Part 3

O barren days bygone! Now every field Wakes clamorous with dawning life conceived, So has the magic universe revealed Whole happiness to one who half believed-- Whole happiness, and in my heart concealed Wide wonder at the sacrament received.

VI

“Great men and happy years,” you say from these Your knowledge came, and your diviner powers More thrilling than the honey-womb of flowers Or the bright star-foam of the Pleiades. So, did you learn the droning lore of bees From some be-medalled soldier? Did you meet Madonna-hearted statesmen in the street, Or bishops, babbling of the opal seas?

O poor deceiver, conscript joys belong To you as homage. For the happy years Bear fruit to-day, and blossom like the flowers That breathe of summertime in after hours. For you were loyal to a creed of Song Nor ever stooped to misery and tears.

VII

Would I could throw my stuttering self away And shrine the soul wherein all wonders beat, Would I were you, for one brief holiday The whole shy universe before my feet. O happiness, to know joy’s secret mine, To hold adoring ministers in fee, Narcissus-like to bless the Serpentine And with the stars outdance Terpsichore.

For once a poet sang of happiness, But now, like running flame, glad voices say-- “Joy is the sheer antithesis of wrong.” Enough,--and I, no longer comradeless, Behold exultant on the world’s highway Your being, and the proof of Pippa’s song.

VIII

When you are old and dancing shadows play Around the sky-blown laughter in your eyes Shall I, unworthy of your new disguise, Forget the sacrament and go away? Shall I adore, like sorrowed men to-day, The child who gurgled in first ecstasies At oxen (Mary said) that mooed surprise And snuffed with wondering muzzles in the hay?

O leave the past--the living world is mine Warm, passionate, and breathing. Even so Shall Life in after years make Earth divine And fire shall burn as long as embers glow. But he who babbled to the wondering kine Is dead, long dead, two thousand years ago.

KEATS

Touch me, O Lord, and let my sonnet ring With echoes. Now his words of crowned belief In raging hours of pain and suffering Too high for praise, too terrible for grief, Ring loud and clear. Last night his chariot rolled And I beheld him urge amid the stars Cloud-fashioned steeds of snow moon-aureoled, Himself a charioteer equipped for wars.

Faster and faster--men of Blood and Pain Opposed in vast battalions, but he Rolled back their army to the dark again And triumphed while he sang exultingly As now he sings. Boy of the glowing brain, Dear Keats your name is Paradise to me!

MEETING HER IN THE STREET

She’s coming down the road! You know Those laughter-woken eyes? I beckon at the stars--But O If she should recognise:

Nearer and nearer yet she trod Till (mad blood-dancing joy) Down from the planet-fields of God She nodded, “Hullo, Boy.”

HER HOMAGE

Silence outlives the argument of kings And best is dumb applause. Behold, she moves: No soft-winged owlets blink, no cricket sings, Before she greets the murmuring world she loves. Now twirling parachutes of sycamore Hang waiting, and the rippled trout-rings die, The murmur round a jasmine honey store Is still--a linnet falters suddenly.

From out the reeds an awe-struck otter peers As eerie quiet speeds from bush to bush: High Summer stands on tip-toe as She nears The woods, and magic numbs the missel-thrush: Above still grasses prick the listening ears Of rabbits, and a squirrel whispers “Hush!”

REACTION

Afraid, afraid, I sought the kindly night In fear that mocking fools should scrutinise The beauty I discovered in men’s eyes, And mock me as a dreaming anchorite. For long in fear I sinned against the light And shrouded Poetry with vain disguise; Before I sang, unconscious as the skies, Self-chanting songs to me supreme delight.

But now, O littlest of all little minds, High-browed, alone, aloof, you little know How like you are to Brown, who lifts the blinds Of his suburban villa, just to show That he alone is up, but always finds The neighbourhood awoke an hour ago!

APRIL

How much are you achieving O April day, By orchard looms a-weaving All apple-gay? Tie on your cherry blossom, clothe your squills Madonna-blue, and give your daffodils Their collars of pale straw, and come away, Your rain-awoken hills Shall welcome May.

What is behind your weeping O April tears? Your lilac plumes are sweeping, Your silken spears Of chestnut bristle in the changing sky Whilst herded clouds foregather, ’neath the high Storm-loud arena’s thundering charioteers: And beckoned silently The swallow nears.

MAY-JUNE

Now is the swaddling husk of Winter shed, And waking Summer, robed in windy showers, Is heralded from silvered aspen towers And orchards in high blossom garlanded. Now sunlight, in the plumed laburnum flowers And purple lilac, trembles overhead; And bees a-drone in field and flower bed Make clamorous the trade of teeming hours.

Now the sweet-pea, all honey-laden, shows Full-swollen sails, her mooring ropes of green Encircle twigs. And soon the primrose queen Lights her pale lamps of Evening ’mid the glows Of brazen flower-suns, that burn between The yawning honeysuckle and the rose.

THE STROLLING SINGER

Sun-bathed in Summer peace the village lay That afternoon. Along the happy street Milk-fragrant kine, and wagons high with hay Came lumbering. The fields were loud with bees And drowsy with the wind-stirred meadowsweet. From bowing trees Fell chatter, and above the garden wall Wide sunflowers beamed at spearing hollyhocks That dared the wind, and scorned the clustered stocks, And bore their laddered blooms high over all.

Here amid Summer murmur and delight The strolling singer came. The people heard Stray snatches of a song--a laugh--a word, And gossiping in groups of two or three Stood all amazed. For no one came in sight, Only the wind was laden drowsily With mellow sounds that slowly growing strong At last became a song:--

“Bend down, the marsh and meadow holds Pale yellow pimpernels, And sun-begotten marigolds, Thyme, orchis, asphodels, And borage born of ocean blue, Plumed armoured thistles, fever-few, Sea-campion globed, and clinging dew In giant flower-bells.

“Bend down--an ebon beetle prowls, And there a swinging bee Drinks honey from the laden cowls That clothe the foxglove tree. And giant peacock butterflies Light meadowsweet with sudden eyes, And through the tangled grasses rise Lucerne and timothy.”

Louder and louder grew the voice, until A figure specked the heaven-touching hill, And nearer, nearer, still ... The villagers in mingled fear and awe Stood round on tiptoe waiting. Soon they saw A little sylvan man with beckoning eyes And limbs of lithe expression. Woven flowers And grasses, splashed with rainbow-tinted showers, And jewelled with alluring butterflies, Enwrapped him. Russet face, clear-featured, gay As pebble-rumpled streams, and tousled hair Sun-dyed and naked. His limbs were bronzed and bare, And sprang, it seemed, from the wild interplay Of flower-woven garb. Around his waist Twined traveller’s-joy and honeysuckle, sweet And freshly dewed, and on his lissom feet Were pointed shoes of silver beech rush-laced.

The village gazed in silence, till a child Began:--“Who are you, funny man? Your face seems to be telling truth, your eyes Are just the colour of blue butterflies, O tell us who you are?” The stranger smiled, And turned his face that bore the wistful, far, Strange wonder-look of one whose dreams come true, Who delves in darkened quarries of his brain Unhoped-for gold, and changes old to new As Spring rejuvenates the earth again. Of one who plays Narcissus in Life’s pool And sees an image strangely beautiful ... Then suddenly they heard him cry:--

“Come buy, I own the laughing earth. And all my chanted words are deeds; I follow where my fancy leads, And sell my songs for mirth. What will you buy?

“Speak hurriedly, and choose your song, The poplar’s shadow creeps along, Search hurriedly the Earth and Sky, What will you buy?”

Meanwhile a crowd had gathered, in a ring; The butcher, grocer, postman, parson, clerk, And all the village, open-mouthed and stark, Stood mutely marvelling; And children clamoured round him with large eyes And pelted him for songs, like countless hail, With pleadings, shouts and cries:--

Sing us a song of Paradise, Of railway engines, fawns, Of stolen queens in guarded towers, Of sprites and leprechauns”-- O HUSH! All were dumb-- “Boy in blue smock, sucking your thumb, With hair like a tangled chrysanthemum, What would you like me to sing, Ocean-eyed?”

Loud the boy’s answer rang, “_I_ want a song of flowers!” And this is the song he sang:

“Sisters of mercy are Cyclamen, Snowdrops and Arums too, But Primulus, Violets, Stocks, Mignonette, Crocus aflame, and the Never Forget, Are chaster than chastity too. Now sulphur Laburnum and Lilac, adieu, Good-bye April children to you! For who Will climb up the flowers of my Hollyhock towers With butterfly steeple-jacks blue?

But, climber, beware! Of Love-in-a-mist in a tangle of hair, Of thistly Teazles, and winged Sweet-Peas With tentacle tendrils that strangle with ease, Of butterfly Orchis a-clamour for bees. For Dragon may Snap you, and Sundew may trap you, Before you have started, before you have parted The grass at the foot of my Hollyhock trees. But think of the view Of the whole garden side! We’ll charter a dragon-fly homeward, and ride Down to our Rosemary, Marjoram, Rue, Lavender, London Pride.”

All watched him, held, bewitched, and with him clung To the green tops of slowly swaying towers, Where bees had scattered pollen-dust, that hung Above the teeming nectaries of flowers, And all again were young. But now the poplars cast their phantom bars In latticed shadows; now a scarf unfurled, Like parrot-tulip petals hued and torn, Across the West was flung. And now, before the twilight bares the stars, Ere jewelled night is born, All silently the Singer left the world. Beyond the hill he passed, But singing all the while; first loud and strong. Then fainter, till at last Came only jumbled echoes of a song:--

“Bend down--the marsh and meadow holds Pale yellow Pimpernels, And sun-begotten Marigolds Thyme, Orchis, Asphodels” ... (Fainter and fainter it grew Gentle as ebbing tide) “Butterfly steeple-jacks blue” ... (Fainter it grew And died) Echoing “Rosemary, Marjoram, Rue, Lavender, London Pride”

THE FRENCH MOTHER TO HER UNBORN CHILD

Beat quietly, hid heart. Build, little limbs, and brain divinely wrought, Grow, grow in peace. Around, the pangs of war Are powerless to cripple thee or mar Thy sure perfection. But, if Death besought For thee, our tethered souls could never part: Beat quietly, hid heart. Form, primal thought, Close-furled and sheltered as the budding Spring Unknown, unknowing, yet divinely planned. But stay awhile, for sounds of battle ring. Stir, little hand Unrealized--I count the dragging hours And yearn to see it clutch at yonder flowers; To see thy lucent feet and dimpled frame And gaze at heav’n-snatched eyes and know thy name, But stay awhile. For thou art best alone away from Man: Wait longer, tears unshed and lurking smile Of joy enshrined where every joy began. Time hurries as the moments thump along (Hark, little ears, my heart is beating strong) Life is aglow, alive, a perfect song. Around the land is ugly, but apart I fashion thee in thought. Now hush, for sleep Is here. Close, eyes unopened, voice unheard, Be still. Grow on in beauty till day creep ... Hark to my whispered word-- Beat quietly, hid heart.