Chapter 3

RAIN, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me Remembering again that I shall die And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks For washing me cleaner than I have been Since I was born into this solitude. Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon: But here I pray that none whom once I loved Is dying to-night or lying still awake Solitary, listening to the rain, Either in pain or thus in sympathy Helpless among the living and the dead, Like a cold water among broken reeds, Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff, Like me who have no love which this wild rain Has not dissolved except the love of death, If love it be towards what is perfect and Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.

"HOME"

FAIR was the morning, fair our tempers, and We had seen nothing fairer than that land, Though strange, and the untrodden snow that made Wild of the tame, casting out all that was Not wild and rustic and old; and we were glad.

Fair, too, was afternoon, and first to pass Were we that league of snow, next the north wind

There was nothing to return for, except need, And yet we sang nor ever stopped for speed, As we did often with the start behind. Faster still strode we when we came in sight Of the cold roofs where we must spend the night. Happy we had not been there, nor could be. Though we had tasted sleep and food and fellowship Together long.

"How quick" to someone's lip The words came, "will the beaten horse run home."

The word "home" raised a smile in us all three, And one repeated it, smiling just so That all knew what he meant and none would say. Between three counties far apart that lay We were divided and looked strangely each At the other, and we knew we were not friends But fellows in a union that ends With the necessity for it, as it ought.

Never a word was spoken, not a thought Was thought, of what the look meant with the word "Home" as we walked and watched the sunset blurred. And then to me the word, only the word, "Homesick," as it were playfully occurred: No more.

If I should ever more admit Than the mere word I could not endure it For a day longer: this captivity Must somehow come to an end, else I should be Another man, as often now I seem, Or this life be only an evil dream.

THERE'S NOTHING LIKE THE SUN

THERE'S nothing like the sun as the year dies, Kind as it can be, this world being made so, To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies, To all things that it touches except snow, Whether on mountain side or street of town. The south wall warms me: November has begun, Yet never shone the sun as fair as now While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough With spangles of the morning's storm drop down Because the starling shakes it, whistling what Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot That there is nothing, too, like March's sun, Like April's, or July's, or June's, or May's, Or January's, or February's, great days: And August, September, October, and December Have equal days, all different from November. No day of any month but I have said-- Or, if I could live long enough, should say-- "There's nothing like the sun that shines to-day" There's nothing like the sun till we are dead.

WHEN HE SHOULD LAUGH

WHEN he should laugh the wise man knows full well: For he knows what is truly laughable. But wiser is the man who laughs also, Or holds his laughter, when the foolish do.

AN OLD SONG

THE sun set, the wind fell, the sea Was like a mirror shaking: The one small wave that clapped the land A mile-long snake of foam was making Where tide had smoothed and wind had dried The vacant sand.

A light divided the swollen clouds And lay most perfectly Like a straight narrow footbridge bright That crossed over the sea to me; And no one else in the whole world Saw that same sight.

I walked elate, my bridge always Just one step from my feet: A robin sang, a shade in shade: And all I did was to repeat: "I'll go no more a-roving With you, fair maid."

The sailors' song of merry loving With dusk and sea-gull's mewing Mixed sweet, the lewdness far outweighed By the wild charm the chorus played: "I'll go no more a-roving With you, fair maid: A-roving, a-roving, since roving's been my ruin, I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid."

_In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid-- Mark well what I do say-- In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid And she was a mistress of her trade: I'll go no more a-roving With you, fair maid: A-roving, a-roving, since roving's been my ruin, I'll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid._

THE PENNY WHISTLE

THE new moon hangs like an ivory bugle In the naked frosty blue; And the ghylls of the forest, already blackened By Winter, are blackened anew.

The brooks that cut up and increase the forest, As if they had never known The sun, are roaring with black hollow voices Betwixt rage and a moan.

But still the caravan-hut by the hollies Like a kingfisher gleams between: Round the mossed old hearths of the charcoal-burners First primroses ask to be seen.

The charcoal-burners are black, but their linen Blows white on the line; And white the letter the girl is reading Under that crescent fine;

And her brother who hides apart in a thicket, Slowly and surely playing On a whistle an olden nursery melody, Says far more than I am saying.

LIGHTS OUT

I HAVE come to the borders of sleep, The unfathomable deep Forest where all must lose Their way, however straight, Or winding, soon or late; They cannot choose.

Many a road and track That, since the dawn's first crack, Up to the forest brink, Deceived the travellers Suddenly now blurs, And in they sink.

Here love ends, Despair, ambition ends, All pleasure and all trouble, Although most sweet or bitter, Here ends in sleep that is sweeter Than tasks most noble.

There is not any book Or face of dearest look That I would not turn from now To go into the unknown I must enter and leave alone I know not how.

The tall forest towers; Its cloudy foliage lowers Ahead, shelf above shelf; Its silence I hear and obey That I may lose my way And myself.

COCK-CROW

OUT of the wood of thoughts that grows by night To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,-- Out of the night, two cocks together crow, Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow: And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand, Heralds of splendour, one at either hand, Each facing each as in a coat of arms: The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.

WORDS

OUT of us all That make rhymes, Will you choose Sometimes-- As the winds use A crack in a wall Or a drain, Their joy or their pain To whistle through-- Choose me, You English words?

I know you: You are light as dreams, Tough as oak, Precious as gold, As poppies and corn, Or an old cloak: Sweet as our birds To the ear, As the burnet rose In the heat Of Midsummer: Strange as the races Of dead and unborn: Strange and sweet Equally, And familiar, To the eye, As the dearest faces That a man knows, And as lost homes are: But though older far Than oldest yew,-- As our hills are, old.-- Worn new Again and again: Young as our streams After rain: And as dear As the earth which you prove That we love.

Make me content With some sweetness From Wales Whose nightingales Have no wings,-- From Wiltshire and Kent And Herefordshire, And the villages there,-- From the names, and the things No less.

Let me sometimes dance With you, Or climb Or stand perchance In ecstasy, Fixed and free In a rhyme, As poets do.

THE END

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