mine, where dwell Change, and infuse, The million lights of the polar-star, And you only are grey as diamonds are.

If I could unravel The music of the grass, Beyond those confines travel Which mortals cannot pass, I think that I should capture all The secret of things musical— All music ever will be, and all it ever was.

Ear close to earth inclining I hear her wordless song Of threads past man's divining Woven the grass among. Beneath these fragrant, tangled weeds She sings the strain to which her seeds March into life, push upward to heaven, and grow strong.

Then like a voice replying Follows her cradle-croon Lulling tired things that, dying, Back to their Mother swoon. For where the worlds of grasses spring Both life and death their choral sing, The spheres' eternal roundel circling an afternoon.

The music of existence Moves underneath my ear— From how remote a distance Comes that which sounds so near! Could I the human barrier pass By the fine measure of one grass I then might comprehend what now I only hear.

There's such melodious stirring Of hidden, secret things, There's such harmonious whirring Of faint mysterious wings; And underneath this leaf is curled The song, I think, of all the world— Up-turned, should I discover the seed from which it springs?

Hark! It is afternoon, Yet that must be a lark. No other bird flies up so high And shakes its sparkling spray of song Through the grey clouds in the sky, No other bird has just that thrilling Note in trilling, Or can sustain so long Its liquid flood of mirth: As rare a boon To thirsty ears as God's dew is to earth. Yet it is afternoon. I thought the larks, all scorning The jaded hours, sang only in the morning. And I, whose first flushed youth is going, Who watch the swift noon growing Upon me, hour by hour, Feeling that I must always stand apart From earth's sweet singers, because I lacked the pow'r To loose the morning song-burst from my heart— Oh, songster of the mellowing hour of day, Shall I, too, late or soon, Learn from your throat the way To loose my power of song even in my afternoon?

The day was a lifeless day. Under a tree I lay And round me its branches bent Touching the earth like a tent. There was no stir of breeze; I was shut in with trees, Locked from the world by these; Dead leaves were piled on the ground, And the forest lay in a swound, Throbbed with nor pulse nor breath, And I thought: "It is waiting Death." So I lay there, still and oppressed, While the silence grew in my breast.

Presently as I lay I heard from far away Little pattering feet Over the dry leaves beat; Tripping along pell-mell, Thicker and faster they fell Than tongue could count or tell. And I fancied the birds and deer And rabbits, too awed for fear, Were creeping my aid to plead Impelled by our common need— Till into my sheltered place One raindrop splashed on my face.

I lay there tented and dry While the dews, dropped out of the sky, Made music upon the sheaves Of last year's stacked-up leaves— No steps of wild things that trod, But the whispering voice of God In grave commune with the sod, Messenger-angels rife With words not of Death but Life, Bidding the old brown Earth Prepare for her great re-birth And look to Heaven in pride Renewed and revivified.

Then I heard far under the soil The seedlings stir and toil, And blade and bulb and root Put forth each one new shoot, And I felt deep down and deep A million pulses leap Out of their term of sleep, And I thought the acorn spoke With the voice of the full-grown oak, And the cone wore the crown divine Of the red-stemmed, crested pine, And the haw held all the blush And bloom of the wild-rose bush.

What helped these young things to grow? Dead leaves of a year ago, Leaves heaped up in their crowds And spread like funeral-shrouds; Yet life sprang out of their death As the blade slips out of its sheath, Life was fostered beneath The leaves here rotting away And emerged from their decay. Are all things that seem to die Renewed to infinity, And the bodies and souls of men Made and re-made again?

With the scent of the rain-wet loam In my nostrils, I turned me home.

VII

I lay on the shore beside the sea, And the young moon climbed the hill of the sky And paused a space to look down on me Alone with my misery

Then on the fallow blue fields above The young moon sowed its seed of stars; Light gleamed from the mirror of her named Love And flashed from the shield of Mars.

The stars sprang up from the silver seed Wherever that silver sower trod. Through the windows of heaven watching my need I knew them the eyes of God.

Little blue waves with blown foam capped Crept on the solitary shore Which the sea's white lips still licked and lapped For ever and evermore.

The silver moon waxed strong and older; I thought I saw it stop to fling A silver sickle over its shoulder And commence its harvesting.

The strong moon ploughed through the fields of heaven, Its eternal labour but half-begun. My breast dropped its load of earthy leaven As the stars dropped one by one.

I had sat there hugging my trivial cross, My infinitesimal mortal pains, Reckoning up how my mortal loss Outmeasured my mortal gains.

I saw the moon reaping God's blue fields Night after night sown thick with seeds. I saw the crop which God's harvest yields Not in men's dreams, but deeds.

The old moon climbed down the hill of the sky, The strong young day flashed up in flame. The moon dropped into the sea, and I Bowed down my head in shame.

APOLLO IN PHERAE

_Asklepios! dead son! Asklepios!_

I was a God. I am a God. I tend Admetos' flocks upon the meek green earth, And sun-fires course in all the veins of me. I watch mild sheep a-browse in tame, sweet pastures Or dipping in quiet waters. Yesterday I blazed the heavenly arc from east to west; Men saw me pinnacled on the crest of noon Crown'd with celestial flame ... _Asklepios!_ To-day the discrown'd gold of my hair is strewn In the green lap of grasses, my bowed brow Leans on the good strong shoulder of the earth Even as a stricken mortal's might, that seeks His comfortable mother in his grief. Earth, earth, what flower from seed wilt thou put forth Fed by the waters of mine eyes, that most Shoot lightnings? dews wrung from the Sun-god's eyes, Divinely wrathful, mortally unhappy!

_Asklepios! my son! Asklepios!_ I am a God. Admetos is a King. The God came to the King's doors overnight And knocked and was admitted; and the King Knew me and asked my will. "To be thy servant Throughout a year of days," I answered him. "Phœbus-Apollo, how shall this thing be?" I said: "I slew a smith, a monstrous clod, Not God or mortal, one that had done evil. I am the avenger of evil among the Gods, For this one and for that I have stretched my bow And winged my arrow through the heart of Wrong; But this was evil done unto myself, And Vengeance wore the sleek face of Advantage, Wherefor Zeus robs me of my Godhead, King, And I will be thy shepherd for a year." He stood half wonderstruck, half shamed-protesting, But I bade him bring me out among his flocks And speak no more. "I will have peace," I said.

"Fear not, and bid thy people not to fear; For I am worn with too much strife and passion, And no more hurt shall come from that I do. Thou shalt not suffer by this term of service, But see thy lands grow rich and bountiful, And where thou lov'st I'll win thy love for thee, And life shall prosper with thee, "Life is sweet! Make it not too sweet, God, lest when death come It look more bitter than my soul can bear." "Even death, Admetos, I'll delay for thee. Now, peace! I am done with vengeance for a space." Thus I am come again upon the earth Even as a common man ... _Asklepios!_

The people eye me timidly, and dare Not consort with the God they may not worship. Even so it was in those first days of life When I was a boy in Delos with my Mother, And only half aware I was a God. O this unconquerable loneliness That binds the crown of Godhead on our brows! Yet easier the aloofness of the people Than the familiar face of the half-God Pan. I met in the woods the brute-divinity, Who fleered an impudent hoof, a satyr-smile Licking his lips: "What, Helios! is the sun Debased to something lower than the earth? What! are we two, I of the beast's grain, thou The delicate, disdainful spirit of flame, The seed of mischief and the seed of Zeus, Brought equal at the last? Nay, is the beast Sun's master, Helios? Shepherds are my subjects. I do not sway high kingdoms of the air— I drag my hoofs in the clay. I do not fashion Songs for the stars upon a golden lyre— I (as did Marsyas, ha?) scrape out rough tunes On common reeds. I am not beautiful, I have not eyes like June-blue heavens on fire, Nor hair filched from the harvest of the sun, Nor a white matchless shape, supple and swift And strong and splendid. I am an earthy thing, Half goat and half coarse boor, not fit to touch The sun's moon-sister—(yet, who knows? who knows! Let her keep watch on Latmos how she will Above the slumbers of her pretty shepherd!) No, Pan is not as Helios! Helios is A shepherd, sister'd by a shepherd's wanton, And Pan's a King, and shepherds are his subjects!"

Zeus, did it feed thy pride on proud Olympos, Did it pleasure thee to hear the brutish God, The disgustful animal we chafe to name A God even as ourselves, thus flout thy son?

_Asklepios! dead son! Asklepios!_

Doomed to the solitariness of greatness We watch, we lonely Gods on shrouded heights, The careful, padded steps, the little lives, The little trivial lives of men and women That fear our anger and entreat our favour; And while we are indifferent all is well, And if we rise to hate all is not ill, But when we stoop to meet uplifted eyes Of bright aspiring fools that will not choose To tread life's inconspicuous middle ways— O, when we love we bring our lov'd ones woe

I had a son, his name was Phaeton. Could he be of my being and not be proud? He was all inspiration, and he mounted Up to the highest and reached his hands for the sun And shouted: "I will light the fires in heaven!" But he was three-parts man to one-part God, So men and Gods shrugged his brief blaze of glory Into extinction ... Thus I lost my son, Phaeton, killed thro' overmuch ambition.

I had a son, his name was Orpheus. Could he be of my being and not love? His love was rooted deeplier than Hell. He said: "I will pluck back my love from Hell Tho' it upheave all Hell in the plucking." When He failed, being one-part man to three-parts God, He chose the swift way to regain his love And died a vile death ... Thus I lost my son, Orpheus, killed thro' too great love and longing.

I had a son. He was Asklepios, Could he be of my being and not KNOW? His wisdom girdled life and death in one; Life smiled on him, because he smiled on death And said: "Life is less conquerable than death." He said: "I will reverse the word of death." He said: "I will make the dead to live again." Two days ago Asklepios lived ... The King Of the nether-world, that wears the face of night And hates me, wearing day's face, called on Zeus: "This mortal steals upon my sovereignty, Stands brazen champion for the world of flesh, Determines souls that waver towards the Styx— Worse! hales the souls back from beyond the Styx, Bringing the dead to life. This is more craft, Brother, than we may suffer in a man. Shall he with careless finger sway at will The Balance of Destiny? Avenge me, Zeus!" A Cyclops forged a thunder-bolt for Zeus, And, black-browed, Zeus did launch it ... Thus I lost My son Asklepios, killed thro' too much knowledge.

_Asklepios! my dead Asklepios!_

Let the dark King of Stygia howl for aid To Olympos! I am King of Heaven and ask No aid! I wreak my vengeance for myself. I rose up in the wrath of my bereavement And set an arrow to the silver bow That none save I can bend, and let it fly. I might not slay the wielder of the bolt, But I did slay the forger of the bolt. And when I saw the Cyclops pierced and dead I came to Zeus and told him of my deed: "Father, 'gainst whom my bow was never turned, Father, that hast destroyed thine own son's son, I defy thy doing and have destroyed thy tool."

Then while the Gods stood all aghast, Zeus spake: "Go from among this immortal company Which thou hast sinned against in daring so To sin against _me_ that am the head of all, And learn to quell thy too fierce spirit, learn To teach thy riotous blood obedience, Serving the sons of men one year of days. Go hence! thou art not of us for twelve moons." I nothing said, and went. For when we Gods Revolt among ourselves the end is near, And Zeus must levy justice as he will.

_Asklepios! my dead Asklepios! Had an hundred bolts been forged instead of one I had slain an hundred Cyclops for thy sake And suffered an hundred years of degradation!_

Earth that receivest my body for a space, I first saw light upon thee. Comfort me, And tame a little the untamed blood in me. Better will I endure to learn of thee Than of the envious Gods, whom this disgrace Serves for a secret feast to glut their hearts on. For we have loved each other, thou and I, And I have belted thee with golden arms, And I have claspt thee daily with hot kisses, And felt thee leap and pulse and answer to me Like a shy maid grown bold and glad with love. There's that in the core of thee that is so kin To the core of me, it holds us twain inseverable, Tho' from a billion blue-gold caverns of air Translucent waves of space roll up an ocean 'Twixt earth and sun: our hearts beat time together. My sister of the spheres has no such power To quicken thee, be lov'd of thee and love thee. She rains down light like argent snows; and thou, Part shadow'd, part-illumin'd, wholly chill'd, Submitt'st thyself to call her queen, who asks No ardent service of thee, earth, as I do. Yet, chaste twin-sister, we were of one birth; Thy veins run all the silver, mine the gold. What marvel Leto had nine days labour of us, Strenuously thus disparting snow from flame, To give the Gods one daughter all pure ice, One son all perfect fire?... O Thunderer! That spark of immortal fire which, pregnant in her, Evolved into my Godhead, issuèd Out of _thy_ Godhead; my humiliation Is thy humiliation, Zeus! I stand Supremest in thy shining progeny: I am thy glittering symbol fix'd in heaven To draw the dazed, adoring eyes of men: I am thy arm of vengeance, I the hand Bestowing thy good gifts: I am thy Voice Of mystic prophecy and divination Thro' which thou keep'st thy fingers on men's souls. Daughters and sons thou hast whose attributes, This one by twisty cunning, this by love Too often base, this by remorseless carnage Not bearing the high name of vengeance, these By the insidious lusts of gold and wine, Serve to express thee to the bodies of men; But I express thee to the ghost in them, For there is none whose vesture is like mine Weft only of the spirit's highest tissues, So that the world beholding thee thro' me Beholds thee at thy zenith, and exalted Out of the flesh struggles to sense an instant The music, fire and essence of Olympos. This Thunderer, wilt thou smirch? More dim, more dim Than the imperial spark thou quenchest in me Thou mak'st thy imperial fires whence I did spring, The fount of us so indissoluble That what shames thee shames me. Earth, is this vengeance?

Nay, I see clearer. Rest unstained of me, Thou God that art the father of my being. The spirit of me, which is _Thou_, makes cause with thee Against me. We must be inviolable Or men will point their fingers—when We fall.

_Asklepios! farewell, Asklepios!_

Earth, I will serve on thee my year of days Nor chafe beneath them like a petulant boy. Ay, tho' Zeus force my Godhead into bonds I will yet bear my bondage like a God.

Transcriber's Note

Obvious punctuation and spelling errors have been repaired.

End of Project Gutenberg's Pan-Worship and Other Poems, by Eleanor Farjeon