Part 2

THE NIXIE’S POOL

Coming through the green-gold beech woods Where the great, gray tree boles are, Where the fallen leaves are bronze, He found, like a star The little pool, Leaf patterned, dark and cool.

Not by his hound, Nor by his unhappy lady Will he be found. The horn has not yet wound Reveille through the shady Or barren mountain pass Which can recall him from that pool of glass.

Ice to the barren twigs will come And winter. It will not befall Him in that green-gold gloom.

He will not change at all Though armour melt like ice, and castles be Eaten by mothy Time like tapestry. And Time grow so staggering, gay, and old That all of his pulses manifold Run together and stop. Still will he Kneel, stern, and young, and cool, Wooing that Nixie in that pool.

THE BECKONING OUT

The coppers were gone from the old brown teapot, Gaunt sorrow and care were crowned kings of the spot, And the little old woman who knelt on the floor To blow up the ashes, was hoping no more.

O the door was blown open and into the place A Winged Stranger came with a gay, handsome face And with two laughing eyes that looked out of his head Like some fair woman’s son, and, “Give over,” he said.

“Whist, Mother! give over. Come out in the light While the throstle’s astir, and the dawn is as bright As when, come forty years, you were up and away, With the dew to your feet, on the first morn o’ May.

“Is it children you grieve for? I’ll be as your son For I’m old as the hills, yet a mother I’ve none. Is it shelter you wish for? I’ll find you a home like a cot in green valleys where no winters come.

“Do you grieve for the good things went out by the door? Now cross but the threshold, you’ll miss them no more, Or it may be the winds that run laughing with God Have but kept them awhile, or the sweet smelling sod.

“Is it lonely you were? There’s a bird in your breast Was but spreading his wings; lone delight is his nest. There is never a tie could have kept him for long, I could lure him aloft with the lilt of a song!

“You have dreamed overmuch, as the old do alone When the fire is low, and the children have gone. But have done with the dreams, for to youth is the day; You are young again, Colleen! Come out in the May!”

SONG

Ding-a-ding! The sun is high. Ding-a-ding! The dragon-fly Wakes to dart about the stream. Now is mortal morning come; Let us find a bluebell dome And sleep and dream.

Belfries bluer than the sky Shall intone a lullaby. Ring, ah! ring a drowsy song! From this azure hollowed gloam, Fays, why should we farther roam? Ding-a-ding, ding-dong. Ding-dong!

THE OSPREY FOLK

_Alas! for the child that the Osprey Folk Circle around at birth; Never for him are the good green fields And the lap of the old brown earth And the whet of the scythe in the afternoon And the joy of the homespun mirth._

But all day long at the turn of the tide At morn, at noon, or even, He hears in his ears that whistle of winds (And the winds of the seas are seven). And each one brings him the smack of the fogs And the salt in the sea winds driven.

He has never a mate like the common folk But out of the whir and wheel Of the Osprey wings is a voice that calls With the strength of a mate’s appeal. And the darkness putteth its lips to his lips When the rims of the sky line reel.

O, I was born where the Osprey Folk Cross to the Finnish rocks, And the caw and the call of their throats are more Than the power of ban or locks; So never for me will the uplands be Gray with the feeding flocks.

Shrilling of wind in the cordage taut And churn of the flying spume, The pound of the waves like a cannon shot And the air like a drumming loom, And I shall go back to the Osprey Folk For this is the Osprey Doom.

MERLIN

“_But Nemuë imprisoned him in a tower built of air, and like to glass._” --MERLIN.

When Nemuë built for Merlin A tower of the air, She wove the blue of Heaven In azure fabrics fair, Aërial, ethereal, Clear, crystalline, and rare.

She lapped him in it deeper, With rod, and bell, and book, Than ever fly in spider’s web Beside the inglenook, Or cocoon in his cradle hung Above a running brook.

Aërial, ethereal And crystal clear as glass, Or mirrored surface of the pool Before the storm clouds pass, The elfin charm drave up the air And scarcely stirred the grass.

The elfin charm drave up, and up, As swallows wheel and poise, And ever as the charm went up It made a small sweet noise, As if the winds were whispering Like children to their toys.

When, looking in the wizard globe You see the magic scene So small, so bright, thus Merlin lay The elfin walls between, His hair and beard o’erflowed his book, His mantle was bright green.

II

Sir Cawdore came at sunset, Belated, belted knight, The last rays took his hauberk and Danced back in points of light From off his blue-tipped, white ash spear His eyes were wild and bright.

He saw the rolling, wooded hills, The pine tree’s ruddy stem, The fallen needles burned to brown About the far pool’s hem, The pointed glossy osier twigs; A faint wind harried them.

The silver-tinted clouds uprose About the pallid moon, The rosy west lay to his back Before him lay the gloom, His mortal eyes saw not the wall Which stopped him, of that room.

But like the voice of Dryads all Complaining round a pool, Or Pan pipes scarce articulate Where forest ways are cool, He heard a voice without a form Said, “Stand awhile, thou fool!

“What news of royal Arthur? Speak!” “He sleeps in Avalon.” “How went the battle in the west?” “The steel clad hosts are gone, Are scattered as the dry red leaves The first blast blows upon.

“The Holy Grail has left the land, By minster, weir, and lock No book, no bell, no angels’ wing; The coming shadows flock; All, all are broken in their pride, A wave upon a rock.”

“And Guinevere?”--“At Almsbury Her glory and her gold Are shaken as a cup upheld In palsied hands, and old, Before the altar of God’s wrath In some dark chancel cold.

“But who art thou that speakest thus? Between the setting sun And yonder pallid, rising moon The wold lies cold and dun; I hear a voice speaks in mine ear, But presence there is none.”

Aërial, ethereal, Athwart the gleam and glow, The airy charm wheeled slowly up, And slowly, and more slow, “Lo, I am Merlin,” spake the voice, “And thus our glories go!”

THE PRINCESS OF YAN

_Nu-Nu-Nu!_[2] (And the daisies are piled like a flood!) We never shall see the Chalcydian Sea Nor the place where the Yakadil stood, Nor suspended by silk, and far whiter than milk Aladdin’s famed egg of the Roc, But I know, where the breeze sighs beneath the pine trees, Where the Maids of the Yan Princess walk, With their wide, floating hair, and mysterious air, And finger on lips as they talk, With their azure, pale, trailing silk robes, and their veiling As they wonder, and whisper, and talk.

_Zo-Zo-Zo!_ (And the glow of the sun on the gorse!) They stole her away at the close of the day With gongs and enchantments, of course, While a dragon of old rolled his amber and gold, Burnt orange, and umbers that gleam In the marvellous scrolls that the Chinese unrolls On lacquer and teak--in the gleam Twixt the dusk and the dark all the people cried, “Hark! They have shut her away in a dream. Where waters are falling, and white storks are calling, In a brittle, blue, beautiful dream!”

_Na-Na-Na!_ (And the poppies are bright in the corn) When the desert is red, and the sun goes to bed In the piles of the purple clouds torn By the wings of the Djin, ’tis a crime and a sin To loiter, in camel or man, Lest the soul’s vital spark be extinguished ere dark-- By Allah! you ride as you can. But the end of your toil through the gray, slipping soil Is more near than the Princess of Yan. The mirages glimmer no dearer, no dimmer Than the faraway beauties of Yan!

_Tsi-Tsi-Tsi!_ (And the elm trees are drowsy with shade!) Neither peacock-eye whorls, nor platters of pearls Nor a palace of treasures in jade, Nor a jewelled palanquin borne by Negroes in green, Nor olives of far Samarcand Can buy you a ship that will dock in the slip Where the green running seas meet the land, And the red granite frowns, that her tall tower crowns Nor the glimpse of one nail of her hand, Through the silver-soft curtain, the rosy, uncertain O, the flitting half moon of her hand!

_Bang-Bang-Bang!_ (And the heroes are coming to war!) In terrible throngs, with cymbals and gongs The heroes and conquerors are All arming their hordes with lances and swords With scimitar, yataghan, drum. In the dust and the heat, see the elephants’ feet, And the camels, bedizened and dumb! Even Sindbad himself, with a beard like a shelf, Even Kameralzamen has come, His horse’s hoofs tingle, his silver bells jingle, Even Kameralzamen has come!

_Crash-Bang-Crash!_ (And the Princess aloof like the moon!) They have fought the good fight in abysmal night With comet, cyclone, and simoon. The eclipse was unchained, and the shooting stars rained In tempest and vapour and wrack, But they warred for their prize with implacable skies And the heroes were all beaten back. Like the nebulæ thin, by the wings of a Djin Were blown out, and extinguished in black, Like the last thunder moaning, with wailing and groaning In a deep and imponderable black.

_Tso-Tso-Tso!_ (And it’s time we were home for our tea!) And why should we weep for a Princess they keep In a pearl on a rock in the sea? Lo! the butterflies’ wings with unutterable things Are dusted: with portents they run, Golden, freckled with zones, and the red, tawny ones And the blue, and the black, and the dun Say, “With barter and pain, you shall never attain, Turn away and the Princess is won, Where you loiter and play, where you half turn away At a touch the Yan Princess is won.”

FOOTNOTE

[2] Chinese music sounds, to be said through the nose.

THE SPELL OF COLD

Ah! What unearthly music plays so still So hushed, about the window sill, Aërial more than an æolian harp, Or with chromatic risings sharp Whistles the heart away into the ice-cold moon? It fluted through the dawn wind; soon The snow’s white, woven dance will come And close the little room In soft-fluffed, crystal silence, with the trees. Still, still in silvery cadencèd degrees The heavenly gradual Will rise and fall. Ah! what god in the forest plays One instant that makes all our days, And sends great music so about a little room? We would have quiet now in all our ways, And with the winter night, quiet and candlelight ... Ah! what unearthly music plays!

Haunted! Not here nor there, Nor from the forest hollows bare, Nor shining-particled, chill air, Nor star hung, and swan-breasted hill, But closer, closer still, Weaving between the nerve and bone The melody flows on. We would have quiet in the winter grays, And for the winter gloom, embers and a quiet room ... Ah! what unearthly music plays?

Spell-bound! Not coolly rippling ivory. Nor cithers slowly sighing a nocturne, Nor mournful clarion of silver horn, Nor bells at midnight, hollowly forlorn, Could swell this tide of sound, nor turn This tide away from one who hears This music in between the ears And brain, from one who sees

Too long, the snow’s slow woven dance of imageries. No, nor the thousand forest Seraphs of the violin Shiver and clamour up, and cry, “Give over and give in!” So wildly! Hush! This is the spell the winter weaves; The song for which the tree sheds all its leaves, The high, chaste comfort for which worlds grow old. This is the glamour of the frost and cold Heard by the stars. It is the breath And premonition of the requiem of death Higher and colder than all. The frost crystal rays, And ice in the moon sing, when this unearthly music plays.

THE OLD POET FORETELLS THE MANNER OF HIS DEATH

I shall not hear men’s voices soon For the silvery music of the Shee; Between me and the world a veil Will fall of woven imagerie, With cooling green of boyhood’s leaves, With whorls of water light that weaves.

I shall not bring to mind the tasks I laboured at so long ago, But I shall marvel much that man On dewy earth should travail so To bring small matters to an end Where all things weave, and change, and blend.

I’ll mind me how like morning light Love was before it turned unkind, But when the change, or what the harm, I shall not search the past to find While burning questions, cried to God, Flow off, like wind waves over sod.

The evils that I wrought myself Like hoarse war bugles, sea-ward driven Will pass; the evils men did me Be half forgotten, all forgiven. I’ll think the worst to God must seem Like small, sick movements in a dream.

This body that like marble was For heaviness and weight of care Will burn with a celestial fire, And fade, and free me to the air Where I shall never know again Old troubles born of nerve and vein.

Meanwhile a spacious loveliness, A quiet, brooding sense of light, Majestic freedom, and fine strength Will near me. Led by visions bright Of natural beauty I’ll be drawn Toward greater loves than I have known.

I’ll seem to sleep. Disturb me not, For while Incarnate Light draws near, A last gift of the race to clay, Sweet music of the Shee I’ll hear, Lulled and withdrawn by soft preludes Through deep, expectant solitudes.

Transcriber’s Notes

• Italics represented with surrounding _underscores_.

• Small caps converted to ALL CAPS.

• Footnotes renumbered consecutively.

• Obvious typographic errors have been silently corrected.