Chapter 12
It is not to stand on a tower And see the flat universe reel; Our mortal sublimities drop Like raiment by glisterlings worn, At a sweep of the scythe for the crop. Wisdom is won of its fight, The combat incessant; and dries To mummywrap perching a height. It chews the contemplative cud In peril of isolate scorn, Unfed of the onward flood. Nor view we a different morn If we gaze with the deeper sight, With the deeper thought forewise: The world is the same, seen through; The features of men are the same. But let their historian new In the language of nakedness write, Rejoice we to know not shame, Not a dread, not a doubt: to have done With the tortures of thought in the throes, Our animal tangle, and grasp Very sap of the vital in this: That from flesh unto spirit man grows Even here on the sod under sun: That she of the wanton’s kiss, Broken through with the bite of an asp, Is Mother of simple truth, Relentless quencher of lies; Eternal in thought; discerned In thought mid-ferry between The Life and the Death, which are one, As our breath in and out, joy or teen. She gives the rich vision to youth, If we will, of her prompting wise; Or men by the lash made lean, Who in harness the mind subserve, Their title to read her have earned; Having mastered sensation—insane At a stroke of the terrified nerve; And out of the sensual hive Grown to the flower of brain; To know her a thing alive, Whose aspects mutably swerve, Whose laws immutably reign. Our sentencer, clother in mist, Her morn bends breast to her noon, Noon to the hour dark-dyed, If we will, of her promptings wise: Her light is our own if we list. The legends that sweep her aside, Crying loud for an opiate boon, To comfort the human want, From the bosom of magical skies, She smiles on, marking their source: They read her with infant eyes. Good ships of morality they, For our crude developing force; Granite the thought to stay, That she is a thing alive To the living, the falling and strewn. But the Questions, the broods that haunt Sensation insurgent, may drive, The way of the channelling mole, Head in a ground-vault gaunt As your telescope’s skeleton moon. Barren comfort to these will she dole; Dead is her face to their cries. Intelligence pushing to taste A lesson from beasts might heed. They scatter a voice in the waste, Where any dry swish of a reed By grey-glassy water replies.
‘They see not above or below; Farthest are they from my soul,’ Earth whispers: ‘they scarce have the thirst, Except to unriddle a rune; And I spin none; only show, Would humanity soar from its worst, Winged above darkness and dole, How flesh unto spirit must grow. Spirit raves not for a goal. Shapes in man’s likeness hewn Desires not; neither desires The sleep or the glory: it trusts; Uses my gifts, yet aspires; Dreams of a higher than it. The dream is an atmosphere; A scale still ascending to knit The clear to the loftier Clear. ’Tis Reason herself, tiptoe At the ultimate bound of her wit, On the verges of Night and Day. But is it a dream of the lusts, To my dustiest ’tis decreed; And them that so shuffle astray I touch with no key of gold For the wealth of the secret nook; Though I dote over ripeness at play, Rosiness fondle and feed, Guide it with shepherding crook To my sports and my pastures alway. The key will shriek in the lock, The door will rustily hinge, Will open on features of mould, To vanish corrupt at a glimpse, And mock as the wild echoes mock, Soulless in mimic, doth Greed Or the passion for fruitage tinge That dream, for your parricide imps To wing through the body of Time, Yourselves in slaying him slay. Much are you shots of your prime, You men of the act and the dream: And please you to fatten a weed That perishes, pledged to decay, ’Tis dearth in your season of need, Down the slopes of the shoreward way;— Nigh on the misty stream, Where Ferryman under his hood, With a call to be ready to pay The small coin, whitens red blood. But the young ethereal seed Shall bring you the bread no buyer Can have for his craving supreme; To my quenchless quick shall speed The soul at her wrestle rude With devil, with angel more dire; With the flesh, with the Fates, enringed. The dream of the blossom of Good Is your banner of battle unrolled In its waver and current and curve (Choir over choir white-winged, White-bosomed fold within fold): Hopeful of victory most When hard is the task to sustain Assaults of the fearful sense At a mind in desolate mood With the Whither, whose echo is Whence; And humanity’s clamour, lost, lost; And its clasp of the staves that snap; And evil abroad, as a main Uproarious, bursting its dyke. For back do you look, and lo, Forward the harvest of grain!— Numbers in council, awake To love more than things of my lap, Love me; and to let the types break, Men be grass, rocks rivers, all flow; All save the dream sink alike To the source of my vital in sap: Their battle, their loss, their ache, For my pledge of vitality know. The dream is the thought in the ghost; The thought sent flying for food; Eyeless, but sprung of an aim Supernal of Reason, to find The great Over-Reason we name Beneficence: mind seeking Mind. Dream of the blossom of Good, In its waver and current and curve, With the hopes of my offspring enscrolled! Soon to be seen of a host The flag of the Master I serve! And life in them doubled on Life, As flame upon flame, to behold, High over Time-tumbled sea, The bliss of his headship of strife, Him through handmaiden me.’
CHANGE IN RECURRENCE
I
I STOOD at the gate of the cot Where my darling, with side-glance demure, Would spy, on her trim garden-plot, The busy wild things chase and lure. For these with their ways were her feast; They had surety no enemy lurked. Their deftest of tricks to their least She gathered in watch as she worked.
II
When berries were red on her ash, The blackbird would rifle them rough, Till the ground underneath looked a gash, And her rogue grew the round of a chough. The squirrel cocked ear o’er his hoop, Up the spruce, quick as eye, trailing brush. She knew any tit of the troop All as well as the snail-tapping thrush.
III
I gazed: ’twas the scene of the frame, With the face, the dear life for me, fled. No window a lute to my name, No watcher there plying the thread. But the blackbird hung peeking at will; The squirrel from cone hopped to cone; The thrush had a snail in his bill, And tap-tapped the shell hard on a stone.
HYMN TO COLOUR
I
WITH Life and Death I walked when Love appeared, And made them on each side a shadow seem. Through wooded vales the land of dawn we neared, Where down smooth rapids whirls the helmless dream To fall on daylight; and night puts away Her darker veil for grey.
II
In that grey veil green grassblades brushed we by; We came where woods breathed sharp, and overhead Rocks raised clear horns on a transforming sky: Around, save for those shapes, with him who led And linked them, desert varied by no sign Of other life than mine.
III
By this the dark-winged planet, raying wide, From the mild pearl-glow to the rose upborne, Drew in his fires, less faint than far descried, Pure-fronted on a stronger wave of morn: And those two shapes the splendour interweaved, Hung web-like, sank and heaved.
IV
Love took my hand when hidden stood the sun To fling his robe on shoulder-heights of snow. Then said: There lie they, Life and Death in one. Whichever is, the other is: but know, It is thy craving self that thou dost see, Not in them seeing me.
V
Shall man into the mystery of breath, From his quick beating pulse a pathway spy? Or learn the secret of the shrouded death, By lifting up the lid of a white eye? Cleave thou thy way with fathering desire Of fire to reach to fire.
VI
Look now where Colour, the soul’s bridegroom, makes The house of heaven splendid for the bride. To him as leaps a fountain she awakes, In knotting arms, yet boundless: him beside, She holds the flower to heaven, and by his power Brings heaven to the flower.
VII
He gives her homeliness in desert air, And sovereignty in spaciousness; he leads Through widening chambers of surprise to where Throbs rapture near an end that aye recedes, Because his touch is infinite and lends A yonder to all ends.
VIII
Death begs of Life his blush; Life Death persuades To keep long day with his caresses graced. He is the heart of light, the wing of shades, The crown of beauty: never soul embraced Of him can harbour unfaith; soul of him Possessed walks never dim.
IX
Love eyed his rosy memories: he sang: O bloom of dawn, breathed up from the gold sheaf Held springing beneath Orient! that dost hang The space of dewdrops running over leaf; Thy fleetingness is bigger in the ghost Than Time with all his host!
X
Of thee to say behold, has said adieu: But love remembers how the sky was green, And how the grasses glimmered lightest blue; How saint-like grey took fervour: how the screen Of cloud grew violet; how thy moment came Between a blush and flame.
XI
Love saw the emissary eglantine Break wave round thy white feet above the gloom; Lay finger on thy star; thy raiment line With cherub wing and limb; wed thy soft bloom, Gold-quivering like sunrays in thistle-down, Earth under rolling brown.
XII
They do not look through love to look on thee, Grave heavenliness! nor know they joy of sight, Who deem the wave of rapt desire must be Its wrecking and last issue of delight. Dead seasons quicken in one petal-spot Of colour unforgot.
XIII
This way have men come out of brutishness To spell the letters of the sky and read A reflex upon earth else meaningless. With thee, O fount of the Untimed! to lead, Drink they of thee, thee eyeing, they unaged Shall on through brave wars waged.
XIV
More gardens will they win than any lost; The vile plucked out of them, the unlovely slain. Not forfeiting the beast with which they are crossed, To stature of the Gods will they attain. They shall uplift their Earth to meet her Lord, Themselves the attuning chord!
XV
The song had ceased; my vision with the song. Then of those Shadows, which one made descent Beside me I knew not: but Life ere long Came on me in the public ways and bent Eyes deeper than of old: Death met I too, And saw the dawn glow through.
MEDITATION UNDER STARS
WHAT links are ours with orbs that are So resolutely far: The solitary asks, and they Give radiance as from a shield: Still at the death of day, The seen, the unrevealed. Implacable they shine To us who would of Life obtain An answer for the life we strain To nourish with one sign. Nor can imagination throw The penetrative shaft: we pass The breath of thought, who would divine If haply they may grow As Earth; have our desire to know; If life comes there to grain from grass, And flowers like ours of toil and pain; Has passion to beat bar, Win space from cleaving brain; The mystic link attain, Whereby star holds on star.
Those visible immortals beam Allurement to the dream: Ireful at human hungers brook No question in the look. For ever virgin to our sense, Remote they wane to gaze intense: Prolong it, and in ruthlessness they smite The beating heart behind the ball of sight: Till we conceive their heavens hoar, Those lights they raise but sparkles frore, And Earth, our blood-warm Earth, a shuddering prey To that frigidity of brainless ray.
Yet space is given for breath of thought Beyond our bounds when musing: more When to that musing love is brought, And love is asked of love’s wherefore. ’Tis Earth’s, her gift; else have we nought: Her gift, her secret, here our tie. And not with her and yonder sky? Bethink you: were it Earth alone Breeds love, would not her region be The sole delight and throne Of generous Deity?
To deeper than this ball of sight Appeal the lustrous people of the night. Fronting yon shoreless, sown with fiery sails, It is our ravenous that quails, Flesh by its craven thirsts and fears distraught. The spirit leaps alight, Doubts not in them is he, The binder of his sheaves, the sane, the right: Of magnitude to magnitude is wrought, To feel it large of the great life they hold: In them to come, or vaster intervolved, The issues known in us, our unsolved solved: That there with toil Life climbs the self-same Tree, Whose roots enrichment have from ripeness dropped. So may we read and little find them cold: Let it but be the lord of Mind to guide Our eyes; no branch of Reason’s growing lopped; Nor dreaming on a dream; but fortified By day to penetrate black midnight; see, Hear, feel, outside the senses; even that we, The specks of dust upon a mound of mould, We who reflect those rays, though low our place, To them are lastingly allied.
So may we read, and little find them cold: Not frosty lamps illumining dead space, Not distant aliens, not senseless Powers. The fire is in them whereof we are born; The music of their motion may be ours. Spirit shall deem them beckoning Earth and voiced Sisterly to her, in her beams rejoiced. Of love, the grand impulsion, we behold The love that lends her grace Among the starry fold. Then at new flood of customary morn, Look at her through her showers, Her mists, her streaming gold, A wonder edges the familiar face: She wears no more that robe of printed hours; Half strange seems Earth, and sweeter than her flowers.
WOODMAN AND ECHO
CLOSE Echo hears the woodman’s axe, To double on it, as in glee, With clap of hands, and little lacks Of meaning in her repartee. For all shall fall, As one has done, The tree of me, Of thee the tree; And unto all The fate we wait Reveals the wheels Whereon we run: We tower to flower, We spread the shade, We drop for crop, At length are laid; Are rolled in mould, From chop and lop: And are we thick in woodland tracks, Or tempting of our stature we, The end is one, we do but wax For service over land and sea. So, strike! the like Shall thus of us, My brawny woodman, claim the tax. Nor foe thy blow, Though wood be good, And shriekingly the timber cracks: The ground we crowned Shall speed the seed Of younger into swelling sacks.
For use he hews, To make awake The spirit of what stuff we be: Our earth of mirth And tears he clears For braver, let our minds agree; And then will men Within them win An Echo clapping harmony.
THE WISDOM OF ELD
WE spend our lives in learning pilotage, And grow good steersmen when the vessel’s crank! Gap-toothed he spake, and with a tottering shank Sidled to gain the sunny bench of Age. It is the sentence which completes that stage; A testament of wisdom reading blank. The seniors of the race, on their last plank, Pass mumbling it as nature’s final page. These, bent by such experience, are the band Who captain young enthusiasts to maintain What things we view, and Earth’s decree withstand, Lest dreaded Change, long dammed by dull decay, Should bring the world a vessel steered by brain, And ancients musical at close of day.
EARTH’S PREFERENCE
EARTH loves her young: a preference manifest: She prompts them to her fruits and flower-beds; Their beauty with her choicest interthreads, And makes her revel of their merry zest; As in our East much were it in our West, If men had risen to do the work of heads. Her gabbling grey she eyes askant, nor treads The ways they walk; by what they speak oppressed. How wrought they in their zenith? ’Tis not writ; Not all; yet she by one sure sign can read: Have they but held her laws and nature dear, They mouth no sentence of inverted wit. More prizes she her beasts than this high breed Wry in the shape she wastes her milk to rear.
SOCIETY
HISTORIC be the survey of our kind, And how their brave Society took shape. Lion, wolf, vulture, fox, jackal and ape, The strong of limb, the keen of nose, we find, Who, with some jars in harmony, combined, Their primal instincts taming, to escape The brawl indecent, and hot passions drape. Convenience pricked conscience, that the mind. Thus entered they the field of milder beasts, Which in some sort of civil order graze, And do half-homage to the God of Laws. But are they still for their old ravenous feasts, Earth gives the edifice they build no base: They spring another flood of fangs and claws.
WINTER HEAVENS
SHARP is the night, but stars with frost alive Leap off the rim of earth across the dome. It is a night to make the heavens our home More than the nest whereto apace we strive. Lengths down our road each fir-tree seems a hive, In swarms outrushing from the golden comb. They waken waves of thoughts that burst to foam: The living throb in me, the dead revive. Yon mantle clothes us: there, past mortal breath, Life glistens on the river of the death. It folds us, flesh and dust; and have we knelt, Or never knelt, or eyed as kine the springs Of radiance, the radiance enrings: And this is the soul’s haven to have felt.
NOTES
PHAETHON _The Galliambic Measure_
Hermann (_Elementa Doctrinae Metricae_), after citing lines from the Tragic poet Phrynichus and from the Comic, observes:
Dixi supra, Phrynichorum versus videri puros Ionicos esse. Id si verum est, Galliambi non alia re ab his differunt, quam quod anaclasin, contractionesque et solutiones recipiunt. Itaque versus Galliambicus ex duobus versibus Anacreonteis constat, quorum secundus catalecticus est, hac forma:
[Picture: Graphic depiction of scheme]
The wonderful _Attis_ of Catullus is the one classic example. A few lines have been gathered elsewhere. Lord Tennyson’s _Boadicea_ rides over many difficulties and is a noble poem. Catullus makes general use of the variant second of the above metrical forms:
_Mihi januae frequentes_, _mihi limina tepida_:
With stress on the emotion;
_Jam_, _jam dolet quod egi_, _jam jamque poenitet_.
A perfect conquest of the measure is not possible in our tongue. For the sake of an occasional success in the velocity, sweep, volume of the line, it seems worth an effort; and, if to some degree serviceable for narrative verse, it is one of the exercises of a writer which readers may be invited to share.
THEODOLINDA
The legend of the Iron Crown of Lombardy, formed of a nail of the true Cross by order of the devout Queen Theodolinda, is well known. In this dramatic song she is seen passing through one of the higher temptations of the believing Christian.
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