Chapter 8

What would I give for words, if only words would come; But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb: O, merry friends, go your way, I have never a word to say.

What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears, To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years, To wash the stain ingrain and to make me clean again.

THE BOURNE.

Underneath the growing grass, Underneath the living flowers, Deeper than the sound of showers: There we shall not count the hours By the shadows as they pass.

Youth and health will be but vain, Beauty reckoned of no worth: There a very little girth Can hold round what once the earth Seemed too narrow to contain.

SUMMER.

Winter is cold-hearted, Spring is yea and nay, Autumn is a weathercock Blown every way: Summer days for me When every leaf is on its tree;

When Robin's not a beggar, And Jenny Wren's a bride, And larks hang singing, singing, singing, Over the wheat-fields wide, And anchored lilies ride, And the pendulum spider Swings from side to side,

And blue-black beetles transact business, And gnats fly in a host, And furry caterpillars hasten That no time be lost, And moths grow fat and thrive, And ladybirds arrive.

Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country Is worth a month in town; Is worth a day and a year Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion That days drone elsewhere.

AUTUMN.

I dwell alone,--I dwell alone, alone, Whilst full my river flows down to the sea, Gilded with flashing boats That bring no friend to me: O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats, O love-pangs, let me be.

Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone And spices bear to sea: Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes, Love-promising, entreating,-- Ah! sweet, but fleeting,-- Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails. Hush! the wind flags and fails,-- Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand,-- Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone; Their songs wake singing echoes in my land,-- They cannot hear me moan.

One latest, solitary swallow flies Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost, Poor bird, shall it be lost? Dropped down into this uncongenial sea, With no kind eyes To watch it while it dies, Unguessed, uncared for, free: Set free at last, The short pang past, In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.

Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks, Some rent by thunder-strokes, Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze: Fair fall my fertile trees, That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.

A spider's web blocks all mine avenue; He catches down and foolish painted flies, That spider wary and wise. Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew Betwixt boughs green with sap, So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap: I will not mar the web, Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.

It shakes,--my trees shake; for a wind is roused In cavern where it housed: Each white and quivering sail, Of boats among the water leaves Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale: Each maiden sings again,-- Each languid maiden, whom the calm Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm, Miles down my river to the sea They float and wane, Long miles away from me. Perhaps they say: "She grieves, Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower." Perhaps they say: "One hour More, and we dance among the golden sheaves." Perhaps they say: "One hour More, and we stand, Face to face, hand in hand; Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!"

My trees are not in flower, I have no bower, And gusty creaks my tower, And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.

THE GHOST'S PETITION.

"There's a footstep coming: look out and see."-- "The leaves are falling, the wind is calling; No one cometh across the lea."--

"There's a footstep coming: O sister, look."-- "The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes; No one cometh across the brook."--

"But he promised that he would come: To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow, He must keep his word, and must come home.

"For he promised that he would come: His word was given; from earth or heaven, He must keep his word, and must come home.

"Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane; You can slumber, who need not number Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.

"I shall sit here awhile, and watch; Listening, hoping, for one hand groping In deep shadow to find the latch."

After the dark, and before the light, One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping, Who had watched and wept the weary night.

After the night, and before the day, One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping,-- Watching, weeping for one away.

There came a footstep climbing the stair; Some one standing out on the landing Shook the door like a puff of air,--

Shook the door, and in he passed. Did he enter? In the room centre Stood her husband: the door shut fast.

"O Robin, but you are cold,-- Chilled with the night-dew: so lily-white you Look like a stray lamb from our fold.

"O Robin, but you are late: Come and sit near me,--sit here and cheer me."-- (Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)

"Lay not down your head on my breast: I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you In the shelter that you love best.

"Feel not after my clasping hand: I am but a shadow, come from the meadow Where many lie, but no tree can stand.

"We are trees which have shed their leaves: Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there; Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.

"I could rest if you would not moan Hour after hour; I have no power To shut my ears where I lie alone.

"I could rest if you would not cry; But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping,-- Watching, weeping so bitterly."--

"Woe's me! woe's me! for this I have heard. O, night of sorrow!--O, black to-morrow! Is it thus that you keep your word?

"O you who used so to shelter me Warm from the least wind,--why, now the east wind Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.

"O my husband of flesh and blood, For whom my mother I left, and brother, And all I had, accounting it good,

"What do you do there, underground, In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow. What do you do there?--what have you found?"--

"What I do there I must not tell; But I have plenty. Kind wife, content ye: It is well with us,--it is well.

"Tender hand hath made our nest; Our fear is ended, our hope is blended With present pleasure, and we have rest."--

"O, but Robin, I'm fain to come, If your present days are so pleasant; For my days are so wearisome.

"Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake: Why should I tease you, who cannot please you Any more with the pains I take?"

MEMORY.

I.

I nursed it in my bosom while it lived, I hid it in my heart when it was dead; In joy I sat alone, even so I grieved Alone and nothing said.

I shut the door to face the naked truth, I stood alone,--I faced the truth alone, Stripped bare of self-regard or forms or ruth Till first and last were shown.

I took the perfect balances and weighed; No shaking of my hand disturbed the poise; Weighed, found it wanting: not a word I said, But silent made my choice.

None know the choice I made; I make it still. None know the choice I made and broke my heart, Breaking mine idol: I have braced my will Once, chosen for once my part.

I broke it at a blow, I laid it cold, Crushed in my deep heart where it used to live. My heart dies inch by inch; the time grows old, Grows old in which I grieve.

II.

I have a room whereinto no one enters Save I myself alone: There sits a blessed memory on a throne, There my life centres.

While winter comes and goes--O tedious comer!-- And while its nip-wind blows; While bloom the bloodless lily and warm rose Of lavish summer.

If any should force entrance he might see there One buried yet not dead, Before whose face I no more bow my head Or bend my knee there;

But often in my worn life's autumn weather I watch there with clear eyes, And think how it will be in Paradise When we're together.

A ROYAL PRINCESS.

I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest, Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast, For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.

Two and two my guards behind, two and two before, Two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore; Me, poor dove, that must not coo,--eagle, that must not soar.

All my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens grow Scented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blow That are costly, out of season as the seasons go.

All my walls are lost in mirrors, whereupon I trace Self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place, Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.

Then I have an ivory chair high to sit upon, Almost like my father's chair, which is an ivory throne; There I sit uplift and upright, there I sit alone.

Alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end; My father and my mother give me treasures, search and spend-- O my father! O my mother! have you ne'er a friend?

As I am a lofty princess, so my father is A lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties, Holding in his strong right hand world-kingdoms' balances.

He has quarrelled with his neighbors, he has scourged his foes; Vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes, Long-descended valiant lords whom the vulture knows,

On whose track the vulture swoops, when they ride in state To break the strength of armies and topple down the great: Each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate.

My father counting up his strength sets down with equal pen So many head of cattle, head of horses, head of men; These for slaughter, these for labor, with the how and when.

Some to work on roads, canals; some to man his ships; Some to smart in mines beneath sharp overseers' whips; Some to trap fur-beasts in lands where utmost winter nips.

Once it came into my heart and whelmed me like a flood, That these too are men and women, human flesh and blood; Men with hearts and men with souls, though trodden down like mud.

Our feasting was not glad that night, our music was not gay; On my mother's graceful head I marked a thread of gray, My father frowning at the fare seemed every dish to weigh.

I sat beside them sole princess in my exalted place, My ladies and my gentlemen stood by me on the dais: A mirror showed me I look old and haggard in the face;

It showed me that my ladies all are fair to gaze upon, Plump, plenteous-haired, to every one love's secret lore is known, They laugh by day, they sleep by night; ah me, what is a throne?

The singing men and women sang that night as usual, The dancers danced in pairs and sets, but music had a fall, A melancholy windy fall as at a funeral.

Amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept; My ladies loosed my golden chain; meantime I could have wept To think of some in galling chains whether they waked or slept.

I took my bath of scented milk, delicately waited on, They burned sweet things for my delight, cedar and cinnamon, They lit my shaded silver lamp and left me there alone.

A day went by, a week went by. One day I heard it said: "Men are clamoring, women, children, clamoring to be fed; Men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread."

So two whispered by my door, not thinking I could hear, Vulgar, naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear; Fit for cooping in the background, not to stalk so near.

But I strained my utmost sense to catch this truth, and mark: "There are families out grazing like cattle in the park." "A pair of peasants must be saved even if we build an ark."

A merry jest, a merry laugh, each strolled upon his way; One was my page, a lad I reared and bore with day by day; One was my youngest maid, as sweet and white as cream in May.

Other footsteps followed softly with a weightier tramp; Voices said: "Picked soldiers have been summoned from the camp To quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp."

"Howl and stamp?" one answered: "They made free to hurl a stone At the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown." "There's work, then, for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown."

"One I saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head, Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread: Then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out he was dead."

"After us the deluge," was retorted with a laugh: "If bread's the staff of life, they must walk without a staff." "While I've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the chaff."

These passed. The king: stand up. Said my father with a smile: "Daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile, She's sad to-day, and who but you her sadness can beguile?"

He too left me. Shall I touch my harp now while I wait (I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate), Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state;

Or shall my woman stand and read some unimpassioned scene, There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between; Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the queen?

Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command: "Charge!" a clash of steel: "Charge again, the rebels stand. Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand."

There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher; A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire; I heard a cry for faggots, then I heard a yell for fire.

"Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread, You who sat to see us starve," one shrieking woman said: "Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head."

Nay, this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth, I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith, I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath;

With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand, I will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will stand Where they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.

They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give; I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live; I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive:

Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and show The lesson I have learned, which is death, is life, to know. I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.

SHALL I FORGET?

Shall I forget on this side of the grave? I promise nothing: you must wait and see Patient and brave. (O my soul, watch with him and he with me.)

Shall I forget in peace of Paradise? I promise nothing: follow, friend, and see, Faithful and wise. (O my soul, lead the way he walks with me.)

VANITY OF VANITIES.

SONNET.

Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain, Ah, woe is me for glory that is past: Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last, Glory that at the last bringeth no gain! So saith the sinking heart; and so again It shall say till the mighty angel-blast Is blown, making the sun and moon aghast, And showering down the stars like sudden rain. And evermore men shall go fearfully, Bending beneath their weight of heaviness; And ancient men shall lie down wearily, And strong men shall rise up in weariness; Yea, even the young shall answer sighingly, Saying one to another: How vain it is!

L. E. L.

"Whose heart was breaking for a little love."

Down-stairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all: But in my solitary room above I turn my face in silence to the wall; My heart is breaking for a little love. Though winter frosts are done, And birds pair every one, And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.

I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown, I find no nest, while nests are in the grove: Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone, My heart that breaketh for a little love. While golden in the sun Rivulets rise and run, While lilies bud, for springtide is begun.

All love, are loved, save only I; their hearts Beat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof: They cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts, My heart is breaking for a little love. While beehives wake and whirr, And rabbit thins his fur, In living spring that sets the world astir.

I deck myself with silks and jewelry, I plume myself like any mated dove: They praise my rustling show, and never see My heart is breaking for a little love. While sprouts green lavender With rosemary and myrrh, For in quick spring the sap is all astir.

Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth, Perhaps some angels read it as they move, And cry one to another full of ruth, "Her heart is breaking for a little love." Though other things have birth, And leap and sing for mirth, When spring-time wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.

Yet saith a saint: "Take patience for thy scathe"; Yet saith an angel: "Wait, for thou shalt prove True best is last, true life is born of death, O thou, heart-broken for a little love! Then love shall fill thy girth, And love make fat thy dearth, When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth."

LIFE AND DEATH.

Life is not sweet. One day it will be sweet To shut our eyes and die: Nor feel the wild-flowers blow, nor birds dart by With flitting butterfly, Nor grass grow long above our heads and feet, Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high, Nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet, Nor mark the waxing wheat, Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat.

Life is not good. One day it will be good To die, then live again; To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the wane Of shrunk leaves dropping in the wood, Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main, Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stood Rich ranks of golden grain, Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain: Asleep from risk, asleep from pain.

BIRD OR BEAST?

Did any bird come flying After Adam and Eve, When the door was shut against them And they sat down to grieve?

I think not Eve's peacock Splendid to see, And I think not Adam's eagle; But a dove may be.

Did any beast come pushing Through the thorny hedge Into the thorny, thistly world Out from Eden's edge?

I think not a lion, Though his strength is such; But an innocent loving lamb May have done as much.

If the dove preached from her bough And the lamb from his sod, The lamb and the dove Were preachers sent from God.

EVE.

"While I sit at the door, Sick to gaze within, Mine eye weepeth sore For sorrow and sin: As a tree my sin stands To darken all lands; Death is the fruit it bore.

"How have Eden bowers grown Without Adam to bend them! How have Eden flowers blown, Squandering their sweet breath, Without me to tend them! The Tree of Life was ours, Tree twelvefold-fruited, Most lofty tree that flowers, Most deeply rooted: I chose the Tree of Death.

"Hadst thou but said me nay, Adam, my brother, I might have pined away; I, but none other: God might have let thee stay Safe in our garden, By putting me away Beyond all pardon.

"I, Eve, sad mother Of all who must live, I, not another, Plucked bitterest fruit to give My friend, husband, lover. O wanton eyes run over! Who but I should grieve?-- Cain hath slain his brother: Of all who must die mother, Miserable Eve!"

Thus she sat weeping, Thus Eve, our mother, Where one lay sleeping Slain by his brother. Greatest and least Each piteous beast To hear her voice Forgot his joys And set aside his feast.

The mouse paused in his walk And dropped his wheaten stalk; Grave cattle wagged their heads In rumination; The eagle gave a cry From his cloud station; Larks on thyme beds Forbore to mount or sing; Bees drooped upon the wing; The raven perched on high Forgot his ration; The conies in their rock, A feeble nation, Quaked sympathetical; The mocking-bird left off to mock; Huge camels knelt as if In deprecation; The kind hart's tears were falling; Chattered the wistful stork; Dove-voices with a dying fall Cooed desolation, Answering grief by grief.

Only the serpent in the dust, Wriggling and crawling, Grinned an evil grin, and thrust His tongue out with its fork.

GROWN AND FLOWN.

I loved my love from green of Spring Until sere Autumn's fall; But now that leaves are withering How should one love at all? One heart's too small For hunger, cold, love, everything.

I loved my love on sunny days Until late Summer's wane; But now that frost begins to glaze How should one love again? Nay, love and pain Walk wide apart in diverse ways.

I loved my love,--alas to see That this should be, alas! I thought that this could scarcely be, Yet has it come to pass: Sweet sweet love was, Now bitter bitter grown to me.

A FARM WALK.

The year stood at its equinox And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, Green hardy things were growing; I met a maid with shining locks Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck, Her bare arm showed its dimple, Her apron spread without a speck, Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail And sang a country ditty, An innocent fond lovers' tale, That was not wise nor witty, Pathetically rustical, Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet, Or squeezed it with her fingers; Her clear unstudied notes were sweet As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight, Stood silent for a minute To eye the pail, and creamy white The frothing milk within it;

To eye the comely milking maid Herself so fresh and creamy: "Good day to you," at last I said; She turned her head to see me: "Good day," she said, with lifted head; Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,

And all the while she milked and milked The grave cow heavy-laden: I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked, But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid Than this in homely cotton, Whose pleasant face and silky braid I have not yet forgotten.