Chapter 15

Sweet my Love whom I loved to try for, Sweet my Love whom I love and sigh for, Will you once love me and sigh for me, You my Love whom I love and die for?

MEMENTO MORI.

Poor the pleasure Doled out by measure, Sweet though it be, while brief As falling of the leaf; Poor is pleasure By weight and measure.

Sweet the sorrow Which ends to-morrow; Sharp though it be and sore, It ends for evermore: Zest of sorrow, What ends to-morrow.

"ONE FOOT ON SEA, AND ONE ON SHORE."

"Oh tell me once and tell me twice And tell me thrice to make it plain, When we who part this weary day, When we who part shall meet again."

"When windflowers blossom on the sea And fishes skim along the plain, Then we who part this weary day, Then you and I shall meet again."

"Yet tell me once before we part, Why need we part who part in pain? If flowers must blossom on the sea, Why, we shall never meet again.

"My cheeks are paler than a rose, My tears are salter than the main, My heart is like a lump of ice If we must never meet again."

"Oh weep or laugh, but let me be, And live or die, for all's in vain; For life's in vain since we must part, And parting must not meet again

"Till windflowers blossom on the sea, And fishes skim along the plain; Pale rose of roses let me be, Your breaking heart breaks mine again."

BUDS AND BABIES.

A million buds are born that never blow, That sweet with promise lift a pretty head To blush and wither on a barren bed And leave no fruit to show.

Sweet, unfulfilled. Yet have I understood One joy, by their fragility made plain: Nothing was ever beautiful in vain, Or all in vain was good.

BOY JOHNNY.

"If you'll busk you as a bride And make ready, It's I will wed you with a ring, O fair lady."

"Shall I busk me as a bride, I so bonny, For you to wed me with a ring, O boy Johnny?"

"When you've busked you as a bride And made ready, Who else is there to marry you, O fair lady?"

"I will find my lover out, I so bonny, And you shall bear my wedding-train, O boy Johnny."

FREAKS OF FASHION.

Such a hubbub in the nests, Such a bustle and squeak! Nestlings, guiltless of a feather, Learning just to speak, Ask--"And how about the fashions?" From a cavernous beak.

Perched on bushes, perched on hedges, Perched on firm hahas, Perched on anything that holds them, Gay papas and grave mammas Teach the knowledge-thirsty nestlings: Hear the gay papas.

Robin says: "A scarlet waistcoat Will be all the wear, Snug, and also cheerful-looking For the frostiest air, Comfortable for the chest too When one comes to plume and pair."

"Neat gray hoods will be in vogue," Quoth a Jackdaw: "Glossy gray, Setting close, yet setting easy, Nothing fly-away; Suited to our misty mornings, _A la negligée_."

Flushing salmon, flushing sulphur, Haughty Cockatoos Answer--"Hoods may do for mornings, But for evenings choose High head-dresses, curved like crescents, Such as well-bred persons use."

"Top-knots, yes; yet more essential Still, a train or tail," Screamed the Peacock: "Gemmed and lustrous Not too stiff, and not too frail; Those are best which rearrange as Fans, and spread or trail."

Spoke the Swan, entrenched behind An inimitable neck: "After all, there's nothing sweeter For the lawn or lake Than simple white, if fine and flaky And absolutely free from speck."

"Yellow," hinted a Canary, "Warmer, not less _distingué_." "Peach color," put in a Lory, "Cannot look _outré_." "All the colors are in fashion, And are right," the Parrots say.

"Very well. But do contrast Tints harmonious," Piped a Blackbird, justly proud Of bill aurigerous; "Half the world may learn a lesson As to that from us."

Then a Stork took up the word: "Aim at height and _chic_: Not high heels, they're common; somehow, Stilted legs, not thick, Nor yet thin:" he just glanced downward And snapped to his beak.

Here a rustling and a whirring, As of fans outspread, Hinted that mammas felt anxious Lest the next thing said Might prove less than quite judicious, Or even underbred.

So a mother Auk resumed The broken thread of speech: "Let colors sort themselves, my dears, Yellow, or red, or peach; The main points, as it seems to me, We mothers have to teach,

"Are form and texture, elegance, An air reserved, sublime; The mode of wearing what we wear With due regard to month and clime. But now, let's all compose ourselves, It's almost breakfast-time."

A hubbub, a squeak, a bustle! Who cares to chatter or sing With delightful breakfast coming? Yet they whisper under the wing: "So we may wear whatever we like, Anything, everything!"

AN OCTOBER GARDEN.

In my Autumn garden I was fain To mourn among my scattered roses; Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses To Autumn's languid sun and rain When all the world is on the wane! Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June, Nor heard the nightingale in tune.

Broad-faced asters by my garden walk, You are but coarse compared with roses: More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk, That least and last which cold winds balk; A rose it is though least and last of all, A rose to me though at the fall.

"SUMMER IS ENDED."

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose Scentless, colorless, _this!_ Will it ever be thus (who knows?) Thus with our bliss, If we wait till the close?

Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end Sooner, later, at last, Which nothing can mar, nothing mend: An end locked fast, Bent we cannot re-bend.

PASSING AND GLASSING.

All things that pass Are woman's looking-glass; They show her how her bloom must fade, And she herself be laid With withered roses in the shade; With withered roses and the fallen peach, Unlovely, out of reach Of summer joy that was.

All things that pass Are woman's tiring-glass; The faded lavender is sweet, Sweet the dead violet Culled and laid by and cared for yet; The dried-up violets and dried lavender Still sweet, may comfort her, Nor need she cry Alas!

All things that pass Are wisdom's looking-glass; Being full of hope and fear, and still Brimful of good or ill, According to our work and will; For there is nothing new beneath the sun; Our doings have been done, And that which shall be was.

"I WILL ARISE."

Weary and weak,--accept my weariness; Weary and weak and downcast in my soul, With hope growing less and less, And with the goal Distant and dim,--accept my sore distress. I thought to reach the goal so long ago, At outset of the race I dreamed of rest, Not knowing what now I know Of breathless haste, Of long-drawn straining effort across the waste.

One only thing I knew, Thy love of me; One only thing I know, Thy sacred same Love of me full and free, A craving flame Of selfless love of me which burns in Thee. How can I think of thee, and yet grow chill; Of Thee, and yet grow cold and nigh to death? Re-energize my will, Rebuild my faith; I will arise and run, Thou giving me breath.

I will arise, repenting and in pain; I will arise, and smite upon my breast And turn to Thee again; Thou choosest best, Lead me along the road Thou makest plain. Lead me a little way, and carry me A little way, and listen to my sighs, And store my tears with Thee, And deign replies To feeble prayers;--O Lord, I will arise.

A PRODIGAL SON.

Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house, Which he kindled the night I went away? I turned once beneath the cedar boughs, And marked it gleam with a golden ray; Did he think to light me home some day?

Hungry here with the crunching swine, Hungry harvest have I to reap; In a dream I count my Father's kine, I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep, I watch his lambs that browse and leap.

There is plenty of bread at home, His servants have bread enough and to spare; The purple wine-fat froths with foam, Oil and spices make sweet the air, While I perish hungry and bare.

Rich and blessed those servants, rather Than I who see not my Father's face! I will arise and go to my Father:-- "Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace, Grant me, Father, a servant's place."

SOEUR LOUISE DE LA MISÉRICORDE.

(1674.)

I have desired, and I have been desired; But now the days are over of desire, Now dust and dying embers mock my fire; Where is the hire for which my life was hired? Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Longing and love, pangs of a perished pleasure, Longing and love, a disenkindled fire, And memory a bottomless gulf of mire, And love a fount of tears outrunning measure; Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Now from my heart, love's deathbed, trickles, trickles, Drop by drop slowly, drop by drop of fire, The dross of life, of love, of spent desire; Alas, my rose of life gone all to prickles,-- Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Oh vanity of vanities, desire; Stunting my hope which might have strained up higher, Turning my garden plot to barren mire; Oh death-struck love, oh disenkindled fire, Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

AN "IMMURATA" SISTER.

Life flows down to death; we cannot bind That current that it should not flee: Life flows down to death, as rivers find The inevitable sea.

Men work and think, but women feel; And so (for I'm a woman, I) And so I should be glad to die And cease from impotence of zeal, And cease from hope, and cease from dread, And cease from yearnings without gain, And cease from all this world of pain, And be at peace among the dead.

Hearts that die, by death renew their youth, Lightened of this life that doubts and dies; Silent and contented, while the Truth Unveiled makes them wise.

Why should I seek and never find That something which I have not had? Fair and unutterably sad The world hath sought time out of mind; The world hath sought and I have sought,-- Ah, empty world and empty I! For we have spent our strength for nought, And soon it will be time to die.

Sparks fly upward toward their fount of fire, Kindling, flashing, hovering:-- Kindle, flash, my soul; mount higher and higher, Thou whole burnt-offering!

"IF THOU SAYEST, BEHOLD, WE KNEW IT NOT." --Proverbs xxiv. 11, 12.

1.

I have done I know not what,--what have I done? My brother's blood, my brother's soul, doth cry: And I find no defence, find no reply, No courage more to run this race I run Not knowing what I have done, have left undone; Ah me, these awful unknown hours that fly Fruitless it may be, fleeting fruitless by Rank with death-savor underneath the sun. For what avails it that I did not know The deed I did? what profits me the plea That had I known I had not wronged him so? Lord Jesus Christ, my God, him pity Thou; Lord, if it may be, pity also me: In judgment pity, and in death, and now.

2.

Thou Who hast borne all burdens, bear our load, Bear Thou our load whatever load it be; Our guilt, our shame, our helpless misery, Bear Thou Who only canst, O God my God. Seek us and find us, for we cannot Thee Or seek or find or hold or cleave unto: We cannot do or undo; Lord, undo Our self-undoing, for Thine is the key Of all we are not though we might have been. Dear Lord, if ever mercy moved Thy mind, If so be love of us can move Thee yet, If still the nail-prints in Thy Hands are seen, Remember us,--yea, how shouldst Thou forget? Remember us for good, and seek, and find.

3.

Each soul I might have succored, may have slain, All souls shall face me at the last Appeal, That great last moment poised for woe or weal, That final moment for man's bliss or bane. Vanity of vanities, yea all is vain Which then will not avail or help or heal: Disfeatured faces, worn-out knees that kneel, Will more avail than strength or beauty then. Lord, by Thy Passion,--when Thy Face was marred In sight of earth and hell tumultuous, And Thy heart failed in Thee like melting wax, And Thy Blood dropped more precious than the nard,-- Lord, for Thy sake, not ours, supply our lacks, For Thine own sake, not ours, Christ, pity us.

THE THREAD OF LIFE.

1.

The irresponsive silence of the land, The irresponsive sounding of the sea, Speak both one message of one sense to me:-- Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band Of inner solitude; we bind not thee; But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free? What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?-- And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek, And sometimes I remember days of old When fellowship seemed not so far to seek And all the world and I seemed much less cold, And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold, And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.

2.

Thus am I mine own prison. Everything Around me free and sunny and at ease: Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing And where all winds make various murmuring; Where bees are found, with honey for the bees; Where sounds are music, and where silences Are music of an unlike fashioning. Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew, And smile a moment and a moment sigh Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you? But soon I put the foolish fancy by: I am not what I have nor what I do; But what I was I am, I am even I.

3.

Therefore myself is that one only thing I hold to use or waste, to keep or give; My sole possession every day I live, And still mine own despite Time's winnowing. Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative; Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve; And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing. And this myself as king unto my King I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me; Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing A sweet new song of His redeemed set free; He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting? And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?

AN OLD-WORLD THICKET.

..."Una selva oscura."--Dante.

Awake or sleeping (for I know not which) I was or was not mazed within a wood Where every mother-bird brought up her brood Safe in some leafy niche Of oak or ash, of cypress or of beech,

Of silvery aspen trembling delicately, Of plane or warmer-tinted sycamore, Of elm that dies in secret from the core, Of ivy weak and free, Of pines, of all green lofty things that be.

Such birds they seemed as challenged each desire; Like spots of azure heaven upon the wing, Like downy emeralds that alight and sing, Like actual coals on fire, Like anything they seemed, and everything.

Such mirth they made, such warblings and such chat With tongue of music in a well-tuned beak, They seemed to speak more wisdom than we speak, To make our music flat And all our subtlest reasonings wild or weak.

Their meat was nought but flowers like butterflies, With berries coral-colored or like gold; Their drink was only dew, which blossoms hold Deep where the honey lies; Their wings and tails were lit by sparkling eyes.

The shade wherein they revelled was a shade That danced and twinkled to the unseen sun; Branches and leaves cast shadows one by one, And all their shadows swayed In breaths of air that rustled and that played.

A sound of waters neither rose nor sank, And spread a sense of freshness through the air; It seemed not here or there, but everywhere, As if the whole earth drank, Root fathom deep and strawberry on its bank.

But I who saw such things as I have said, Was overdone with utter weariness; And walked in care, as one whom fears oppress Because above his head Death hangs, or damage, or the dearth of bread.

Each sore defeat of my defeated life Faced and outfaced me in that bitter hour; And turned to yearning palsy all my power, And all my peace to strife, Self stabbing self with keen lack-pity knife.

Sweetness of beauty moved me to despair, Stung me to anger by its mere content, Made me all lonely on that way I went, Piled care upon my care, Brimmed full my cup, and stripped me empty and bare:

For all that was but showed what all was not, But gave clear proof of what might never be; Making more destitute my poverty, And yet more blank my lot, And me much sadder by its jubilee.

Therefore I sat me down: for wherefore walk? And closed mine eyes: for wherefore see or hear? Alas, I had no shutter to mine ear, And could not shun the talk Of all rejoicing creatures far or near.

Without my will I hearkened and I heard (Asleep or waking, for I know not which), Till note by note the music changed its pitch; Bird ceased to answer bird, And every wind sighed softly if it stirred.

The drip of widening waters seemed to weep, All fountains sobbed and gurgled as they sprang, Somewhere a cataract cried out in its leap Sheer down a headlong steep; High over all cloud-thunders gave a clang.

Such universal sound of lamentation I heard and felt, fain not to feel or hear; Nought else there seemed but anguish far and near; Nought else but all creation Moaning and groaning wrung by pain or fear,

Shuddering in the misery of its doom: My heart then rose a rebel against light, Scouring all earth and heaven and depth and height, Ingathering wrath and gloom, Ingathering wrath to wrath and night to night.

Ah me, the bitterness of such revolt, All impotent, all hateful, and all hate, That kicks and breaks itself against the bolt Of an imprisoning fate, And vainly shakes, and cannot shake the gate.

Agony to agony, deep called to deep, Out of the deep I called of my desire; My strength was weakness and my heart was fire; Mine eyes that would not weep Or sleep, scaled height and depth, and could not sleep;

The eyes, I mean, of my rebellious soul, For still my bodily eyes were closed and dark: A random thing I seemed without a mark, Racing without a goal, Adrift upon life's sea without an ark.

More leaden than the actual self of lead Outer and inner darkness weighed on me. The tide of anger ebbed. Then fierce and free Surged full above my head The moaning tide of helpless misery.

Why should I breathe, whose breath was but a sigh? Why should I live, who drew such painful breath? Oh weary work, the unanswerable why!-- Yet I, why should I die, Who had no hope in life, no hope in death?

Grasses and mosses and the fallen leaf Make peaceful bed for an indefinite term; But underneath the grass there gnaws a worm-- Haply, there gnaws a grief-- Both, haply always; not, as now, so brief.

The pleasure I remember, it is past; The pain I feel is passing, passing by; Thus all the world is passing, and thus I: All things that cannot last Have grown familiar, and are born to die.

And being familiar, have so long been borne That habit trains us not to break but bend: Mourning grows natural to us who mourn In foresight of an end, But that which ends not who shall brave or mend?

Surely the ripe fruits tremble on their bough, They cling and linger trembling till they drop: I, trembling, cling to dying life; for how Face the perpetual Now? Birthless and deathless, void of start or stop,

Void of repentance, void of hope and fear, Of possibility, alternative, Of all that ever made us bear to live From night to morning here, Of promise even which has no gift to give.

The wood, and every creature of the wood, Seemed mourning with me in an undertone; Soft scattered chirpings and a windy moan, Trees rustling where they stood And shivered, showed compassion for my mood.

Rage to despair; and now despair had turned Back to self-pity and mere weariness, With yearnings like a smouldering fire that burned, And might grow more or less, And might die out or wax to white excess.

Without, within me, music seemed to be; Something not music, yet most musical, Silence and sound in heavenly harmony; At length a pattering fall Of feet, a bell, and bleatings, broke through all.

Then I looked up. The wood lay in a glow From golden sunset and from ruddy sky; The sun had stooped to earth though once so high; Had stooped to earth, in slow Warm dying loveliness brought near and low.

Each water-drop made answer to the light, Lit up a spark and showed the sun his face; Soft purple shadows paved the grassy space And crept from height to height, From height to loftier height crept up apace.

While opposite the sun a gazing moon Put on his glory for her coronet, Kindling her luminous coldness to its noon, As his great splendor set; One only star made up her train as yet.

Each twig was tipped with gold, each leaf was edged And veined with gold from the gold-flooded west; Each mother-bird, and mate-bird, and unfledged Nestling, and curious nest, Displayed a gilded moss or beak or breast.

And filing peacefully between the trees, Having the moon behind them, and the sun Full in their meek mild faces, walked at ease A homeward flock, at peace With one another and with every one.

A patriarchal ram with tinkling bell Led all his kin; sometimes one browsing sheep Hung back a moment, or one lamb would leap And frolic in a dell; Yet still they kept together, journeying well,

And bleating, one or other, many or few, Journeying together toward the sunlit west; Mild face by face, and woolly breast by breast, Patient, sun-brightened too, Still journeying toward the sunset and their rest.

"ALL THY WORKS PRAISE THEE, O LORD."

A PROCESSIONAL OF CREATION.

All.

I, All-Creation, sing my song of praise To God Who made me and vouchsafes my days, And sends me forth by multitudinous ways.

Seraph.

I, like my Brethren, burn eternally With love of Him Who is Love, and loveth me; The Holy, Holy, Holy Unity.

Cherub.