Chapter 3

He strove to match her scorn with scorn, He faltered in his place: "Lady," he said,--"Maude Clare," he said,-- "Maude Clare":--and hid his face.

She turned to Nell: "My Lady Nell, I have a gift for you; Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone, Or, were it flowers, the dew.

"Take my share of a fickle heart, Mine of a paltry love: Take it or leave it as you will, I wash my hands thereof."

"And what you leave," said Nell, "I'll take, And what you spurn, I'll wear; For he's my lord for better and worse, And him I love, Maude Clare.

"Yea, though you're taller by the head, More wise, and much more fair; I'll love him till he loves me best, Me best of all, Maude Clare."

ECHO.

Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years.

O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimful of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death: Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago!

WINTER: MY SECRET.

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I: Perhaps some day, who knows? But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows, And you're too curious: fie! You want to hear it? well: Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there's none: Suppose there is no secret after all, But only just my fun. To-day's a nipping day, a biting day; In which one wants a shawl, A veil, a cloak, and other wraps: I cannot ope to every one who taps, And let the draughts come whistling through my hall; Come bounding and surrounding me, Come buffeting, astounding me, Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all. I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows His nose to Russian snows To be pecked at by every wind that blows? You would not peck? I thank you for good-will, Believe, but leave that truth untested still.

Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust March with its peck of dust, Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers, Nor even May, whose flowers One frost may wither through the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day, When drowsy birds sing less and less, And golden fruit is ripening to excess, If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud, And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, Perhaps my secret I may say, Or you may guess.

ANOTHER SPRING.

If I might see another Spring I'd not plant summer flowers and wait: I'd have my crocuses at once, My leafless pink mezereons, My chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yet My white or azure violet, Leaf-nested primrose; anything To blow at once not late.

If I might see another Spring I'd listen to the daylight birds That build their nests and pair and sing, Nor wait for mateless nightingale; I'd listen to the lusty herds, The ewes with lambs as white as snow, I'd find out music in the hail And all the winds that blow.

If I might see another Spring-- O stinging comment on my past That all my past results in "if"-- If I might see another Spring I'd laugh to-day, to-day is brief; I would not wait for anything: I'd use to-day that cannot last, Be glad to-day and sing.

A PEAL OF BELLS.

Strike the bells wantonly, Tinkle tinkle well; Bring me wine, bring me flowers, Ring the silver bell. All my lamps burn scented oil, Hung on laden orange-trees, Whose shadowed foliage is the foil To golden lamps and oranges. Heap my golden plates with fruit, Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe; Strike the bells and breathe the pipe; Shut out showers from summer hours; Silence that complaining lute; Shut out thinking, shut out pain, From hours that cannot come again.

Strike the bells solemnly, Ding dong deep: My friend is passing to his bed, Fast asleep; There's plaited linen round his head, While foremost go his feet,-- His feet that cannot carry him. My feast's a show, my lights are dim; Be still, your music is not sweet,-- There is no music more for him: His lights are out, his feast is done; His bowl that sparkled to the brim Is drained, is broken, cannot hold; My blood is chill, his blood is cold; His death is full, and mine begun.

FATA MORGANA.

A blue-eyed phantom far before Is laughing, leaping toward the sun; Like lead I chase it evermore, I pant and run.

It breaks the sunlight bound on bound; Goes singing as it leaps along To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound A dreamy song.

I laugh, it is so brisk and gay; It is so far before, I weep: I hope I shall lie down some day, Lie down and sleep.

"NO, THANK YOU, JOHN."

I never said I loved you, John: Why will you tease me, day by day, And wax a weariness to think upon With always "do" and "pray"?

You know I never loved you, John; No fault of mine made me your toast: Why will you haunt me with a face as wan As shows an hour-old ghost?

I dare say Meg or Moll would take Pity upon you, if you'd ask: And pray don't remain single for my sake Who can't perform that task.

I have no heart?--Perhaps I have not; But then you're mad to take offence That I don't give you what I have not got: Use your own common sense.

Let bygones be bygones: Don't call me false, who owed not to be true: I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns Than answer "Yes" to you.

Let's mar our pleasant days no more, Song-birds of passage, days of youth: Catch at to-day, forget the days before: I'll wink at your untruth.

Let us strike hands as hearty friends; No more, no less: and friendship's good: Only don't keep in view ulterior ends, And points not understood

In open treaty. Rise above Quibbles and shuffling off and on: Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,-- No, thank you, John.

MAY.

I cannot tell you how it was; But this I know: it came to pass Upon a bright and breezy day When May was young; ah, pleasant May! As yet the poppies were not born Between the blades of tender corn; The last eggs had not hatched as yet, Nor any bird foregone its mate.

I cannot tell you what it was; But this I know: it did but pass. It passed away with sunny May, With all sweet things it passed away, And left me old, and cold, and gray.

A PAUSE OF THOUGHT.

I looked for that which is not, nor can be, And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth But years must pass before a hope of youth Is resigned utterly.

I watched and waited with a steadfast will: And though the object seemed to flee away That I so longed for, ever day by day I watched and waited still.

Sometimes I said: This thing shall be no more; My expectation wearies and shall cease; I will resign it now and be at peace: Yet never gave it o'er.

Sometimes I said: It is an empty name I long for; to a name why should I give The peace of all the days I have to live?-- Yet gave it all the same.

Alas, thou foolish one! alike unfit For healthy joy and salutary pain: Thou knowest the chase useless, and again Turnest to follow it.

TWILIGHT CALM.

O pleasant eventide! Clouds on the western side Grow gray and grayer, hiding the warm sun: The bees and birds, their happy labors done, Seek their close nests and bide.

Screened in the leafy wood The stock-doves sit and brood: The very squirrel leaps from bough to bough But lazily; pauses; and settles now Where once he stored his food.

One by one the flowers close, Lily and dewy rose Shutting their tender petals from the moon: The grasshoppers are still; but not so soon Are still the noisy crows.

The dormouse squats and eats Choice little dainty bits Beneath the spreading roots of a broad lime; Nibbling his fill he stops from time to time And listens where he sits.

From far the lowings come Of cattle driven home: From farther still the wind brings fitfully The vast continual murmur of the sea, Now loud, now almost dumb.

The gnats whirl in the air, The evening gnats; and there The owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sail For prey; the bat wakes; and the shell-less snail Comes forth, clammy and bare.

Hark! that's the nightingale, Telling the self-same tale Her song told when this ancient earth was young: So echoes answered when her song was sung In the first wooded vale.

We call it love and pain The passion of her strain; And yet we little understand or know: Why should it not be rather joy that so Throbs in each throbbing vein?

In separate herds the deer Lie; here the bucks, and here The does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn: Through all the hours of night until the dawn They sleep, forgetting fear.

The hare sleeps where it lies, With wary half-closed eyes; The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck: Only the fox is out, some heedless duck Or chicken to surprise.

Remote, each single star Comes out, till there they are All shining brightly: how the dews fall damp! While close at hand the glow-worm lights her lamp Or twinkles from afar.

But evening now is done As much as if the sun Day-giving had arisen in the east: For night has come; and the great calm has ceased, The quiet sands have run.

WIFE TO HUSBAND.

Pardon the faults in me, For the love of years ago: Good by. I must drift across the sea, I must sink into the snow, I must die.

You can bask in this sun, You can drink wine, and eat: Good by. I must gird myself and run, Though with unready feet: I must die.

Blank sea to sail upon, Cold bed to sleep in: Good by. While you clasp, I must be gone For all your weeping: I must die.

A kiss for one friend, And a word for two,-- Good by:-- A lock that you must send, A kindness you must do: I must die.

Not a word for you, Not a lock or kiss, Good by. We, one, must part in two: Verily death is this: I must die.

THREE SEASONS.

"A cup for hope!" she said, In springtime ere the bloom was old: The crimson wine was poor and cold By her mouth's richer red.

"A cup for love!" how low, How soft the words; and all the while Her blush was rippling with a smile Like summer after snow.

"A cup for memory!" Cold cup that one must drain alone: While autumn winds are up and moan Across the barren sea.

Hope, memory, love: Hope for fair morn, and love for day, And memory for the evening gray And solitary dove.

MIRAGE.

The hope I dreamed of was a dream, Was but a dream; and now I wake Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old, For a dream's sake.

I hang my harp upon a tree, A weeping willow in a lake; I hang my silenced harp there, wrung and snapt For a dream's sake.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart; My silent heart, lie still and break: Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed For a dream's sake.

SHUT OUT.

The door was shut. I looked between Its iron bars; and saw it lie, My garden, mine, beneath the sky, Pied with all flowers bedewed and green:

From bough to bough the song-birds crossed, From flower to flower the moths and bees; With all its nests and stately trees It had been mine, and it was lost.

A shadowless spirit kept the gate, Blank and unchanging like the grave. I peering through said: "Let me have Some buds to cheer my outcast state."

He answered not. "Or give me, then, But one small twig from shrub or tree; And bid my home remember me Until I come to it again."

The spirit was silent; but he took Mortar and stone to build a wall; He left no loophole great or small Through which my straining eyes might look:

So now I sit here quite alone Blinded with tears; nor grieve for that, For naught is left worth looking at Since my delightful land is gone.

A violet bed is budding near, Wherein a lark has made her nest: And good they are, but not the best; And dear they are, but not so dear.

SOUND SLEEP.

Some are laughing, some are weeping; She is sleeping, only sleeping. Round her rest wild flowers are creeping; There the wind is heaping, heaping Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping, By the cornfields ripe for reaping.

There are lilies, and there blushes The deep rose, and there the thrushes Sing till latest sunlight flushes In the west; a fresh wind brushes Through the leaves while evening hushes.

There by day the lark is singing And the grass and weeds are springing: There by night the bat is winging; There forever winds are bringing Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing.

Night and morning, noon and even, Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven: The long strife at length is striven: Till her grave-bands shall be riven Such is the good portion given To her soul at rest and shriven.

SONG.

She sat and sang alway By the green margin of a stream, Watching the fishes leap and play Beneath the glad sunbeam.

I sat and wept alway Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam, Watching the blossoms of the May Weep leaves into the stream.

I wept for memory; She sang for hope that is so fair: My tears were swallowed by the sea; Her songs died on the air.

SONG.

When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.

DEAD BEFORE DEATH.

SONNET.

Ah! changed and cold, how changed and very cold! With stiffened smiling lips and cold calm eyes: Changed, yet the same; much knowing, little wise; _This_ was the promise of the days of old! Grown hard and stubborn in the ancient mould, Grown rigid in the sham of lifelong lies: We hoped for better things as years would rise, But it is over as a tale once told. All fallen the blossom that no fruitage bore, All lost the present and the future time, All lost, all lost, the lapse that went before: So lost till death shut-to the opened door, So lost from chime to everlasting chime, So cold and lost forever evermore.

BITTER FOR SWEET.

Summer is gone with all its roses, Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers, Its warm air and refreshing showers: And even Autumn closes.

Yea, Autumn's chilly self is going, And winter comes which is yet colder; Each day the hoar-frost waxes bolder And the last buds cease blowing.

"THE MASTER IS COME, AND CALLETH FOR THEE."

Who calleth?--Thy Father calleth, Run, O Daughter, to wait on Him: He Who chasteneth but for a season Trims thy lamp that it burn not dim.

Who calleth?--Thy Master calleth, Sit, Disciple, and learn of Him: He Who teacheth wisdom of Angels Makes thee wise as the Cherubim,

Who calleth?--Thy Monarch calleth, Rise, O Subject, and follow Him: He is stronger than Death or Devil, Fear not thou if the foe be grim.

Who calleth?--Thy Lord God calleth. Fall, O Creature, adoring Him: He is jealous, thy God Almighty, Count not dear to thee life or limb.

Who calleth?--Thy Bridegroom calleth, Soar, O Bride, with the Seraphim: He Who loves thee as no man loveth, Bids thee give up thy heart to Him.

REST.

SONNET.

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth Of all that irked her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise. Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long.

THE FIRST SPRING DAY.

I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun And crocus fires are kindling one by one: Sing, robin, sing! I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.

I wonder if the spring-tide of this year Will bring another Spring both lost and dear; If heart and spirit will find out their Spring, Or if the world alone will bud and sing: Sing, hope, to me! Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.

The sap will surely quicken soon or late, The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate; So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom, Or in this world, or in the world to come: Sing, voice of Spring! Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.

THE CONVENT THRESHOLD.

There's blood between us, love, my love, There's father's blood, there's brother's blood; And blood's a bar I cannot pass: I choose the stairs that mount above, Stair after golden skyward stair, To city and to sea of glass. My lily feet are soiled with mud, With scarlet mud which tells a tale Of hope that was, of guilt that was, Of love that shall not yet avail; Alas, my heart, if I could bare My heart, this self-same stain is there: I seek the sea of glass and fire To wash the spot, to burn the snare; Lo, stairs are meant to lift us higher: Mount with me, mount the kindled stair.

Your eyes look earthward, mine look up. I see the far-off city grand, Beyond the hills a watered land, Beyond the gulf a gleaming strand Of mansions where the righteous sup; Who sleep at ease among their trees, Or wake to sing a cadenced hymn With Cherubim and Seraphim; They bore the Cross, they drained the cup, Racked, roasted, crushed, wrenched limb from limb, They the offscouring of the world: The heaven of starry heavens unfurled, The sun before their face is dim.

You looking earthward, what see you? Milk-white, wine-flushed among the vines, Up and down leaping, to and fro, Most glad, most full, made strong with wines, Blooming as peaches pearled with dew, Their golden windy hair afloat, Love-music warbling in their throat, Young men and women come and go.

You linger, yet the time is short: Flee for your life, gird up your strength To flee: the shadows stretched at length Show that day wanes, that night draws nigh; Flee to the mountain, tarry not. Is this a time for smile and sigh, For songs among the secret trees Where sudden bluebirds nest and sport? The time is short and yet you stay: To-day, while it is called to-day, Kneel, wrestle, knock, do violence, pray; To-day is short, to-morrow nigh: Why will you die? why will you die?

You sinned with me a pleasant sin: Repent with me, for I repent. Woe's me the lore I must unlearn! Woe's me that easy way we went, So rugged when I would return! How long until my sleep begin, How long shall stretch these nights and days? Surely, clean Angels cry, she prays; She laves her soul with tedious tears: How long must stretch these years and years?

I turn from you my cheeks and eyes, My hair which you shall see no more,-- Alas for joy that went before, For joy that dies, for love that dies. Only my lips still turn to you, My livid lips that cry, Repent! O weary life, O weary Lent, O weary time whose stars are few!

How should I rest in Paradise, Or sit on steps of Heaven alone? If Saints and Angels spoke of love Should I not answer from my throne? Have pity upon me, ye my friends, For I have heard the sound thereof: Should I not turn with yearning eyes, Turn earthwards with a pitiful pang? O save me from a pang in Heaven! By all the gifts we took and gave, Repent, repent, and be forgiven: This life is long, but yet it ends; Repent and purge your soul and save: No gladder song the morning stars Upon their birthday morning sang Than Angels sing when one repents.

I tell you what I dreamed last night: A spirit with transfigured face Fire-footed clomb an infinite space. I heard his hundred pinions clang, Heaven-bells rejoicing rang and rang, Heaven-air was thrilled with subtle scents, Worlds spun upon their rushing cars: He mounted shrieking: "Give me light!" Still light was poured on him, more light; Angels, Archangels he outstripped, Exultant in exceeding might, And trod the skirts of Cherubim. Still "Give me light," he shrieked; and dipped

His thirsty face, and drank a sea, Athirst with thirst it could not slake. I saw him, drunk with knowledge, take From aching brows the aureole crown,-- His locks writhed like a cloven snake,-- He left his throne to grovel down And lick the dust of Seraphs' feet: For what is knowledge duly weighed? Knowledge is strong, but love is sweet; Yea, all the progress he had made Was but to learn that all is small Save love, for love is all in all.

I tell you what I dreamed last night: It was not dark, it was not light, Cold dews had drenched my plenteous hair Through clay; you came to seek me there. And "Do you dream of me?" you said. My heart was dust that used to leap To you; I answered half asleep: "My pillow is damp, my sheets are red, There's a leaden tester to my bed: Find you a warmer playfellow, A warmer pillow for your head, A kinder love to love than mine." You wrung your hands; while I like lead Crushed downwards through the sodden earth: You smote your hands but not in mirth, And reeled but were not drunk with wine.

For all night long I dreamed of you: I woke and prayed against my will, Then slept to dream of you again. At length I rose and knelt and prayed: I cannot write the words I said, My words were slow, my tears were few; But through the dark my silence spoke Like thunder. When this morning broke, My face was pinched, my hair was gray, And frozen blood was on the sill Where stifling in my struggle I lay.