Chapter 2
White, white in the moon is the woodland plash, White is the woodland glade, Forth wend those twain, from oak to ash, With light hearts unafraid.
The summer moon high o'er the hill, All silver-white is she, And Sir Rafe's good men with bow and bill, They go by two and three.
In the fair green-wood where lurks no fear, Where the King's writ runneth not, There dwell they, friends and fellows dear, While summer days are hot,
And when the leaf from the oak-tree falls, And winds blow rough and strong, With the carles of the woodland thorps and halls They dwell, and fear no wrong.
And there the merry yule they make, And see the winter wane, And fain are they for true-love's sake, And the folk thereby are fain.
For the ploughing carle and the straying herd Flee never for Sir Rafe: No barefoot maiden wends afeard, And she deems the thicket safe.
But sore adread do the chapmen ride; Wide round the wood they go; And the judge and the sergeants wander wide, Lest they plead before the bow.
Well learned and wise is Sir Rafe's good sword, And straight the arrows fly, And they find the coat of many a lord, And the crest that rideth high.
THE DAY OF DAYS.
Each eve earth falleth down the dark, As though its hope were o'er; Yet lurks the sun when day is done Behind to-morrow's door.
Grey grows the dawn while men-folk sleep, Unseen spreads on the light, Till the thrush sings to the coloured things, And earth forgets the night.
No otherwise wends on our Hope: E'en as a tale that's told Are fair lives lost, and all the cost Of wise and true and bold.
We've toiled and failed; we spake the word; None hearkened; dumb we lie; Our Hope is dead, the seed we spread Fell o'er the earth to die.
What's this? For joy our hearts stand still, And life is loved and dear, The lost and found the Cause hath crowned, The Day of Days is here.
TO THE MUSE OF THE NORTH.
O muse that swayest the sad Northern Song, Thy right hand full of smiting & of wrong, Thy left hand holding pity; & thy breast Heaving with hope of that so certain rest: Thou, with the grey eyes kind and unafraid, The soft lips trembling not, though they have said The doom of the World and those that dwell therein. The lips that smile not though thy children win The fated Love that draws the fated Death. O, borne adown the fresh stream of thy breath, Let some word reach my ears and touch my heart, That, if it may be, I may have a part In that great sorrow of thy children dead That vexed the brow, and bowed adown the head, Whitened the hair, made life a wondrous dream, And death the murmur of a restful stream, But left no stain upon those souls of thine Whose greatness through the tangled world doth shine. O Mother, and Love and Sister all in one, Come thou; for sure I am enough alone That thou thine arms about my heart shouldst throw, And wrap me in the grief of long ago.
OF THE THREE SEEKERS.
There met three knights on the woodland way, And the first was clad in silk array: The second was dight in iron and steel, But the third was rags from head to heel. "Lo, now is the year and the day come round When we must tell what we have found." The first said: "I have found a king Who grudgeth no gift of anything." The second said: "I have found a knight Who hath never turned his back in fight." But the third said: "I have found a love That Time and the World shall never move."
Whither away to win good cheer? "With me," said the first, "for my king is near." So to the King they went their ways; But there was a change of times and days. "What men are ye," the great King said, "That ye should eat my children's bread? My waste has fed full many a store, And mocking and grudge have I gained therefore. Whatever waneth as days wax old, Full worthy to win are goods and gold."
Whither away to win good cheer? "With me," said the second, "my knight is near." So to the knight they went their ways, But there was a change of times and days. He dwelt in castle sure and strong, For fear lest aught should do him wrong. Guards by gate and hall there were, And folk went in and out in fear. When he heard the mouse run in the wall, "Hist!" he said, "what next shall befal? Draw not near, speak under your breath, For all new-corners tell of death. Bring me no song nor minstrelsy, Round death it babbleth still," said he. "And what is fame and the praise of men, When lost life cometh not again?"
Whither away to seek good cheer? "Ah me!" said the third, "that my love were anear! Were the world as little as it is wide, In a happy house should ye abide. Were the world as kind as it is hard, Ye should behold a fair reward."
So far by high and low have they gone, They have come to a waste was rock and stone. But lo, from the waste, a company Full well bedight came riding by; And in the midst, a queen, so fair, That God wrought well in making her. The first and second knights abode To gaze upon her as she rode, Forth passed the third with head down bent, And stumbling ever as he went. His shoulder brushed her saddle-bow; He trembled with his head hung low. His hand brushed o'er her golden gown, As on the waste he fell adown. So swift to earth her feet she set, It seemed that there her arms he met. His lips that looked the stone to meet Were on her trembling lips and sweet. Softly she kissed him cheek and chin, His mouth her many tears drank in. "Where would'st thou wander, love," she said, "Now I have drawn thee from the dead?" "I go my ways," he said, "and thine Have nought to do with grief and pine." "All ways are one way now," she said, "Since I have drawn thee from the dead." Said he, "But I must seek again Where first I met thee in thy pain: I am not clad so fair," said he, "But yet the old hurts thou may'st see. And thou, but for thy gown of gold, A piteous tale of thee were told." "There is no pain on earth," she said, "Since I have drawn thee from the dead." "And parting waiteth for us there," Said he, "As it was yester-year." "Yet first a space of love," she said, "Since I have drawn thee from the dead." He laughed; said he, "Hast thou a home Where I and these my friends may come?" Laughing, "The world's my home," she said, "Now I have drawn thee from the dead. Yet somewhere is a space thereof Where I may dwell beside my love. There clear the river grows for him Till o'er its stones his keel shall swim. There faint the thrushes in their song, And deem he tarrieth overlong. There summer-tide is waiting now Until he bids the roses blow. Come, tell my flowery fields," she said, "How I have drawn thee from the dead."
Whither away to win good cheer? "With me," he said, "for my love is here. The wealth of my house it waneth not; No gift it giveth is forgot. No fear my house may enter in, For nought is there that death may win. Now life is little, and death is nought, Since all is found that erst I sought."
LOVE'S GLEANING-TIDE.
Draw not away thy hands, my love, With wind alone the branches move, And though the leaves be scant above The Autumn shall not shame us.
Say; Let the world wax cold and drear, What is the worst of all the year But life, and what can hurt us, dear, Or death, and who shall blame us?
Ah, when the summer comes again How shall we say, we sowed in vain? The root was joy, the stem was pain, The ear a nameless blending.
The root is dead and gone, my love, The stem's a rod our truth to prove; The ear is stored for nought to move Till heaven and earth have ending.
THE MESSAGE OF THE MARCH WIND.
Fair now is the springtide, now earth lies beholding With the eyes of a lover, the face of the sun; Long lasteth the daylight, and hope is enfolding The green-growing acres with increase begun.
Now sweet, sweet it is through the land to be straying 'Mid the birds and the blossoms and the beasts of the field; Love mingles with love, and no evil is weighing On thy heart or mine, where all sorrow is healed.
From township to township, o'er down and by tillage Fair, far have we wandered and long was the day; But now cometh eve at the end of the village, Where over the grey wall the church riseth grey.
There is wind in the twilight; in the white road before us The straw from the ox-yard is blowing about; The moon's rim is rising, a star glitters o'er us, And the vane on the spire-top is swinging in doubt.
Down there dips the highway, toward the bridge crossing over The brook that runs on to the Thames and the sea. Draw closer, my sweet, we are lover and lover; This eve art thou given to gladness and me.
Shall we be glad always? Come closer and hearken: Three fields further on, as they told me down there, When the young moon has set, if the March sky should darken We might see from the hill-top the great city's glare.
Hark, the wind in the elm-boughs! from London it bloweth, And telleth of gold, and of hope and unrest; Of power that helps not; of wisdom that knoweth, But teacheth not aught of the worst and the best.
Of the rich men it telleth, and strange is the story How they have, and they hanker, and grip far and wide; And they live and they die, and the earth and its glory Has been but a burden they scarce might abide.
Hark! the March wind again of a people is telling; Of the life that they live there, so haggard and grim, That if we and our love amidst them had been dwelling My fondness had faltered, thy beauty grown dim.
This land we have loved in our love and our leisure For them hangs in heaven, high out of their reach; The wide hills o'er the sea-plain for them have no pleasure, The grey homes of their fathers no story to teach.
The singers have sung and the builders have builded, The painters have fashioned their tales of delight; For what and for whom hath the world's book been gilded, When all is for these but the blackness of night?
How long, and for what is their patience abiding? How oft and how oft shall their story be told, While the hope that none seeketh in darkness is hiding, And in grief and in sorrow the world groweth old?
* * * * *
Come back to the inn, love, and the lights and the fire, And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet; For there in a while shall be rest and desire, And there shall the morrow's uprising be sweet.
Yet, love, as we wend, the wind bloweth behind us, And beareth the last tale it telleth to-night, How here in the spring-tide the message shall find us; For the hope that none seeketh is coming to light.
Like the seed of midwinter, unheeded, unperished, Like the autumn-sown wheat 'neath the snow lying green, Like the love that o'ertook us, unawares and uncherished, Like the babe 'neath thy girdle that groweth unseen;
So the hope of the people now buddeth and groweth, Rest fadeth before it, and blindness and fear; It biddeth us learn all the wisdom it knoweth; It hath found us and held us, and biddeth us hear:
For it beareth the message: "Rise up on the morrow And go on your ways toward the doubt and the strife; Join hope to our hope and blend sorrow with sorrow, And seek for men's love in the short days of life."
But lo, the old inn, and the lights, and the fire, And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet; Soon for us shall be quiet and rest and desire, And to-morrow's uprising to deeds shall be sweet.
A DEATH SONG.
What cometh here from west to east awending? And who are these, the marchers stern and slow? We bear the message that the rich are sending Aback to those who bade them wake and know. _Not one_, _not one_, _nor thousands must they slay_, _But one and all if they would dusk the day_.
We asked them for a life of toilsome earning, They bade us bide their leisure for our bread; We craved to speak to tell our woeful learning: We come back speechless, bearing back our dead. _Not one_, _not one_, _nor thousands must they slay_, _But one and all if they would dusk the day_.
They will not learn; they have no ears to hearken. They turn their faces from the eyes of fate; Their gay-lit halls shut out the skies that darken. But, lo! this dead man knocking at the gate. _Not one_, _not one_, _nor thousands must they slay_, _But one and all if they would dusk the day_.
Here lies the sign that we shall break our prison; Amidst the storm he won a prisoner's rest; But in the cloudy dawn the sun arisen Brings us our day of work to win the best. _Not one_, _not one_, _nor thousands must they slay_, _But one and all if they would dusk the day_.
ICELAND FIRST SEEN
Lo from our loitering ship a new land at last to be seen; Toothed rocks down the side of the firth on the east guard a weary wide lea, And black slope the hill-sides above, striped adown with their desolate green: And a peak rises up on the west from the meeting of cloud and of sea, Foursquare from base unto point like the building of Gods that have been, The last of that waste of the mountains all cloud-wreathed and snow-flecked and grey, And bright with the dawn that began just now at the ending of day.
Ah! what came we forth for to see that our hearts are so hot with desire? Is it enough for our rest, the sight of this desolate strand, And the mountain-waste voiceless as death but for winds that may sleep not nor tire? Why do we long to wend forth through the length and breadth of a land, Dreadful with grinding of ice, and record of scarce hidden fire, But that there 'mid the grey grassy dales sore scarred by the ruining streams Lives the tale of the Northland of old and the undying glory of dreams?
* * * * *
O land, as some cave by the sea where the treasures of old have been laid, The sword it may be of a king whose name was the turning of fight: Or the staff of some wise of the world that many things made and unmade. Or the ring of a woman maybe whose woe is grown wealth and delight. No wheat and no wine grows above it, no orchard for blossom and shade; The few ships that sail by its blackness but deem it the mouth of a grave; Yet sure when the world shall awaken, this too shall be mighty to save.
Or rather, O land, if a marvel it seemeth that men ever sought Thy wastes for a field and a garden fulfilled of all wonder and doubt, And feasted amidst of the winter when the light of the year had been fought, Whose plunder all gathered together was little to babble about; Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou land, "Not for this nor for that was I wrought. Amid waning of realms and of riches and death of things worshipped and sure, I abide here the spouse of a God, and I made and I make and endure."
O Queen of the grief without knowledge, of the courage that may not avail, Of the longing that may not attain, of the love that shall never forget, More joy than the gladness of laughter thy voice hath amidst of its wail: More hope than of pleasure fulfilled amidst of thy blindness is set; More glorious than gaining of all thine unfaltering hand that shall fail: For what is the mark on thy brow but the brand that thy Brynhild doth bear? Lone once, and loved and undone by a love that no ages outwear.
Ah! when thy Balder comes back, and bears from the heart of the Sun Peace and the healing of pain, and the wisdom that waiteth no more; And the lilies are laid on thy brow 'mid the crown of the deeds thou hast done; And the roses spring up by thy feet that the rocks of the wilderness wore. Ah! when thy Balder comes back and we gather the gains he hath won, Shall we not linger a little to talk of thy sweetness of old, Yea, turn back awhile to thy travail whence the Gods stood aloof to behold?
THE RAVEN AND THE KING'S DAUGHTER.
King's daughter sitting in tower so high, _Fair summer is on many a shield_. Why weepest thou as the clouds go by? _Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field_. Why weepest thou in the window-seat Till the tears run through thy fingers sweet?
_The King's Daughter_.
I weep because I sit alone Betwixt these walls of lime and stone. Fair folk are in my father's hall, But for me he built this guarded wall. And here the gold on the green I sew Nor tidings of my true-love know.
_The Raven_.
King's daughter, sitting above the sea, I shall tell thee a tale shall gladden thee. Yestreen I saw a ship go forth When the wind blew merry from the north. And by the tiller Steingrim sat, And O, but my heart was glad thereat! For 'twixt ashen plank and dark blue sea His sword sang sweet of deeds to be.
_The King's Daughter_.
O barren sea, thou bitter bird, And a barren tale my ears have heard.
_The Raven_.
Thy father's men were hard thereby In byrny bright and helmet high.
_The King's Daughter_.
O worser waxeth thy story far, For these drew upon me bolt and bar. Fly south, O fowl, to the field of death For nothing sweet thy grey neb saith.
_The Raven_.
O, there was Olaf the lily-rose, As fair as any oak that grows.
_The King's Daughter_.
O sweet bird, what did he then Among the spears of my father's men?
_The Raven_.
'Twixt ashen plank and dark blue sea, He sang: My true love waiteth me.
_The King's Daughter_.
As well as this dull floor knows my feet, I am not weary yet, my sweet.
_The Raven_.
He sang: As once her hand I had, Her lips at last shall make me glad.
_The King's Daughter_.
As once our fingers met, O love, So shall our lips be fain thereof.
_The Raven_.
He sang: Come wrack and iron and flame, For what shall breach the wall but fame?
_The King's Daughter_.
Be swift to rise and set, O Sun, Lest life 'twixt hope and death be done.
_The Raven_.
King's daughter sitting in tower so high, A gift for my tale ere forth I fly, The gold from thy finger fair and fine, Thou hadst it from no love of thine.
_The King's Daughter_.
By my father's ring another there is, I had it with my mother's kiss. Fly forth, O fowl, across the sea To win another gift of me. Fly south to bring me tidings true, _Fair summer is on many a shield_. Of the eve grown red with the battle-dew, _Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field_.
_The Raven_.
King's daughter sitting in tower so high, _Fair summer is on many a shield_. Tidings to hearken ere thou die, _Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field_. In the Frankish land the spear points met, And wide about the field was wet. And high ere the cold moon quenched the sun, Blew Steingrim's horn for battle won.
_The King's Daughter_.
Fair fall thee fowl! Tell tidings true Of deeds that men that day did do.
_The Raven_.
Steingrim before his banner went, And helms were broke and byrnies rent.
_The King's Daughter_.
A doughty man and good at need; Tell men of any other's deed?
_The Raven_.
Where Steingrim through the battle bore Still Olaf went a foot before.
_The King's Daughter_.
O fair with deeds the world doth grow! Where is my true-love gotten now?
_The Raven_.
Upon the deck beside the mast He lieth now, and sleepeth fast.
_The King's Daughter_.
Heard'st thou before his sleep began That he spake word of any man?
_The Raven_.
Methought of thee he sang a song, But nothing now he saith for long.
_The King's Daughter_.
And wottest thou where he will wend With the world before him from end to end?
_The Raven_.
Before the battle joined that day Steingrim a word to him did say: "If we bring the banner back in peace, In the King's house much shall my fame increase; Till there no guarded door shall be But it shall open straight to me. Then to the bower we twain shall go Where thy love the golden seam doth sew. I shall bring thee in and lay thine hand About the neck of that lily-wand. And let the King be lief or loth One bed that night shall hold you both." Now north belike runs Steingrim's prow, And the rain and the wind from the south do blow.
_The King's Daughter_.
Lo, fowl of death, my mother's ring, But the bridal song I must learn to sing. And fain were I for a space alone, For O the wind, and the wind doth moan. And I must array the bridal bed, _Fair summer is on many a shield_. For O the rain, and the rain drifts red! _Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field_.
Before the day from the night was born, Fair summer is on many a shield. She heard the blast of Steingrim's horn, Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field. Before the day was waxen fair Were Steingrim's feet upon the stair. "O bolt and bar they fall away, But heavy are Steingrim's feet to-day." "O heavy the feet of one who bears The longing of days and the grief of years! Lie down, lie down, thou lily-wand That on thy neck I may lay his hand. Whether the King be lief or loth To-day one bed shall hold you both. O thou art still as he is still, So sore as ye longed to talk your fill. And good it were that I depart, Now heart is laid so close to heart. For sure ye shall talk so left alone _Fair summer is on many a shield_. Of days to be below the stone." _Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field_.
SPRING'S BEDFELLOW.
Spring went about the woods to-day, The soft-foot winter-thief, And found where idle sorrow lay 'Twixt flower and faded leaf. She looked on him, and found him fair For all she had been told; She knelt adown beside him there, And sang of days of old.
His open eyes beheld her nought, Yet 'gan his lips to move; But life and deeds were in her thought, And he would sing of love.
So sang they till their eyes did meet, And faded fear and shame; More bold he grew, and she more sweet, Until they sang the same.
Until, say they who know the thing, Their very lips did kiss, And Sorrow laid abed with Spring Begat an earthly bliss.
MEETING IN WINTER.
Winter in the world it is, Round about the unhoped kiss Whose dream I long have sorrowed o'er; Round about the longing sore, That the touch of thee shall turn Into joy too deep to burn.
Round thine eyes and round thy mouth Passeth no murmur of the south, When my lips a little while Leave thy quivering tender smile, As we twain, hand holding hand, Once again together stand.
Sweet is that, as all is sweet; For the white drift shalt thou meet, Kind and cold-cheeked and mine own, Wrapped about with deep-furred gown In the broad-wheeled chariot: Then the north shall spare us not; The wide-reaching waste of snow Wilder, lonelier yet shall grow As the reddened sun falls down.
But the warders of the town, When they flash the torches out O'er the snow amid their doubt, And their eyes at last behold Thy red-litten hair of gold; Shall they open, or in fear Cry, "Alas! What cometh here? Whence hath come this Heavenly To tell of all the world undone?"
They shall open, and we shall see The long street litten scantily By the long stream of light before The guest-hall's half-open door; And our horses' bells shall cease As we reach the place of peace; Thou shalt tremble, as at last The worn threshold is o'er-past, And the fire-light blindeth thee: Trembling shalt thou cling to me As the sleepy merchants stare At thy cold hands slim and fair, Thy soft eyes and happy lips Worth all lading of their ships.
O my love, how sweet and sweet That first kissing of thy feet, When the fire is sunk alow, And the hall made empty now Groweth solemn, dim and vast! O my love, the night shall last Longer than men tell thereof Laden with our lonely love!
THE TWO SIDES OF THE RIVER
_The Youths_.
O Winter, O white winter, wert thou gone No more within the wilds were I alone Leaping with bent bow over stock and stone!
No more alone my love the lamp should burn, Watching the weary spindle twist and turn, Or o'er the web hold back her tears and yearn: O winter, O white winter, wert thou gone!
_The Maidens_.
Sweet thoughts fly swiftlier than the drifting snow, And with the twisting threads sweet longings grow, And o'er the web sweet pictures come and go, For no white winter are we long alone.
_The Youths_.
O stream so changed, what hast thou done to me, That I thy glittering ford no more can see Wreathing with white her fair feet lovingly?
See, in the rain she stands, and, looking down With frightened eyes upon thy whirlpools brown, Drops to her feet again her girded gown. O hurrying turbid stream, what hast thou done?
_The Maidens_.