Chapter 5
"My love no more," I muttered, stunned with pain: I shed no tear, I wrung no passionate hand, Till something whispered: "You shall meet again, Meet in a distant land."
Then with a cry like famine I arose, I lit my candle, searched from room to room, Searched up and down; a war of winds that froze Swept through the blank of gloom.
I searched day after day, night after night; Scant change there came to me of night or day: "No more," I wailed, "no more"; and trimmed my light, And gnashed, but did not pray,
Until my heart broke and my spirit broke: Upon the frost-bound floor I stumbled, fell, And moaned: "It is enough: withhold the stroke. Farewell, O love, farewell."
Then life swooned from me. And I heard the song Of spheres and spirits rejoicing over me: One cried: "Our sister, she hath suffered long."-- One answered: "Make her see."--
One cried: "O blessed she who no more pain, Who no more disappointment shall receive."-- One answered: "Not so: she must live again; Strengthen thou her to live."
So, while I lay entranced, a curtain seemed To shrivel with crackling from before my face, Across mine eyes a waxing radiance beamed And showed a certain place.
I saw a vision of a woman, where Night and new morning strive for domination; Incomparably pale, and almost fair, And sad beyond expression.
Her eyes were like some fire-enshrining gem, Were stately like the stars, and yet were tender, Her figure charmed me like a windy stem Quivering and drooped and slender.
I stood upon the outer barren ground, She stood on inner ground that budded flowers; While circling in their never-slackening round Danced by the mystic hours.
But every flower was lifted on a thorn, And every thorn shot upright from its sands To gall her feet; hoarse laughter pealed in scorn With cruel clapping hands.
She bled and wept, yet did not shrink; her strength Was strung up until daybreak of delight: She measured measureless sorrow toward its length, And breadth, and depth, and height.
Then marked I how a chain sustained her form, A chain of living links not made nor riven: It stretched sheer up through lightning, wind, and storm, And anchored fast in heaven.
One cried: "How long? yet founded on the Rock She shall do battle, suffer, and attain."-- One answered: "Faith quakes in the tempest shock: Strengthen her soul again."
I saw a cup sent down and come to her Brimful of loathing and of bitterness: She drank with livid lips that seemed to stir The depth, not make it less.
But as she drank I spied a hand distil New wine and virgin honey; making it First bitter-sweet, then sweet indeed, until She tasted only sweet.
Her lips and cheeks waxed rosy-fresh and young; Drinking she sang: "My soul shall nothing want"; And drank anew: while soft a song was sung, A mystical slow chant.
One cried: "The wounds are faithful of a friend: The wilderness shall blossom as a rose."-- One answered: "Rend the veil, declare the end, Strengthen her ere she goes."
Then earth and heaven were rolled up like a scroll; Time and space, change and death, had passed away; Weight, number, measure, each had reached its whole: The day had come, that day.
Multitudes--multitudes--stood up in bliss, Made equal to the angels, glorious, fair; With harps, palms, wedding-garments, kiss of peace, And crowned and haloed hair.
They sang a song, a new song in the height, Harping with harps to Him Who is Strong and True: They drank new wine, their eyes saw with new light, Lo, all things were made new.
Tier beyond tier they rose and rose and rose So high that it was dreadful, flames with flames: No man could number them, no tongue disclose Their secret sacred names.
As though one pulse stirred all, one rush of blood Fed all, one breath swept through them myriad voiced, They struck their harps, cast down their crowns, they stood And worshipped and rejoiced.
Each face looked one way like a moon new-lit, Each face looked one way towards its Sun of Love; Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it And knew no end thereof.
Glory touched glory on each blessed head, Hands locked dear hands never to sunder more: These were the new-begotten from the dead Whom the great birthday bore.
Heart answered heart, soul answered soul at rest, Double against each other, filled, sufficed: All loving, loved of all; but loving best And best beloved of Christ.
I saw that one who lost her love in pain, Who trod on thorns, who drank the loathsome cup; The lost in night, in day was found again; The fallen was lifted up.
They stood together in the blessed noon, They sang together through the length of days; Each loving face bent Sunwards like a moon New-lit with love and praise.
Therefore, O friend, I would not if I might Rebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyed One time to dwell: my soul shall walk in white, Cast down but not destroyed.
Therefore in patience I possess my soul; Yea, therefore as a flint I set my face, To pluck down, to build up again the whole-- But in a distant place.
These thorns are sharp, yet I can tread on them; This cup is loathsome, yet He makes it sweet; My face is steadfast toward Jerusalem, My heart remembers it.
I lift the hanging hands, the feeble knees-- I, precious more than seven times molten gold-- Until the day when from His storehouses God shall bring new and old;
Beauty for ashes, oil of joy for grief, Garment of praise for spirit of heaviness: Although to-day I fade as doth a leaf, I languish and grow less.
Although to-day He prunes my twigs with pain, Yet doth His blood nourish and warm my root: To-morrow I shall put forth buds again, And clothe myself with fruit.
Although to-day I walk in tedious ways, To-day His staff is turned into a rod, Yet will I wait for Him the appointed days And stay upon my God.
OLD AND NEW YEAR DITTIES.
1.
New Year met me somewhat sad: Old Year leaves me tired, Stripped of favorite things I had, Balked of much desired: Yet farther on my road to-day, God willing, farther on my way.
New Year coming on apace What have you to give me? Bring you scathe, or bring you grace, Face me with an honest face; You shall not deceive me: Be it good or ill, be it what you will, It needs shall help me on my road, My rugged way to heaven, please God.
2.
Watch with me, men, women, and children dear, You whom I love, for whom I hope and fear, Watch with me this last vigil of the year. Some hug their business, some their pleasure-scheme; Some seize the vacant hour to sleep or dream; Heart locked in heart some kneel and watch apart.
Watch with me, blessed spirits, who delight All through the holy night to walk in white, Or take your ease after the long-drawn fight. I know not if they watch with me: I know They count this eve of resurrection slow, And cry, "How long?" with urgent utterance strong.
Watch with me, Jesus, in my loneliness: Though others say me nay, yet say Thou yes; Though others pass me by, stop Thou to bless. Yea, Thou dost stop with me this vigil night; To-night of pain, to-morrow of delight: I, Love, am Thine; Thou, Lord, my God, art mine.
3.
Passing away, saith the World, passing away: Chances, beauty and youth sapped day by day: Thy life never continueth in one stay. Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to gray That hath won neither laurel nor bay? I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May: Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay On my bosom for aye. Then I answered: Yea.
Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away: With its burden of fear and hope, of labor and play; Hearken what the past doth witness and say: Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array, A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay. At midnight, at cock-crow, at morning, one certain day Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay: Watch thou and pray. Then I answered: Yea.
Passing away, saith my God, passing away: Winter passeth after the long delay: New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray, Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May. Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray. Arise, come away, night is past, and lo it is day, My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say. Then I answered: Yea.
AMEN.
It is over. What is over? Nay, how much is over truly!-- Harvest days we toiled to sow for; Now the sheaves are gathered newly, Now the wheat is garnered duly.
It is finished. What is finished? Much is finished known or unknown: Lives are finished; time diminished; Was the fallow field left unsown? Will these buds be always unblown?
It suffices. What suffices? All suffices reckoned rightly: Spring shall bloom where now the ice is, Roses make the bramble sightly, And the quickening sun shine brightly, And the latter wind blow lightly, And my garden teem with spices.
MOTHER COUNTRY.
Oh what is that country And where can it be, Not mine own country, But dearer far to me? Yet mine own country, If I one day may see Its spices and cedars, Its gold and ivory.
As I lie dreaming It rises, that land; There rises before me Its green golden strand, With the bowing cedars And the shining sand; It sparkles and flashes Like a shaken brand.
Do angels lean nearer While I lie and long? I see their soft plumage And catch their windy song, Like the rise of a high tide Sweeping full and strong; I mark the outskirts Of their reverend throng.
Oh what is a king here, Or what is a boor? Here all starve together, All dwarfed and poor; Here Death's hand knocketh At door after door, He thins the dancers From the festal floor.
Oh what is a handmaid, Or what is a queen? All must lie down together Where the turf is green, The foulest face hidden, The fairest not seen; Gone as if never They had breathed or been.
Gone from sweet sunshine Underneath the sod, Turned from warm flesh and blood To senseless clod; Gone as if never They had toiled or trod, Gone out of sight of all Except our God.
Shut into silence From the accustomed song Shut into solitude From all earth's throng, Run down though swift of foot, Thrust down though strong; Life made an end of, Seemed it short or long.
Life made an end of, Life but just begun; Life finished yesterday, Its last sand run; Life new-born with the morrow Fresh as the sun: While done is done for ever; Undone, undone.
And if that life is life, This is but a breath, The passage of a dream And the shadow of death; But a vain shadow If one considereth; Vanity of vanities, As the Preacher saith.
THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS, ETC.
THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS.
Till all sweet gums and juices flow, Till the blossom of blossoms blow, The long hours go and come and go, The bride she sleepeth, waketh, sleepeth, Waiting for one whose coming is slow:-- Hark! the bride weepeth.
"How long shall I wait, come heat come rime?"-- "Till the strong Prince comes, who must come in time," Her women say. "There's a mountain to climb, A river to ford. Sleep, dream and sleep: Sleep," they say: "we've muffled the chime, Better dream than weep."
In his world-end palace the strong Prince sat, Taking his ease on cushion and mat, Close at hand lay his staff and his hat "When wilt thou start? the bride waits, O youth."-- "Now the moon's at full; I tarried for that, Now I start in truth.
"But tell me first, true voice of my doom, Of my veiled bride in her maiden bloom; Keeps she watch through glare and through gloom, Watch for me asleep and awake?"-- "Spell-bound she watches in one white room, And is patient for thy sake.
"By her head lilies and rosebuds grow; The lilies droop,--will the rosebuds blow? The silver slim lilies hang the head low; Their stream is scanty, their sunshine rare; Let the sun blaze out, and let the stream flow, They will blossom and wax fair.
"Red and white poppies grow at her feet, The blood-red wait for sweet summer heat, Wrapped in bud-coats hairy and neat; But the white buds swell; one day they will burst, Will open their death-cups drowsy and sweet,-- Which will open the first?"
Then a hundred sad voices lifted a wail, And a hundred glad voices piped on the gale: "Time is short, life is short," they took up the tale: "Life is sweet, love is sweet, use to-day while you may; Love is sweet, and to-morrow may fail; Love is sweet, use to-day."
While the song swept by, beseeching and meek, Up rose the Prince with a flush on his cheek, Up he rose to stir and to seek, Going forth in the joy of his strength; Strong of limb, if of purpose weak, Starting at length.
Forth he set in the breezy morn, Across green fields of nodding corn, As goodly a Prince as ever was born, Carolling with the carolling lark;-- Sure his bride will be won and worn, Ere fall of the dark.
So light his step, so merry his smile, A milkmaid loitered beside a stile, Set down her pail and rested awhile, A wave-haired milkmaid, rosy and white; The Prince, who had journeyed at least a mile, Grew athirst at the sight.
"Will you give me a morning draught?"-- "You're kindly welcome," she said, and laughed. He lifted the pail, new milk he quaffed; Then wiping his curly black beard like silk: "Whitest cow that ever was calved Surely gave you this milk."
Was it milk now, or was it cream? Was she a maid, or an evil dream? Her eyes began to glitter and gleam; He would have gone, but he stayed instead; Green they gleamed as he looked in them: "Give me my fee," she said.--
"I will give you a jewel of gold."-- "Not so; gold is heavy and cold."-- "I will give you a velvet fold Of foreign work your beauty to deck."-- "Better I like my kerchief rolled Light and white round my neck."--
"Nay," cried he, "but fix your own fee."-- She laughed, "You may give the full moon to me; Or else sit under this apple-tree Here for one idle day by my side; After that I'll let you go free, And the world is wide."
Loath to stay, but to leave her slack, He half turned away, then he quite turned back: For courtesy's sake he could not lack To redeem his own royal pledge; Ahead, too, the windy heaven lowered black With a fire-cloven edge.
So he stretched his length in the apple-tree shade, Lay and laughed and talked to the maid, Who twisted her hair in a cunning braid, And writhed it in shining serpent-coils, And held him a day and night fast laid In her subtle toils.
At the death of night and the birth of day, When the owl left off his sober play, And the bat hung himself out of the way, Woke the song of mavis and merle, And heaven put off its hodden gray For mother-o'-pearl.
Peeped up daisies here and there, Here, there, and everywhere; Rose a hopeful lark in the air, Spreading out towards the sun his breast; While the moon set solemn and fair Away in the west.
"Up, up, up," called the watchman lark, In his clear réveillée: "Hearken, O hark! Press to the high goal, fly to the mark. Up, O sluggard, new morn is born; If still asleep when the night falls dark, Thou must wait a second morn."
"Up, up, up," sad glad voices swelled: "So the tree falls and lies as it's felled. Be thy bands loosed, O sleeper, long held In sweet sleep whose end is not sweet. Be the slackness girt and the softness quelled And the slowness fleet."
Off he set. The grass grew rare, A blight lurked in the darkening air, The very moss grew hueless and spare, The last daisy stood all astunt; Behind his back the soil lay bare, But barer in front.
A land of chasm and rent, a land Of rugged blackness on either hand: If water trickled, its track was tanned With an edge of rust to the chink; If one stamped on stone or on sand It returned a clink.
A lifeless land, a loveless land, Without lair or nest on either hand: Only scorpions jerked in the sand, Black as black iron, or dusty pale; From point to point sheer rock was manned By scorpions in mail.
A land of neither life nor death, Where no man buildeth or fashioneth, Where none draws living or dying breath; No man cometh or goeth there, No man doeth, seeketh, saith, In the stagnant air.
Some old volcanic upset must Have rent the crust and blackened the crust; Wrenched and ribbed it beneath its dust Above earth's molten centre at seethe, Heaved and heaped it by huge upthrust Of fire beneath.
Untrodden before, untrodden since: Tedious land for a social Prince; Halting, he scanned the outs and ins, Endless, labyrinthine, grim, Of the solitude that made him wince, Laying wait for him.
By bulging rock and gaping cleft, Even of half mere daylight reft, Rueful he peered to right and left, Muttering in his altered mood: "The fate is hard that weaves my weft, Though my lot be good."
Dim the changes of day to night, Of night scarce dark to day not bright. Still his road wound towards the right, Still he went, and still he went, Till one night he spied a light, In his discontent.
Out it flashed from a yawn-mouthed cave, Like a red-hot eye from a grave. No man stood there of whom to crave Rest for wayfarer plodding by: Though the tenant were churl or knave The Prince might try.
In he passed and tarried not, Groping his way from spot to spot, Towards where the cavern flare glowed hot:-- An old, old mortal, cramped and double, Was peering into a seething-pot, In a world of trouble.
The veriest atomy he looked, With grimy fingers clutching and crooked, Tight skin, a nose all bony and hooked, And a shaking, sharp, suspicious way; Blinking, his eyes had scarcely brooked The light of day.
Stared the Prince, for the sight was new; Stared, but asked without more ado: "May a weary traveller lodge with you, Old father, here in your lair? In your country the inns seem few, And scanty the fare."
The head turned not to hear him speak; The old voice whistled as through a leak (Out it came in a quavering squeak): "Work for wage is a bargain fit: If there's aught of mine that you seek You must work for it.
"Buried alive from light and air This year is the hundredth year, I feed my fire with a sleepless care, Watching my potion wane or wax: Elixir of Life is simmering there, And but one thing lacks.
"If you're fain to lodge here with me, Take that pair of bellows you see,-- Too heavy for my old hands they be,-- Take the bellows and puff and puff: When the steam curls rosy and free The broth's boiled enough.
"Then take your choice of all I have; I will give you life if you crave. Already I'm mildewed for the grave, So first myself I must drink my fill: But all the rest may be yours, to save Whomever you will."
"Done," quoth the Prince, and the bargain stood. First he piled on resinous wood, Next plied the bellows in hopeful mood; Thinking, "My love and I will live. If I tarry, why life is good, And she may forgive."
The pot began to bubble and boil; The old man cast in essence and oil, He stirred all up with a triple coil Of gold and silver and iron wire, Dredged in a pinch of virgin soil, And fed the fire.
But still the steam curled watery white; Night turned to day and day to night; One thing lacked, by his feeble sight Unseen, unguessed by his feeble mind: Life might miss him, but Death the blight Was sure to find.
So when the hundredth year was full The thread was cut and finished the school. Death snapped the old worn-out tool, Snapped him short while he stood and stirred (Though stiff he stood as a stiff-necked mule) With never a word.
Thus at length the old crab was nipped. The dead hand slipped, the dead finger dipped In the broth as the dead man slipped,-- That same instant, a rosy red Flushed the steam, and quivered and clipped Round the dead old head.
The last ingredient was supplied (Unless the dead man mistook or lied). Up started the Prince, he cast aside The bellows plied through the tedious trial, Made sure that his host had died, And filled a phial.
"One night's rest," thought the Prince. "This done, Forth I speed with the rising sun: With the morrow I rise and run, Come what will of wind or of weather. This draught of Life when my Bride is won We'll drink together."
Thus the dead man stayed in his grave, Self-chosen, the dead man in his cave; There he stayed, were he fool or knave, Or honest seeker who had not found; While the Prince outside was prompt to crave Sleep on the ground.
"If she watches, go bid her sleep; Bid her sleep, for the road is steep: He can sleep who holdeth her cheap, Sleep and wake and sleep again. Let him sow, one day he shall reap, Let him sow the grain.
"When there blows a sweet garden rose, Let it bloom and wither if no man knows: But if one knows when the sweet thing blows, Knows, and lets it open and drop, If but a nettle his garden grows He hath earned the crop."
Through his sleep the summons rang, Into his ears it sobbed and it sang. Slow he woke with a drowsy pang, Shook himself without much debate, Turned where he saw green branches hang, Started though late.
For the black land was travelled o'er, He should see the grim land no more. A flowering country stretched before His face when the lovely day came back: He hugged the phial of Life he bore, And resumed his track.
By willow courses he took his path, Spied what a nest the kingfisher hath, Marked the fields green to aftermath, Marked where the red-brown field-mouse ran, Loitered awhile for a deep-stream bath, Yawned for a fellow-man.
Up on the hills not a soul in view, In the vale not many nor few; Leaves, still leaves, and nothing new. It's O for a second maiden, at least, To bear the flagon, and taste it too, And flavor the feast.