Chapter 3

Lay me in yon place, lad, The gloamin's thick wi' nicht; I canna' see yer face, lad, For my een's no richt, But it's owre late for leein', An' I ken fine I'm deein', Like an auld craw fleein' To the last o' the licht.

The kye gang to the byre, lad, An' the sheep to the fauld, Ye'll mak' a spunk o' fire, lad, For my he'rt's turned cauld; An' whaur the trees are meetin', There's a sound like waters beatin', An' the bird seems near to greetin', That was aye singin' bauld.

There's jist the tent to leave, lad, I've gaithered little gear, There's jist yersel' to grieve, lad, An' the auld dug here; An' when the morn comes creepin', An' the waukw'nin' birds are cheipin', It'll find me lyin' sleepin' As I've slept saxty year.

Ye'll rise to meet the sun, lad, An' baith be traiv'lin west, But me that's auld an' done, lad, I'll bide an' tak' my rest; For the grey heid is bendin', An' the auld shune's needin' mendin', But the traiv'lin's near its endin', And the end's aye the best.

IN ENGLISH

FRINGFORD BROOK

The willows stand by Fringford brook, From Fringford up to Hethe, Sun on their cloudy silver heads, And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs That stir the lazy day, Now whitened by their passing hands, Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume Droops tasselled on the stem, The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame The grass that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds Trail where the stream is slow, The vapoured mauves of water-mint Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds On earth her slumberous look, The heartbreak of an anguished world Throbs not by Fringford brook.

All peace is here. Beyond our range, Yet 'neath the selfsame sky, The boys that knew these fields of home By Flemish willows lie.

They waded in the sun-shot flow, They loitered in the shade, Who trod the heavy road of death, Jesting and unafraid.

Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace Lies at the heart of pain, For respite, ere the spirit's load We stoop to lift again.

O load of grief, of faith, of wrath, Of patient, quenchless will, Till God shall ease us of your weight We'll bear you higher still!

O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook, 'Tis more than peace you give, For you, who knew so well to die, Shall teach us how to live.

PRISON

In the prison-house of the dark I lay with open eyes, And pale beyond the pale windows I saw the dawn rise. From past the bounds of space Where earthly vapours climb, There stirred the voice I shall not hear On this side Time. There is one death for the body, And one death for the heart, And one prayer for the hope of the end, When some links part. Christ, from uncounted leagues, Beyond the sun and moon, Strike with the sword of Thine own pity-- Bring the dawn soon.

PRESAGE

The year declines, and yet there is A clearness, as of hinted spring; And chilly, like a virgin's kiss, The cold light touches everything.

The world seems dazed with purity, There hangs, this spell-bound afternoon, Beyond the naked cherry tree The new-wrought sickle of the moon.

What is this thraldom, pale and still, That holds so passionless a sway? Lies death in this ethereal chill, New life, or prelude of decay?

In the frail rapture of the sky There bodes, transfigured, far aloof, The veil that hides eternity, With life for warp and death for woof.

We see the presage--not with eyes, But dimly, with the shrinking soul-- Scarce guessing, in this fateful guise, The glory that enwraps the whole,

The light no flesh may apprehend, Lent but to spirit-eyes, to give Sign of that splendour of the end That none may look upon and live.

THE BIRD IN THE VALLEY

Above the darkened house the night is spread, The hidden valley holds Vapour and dew and silence in its folds, And waters sighing on the river-bed. No wandering wind there is To swing the star-wreaths of the clematis Against the stone; Out of the hanging woods, above the shores, One liquid voice of throbbing crystal pours, Singing alone.

A stream of magic through the heart of night Its unseen passage cleaves; Into the darkened room below the eaves It falls from out the woods upon the height, A strain of ecstasy Wrought on the confines of eternity, Glamour and pain, And echoes gathered from a world of years, Old phantoms, dim like mirage seen through tears, But young again.

"Peace, peace," the bird sings on amid the woods, "Peace, from the land that is the spirit's goal,-- The land that nonce may see but with his soul,-- Peace on the darkened house above the floods." Pale constellations of the clematis, Hark to that voice of his That will not cease, Swing low, droop low your spray, Light with your white stars all the shadowed way To peace, peace!

BACK TO THE LAND

Out in the upland places, I see both dale and down, And the ploughed earth with open scores Turning the green to brown.

The bare bones of the country Lie gaunt in winter days, Grim fastnesses of rock and scaur, Sure, while the year decays.

And, as the autumn withers, And the winds strip the tree, The companies of buried folk Rise up and speak with me;--

From homesteads long forgotten, From graves by church and yew, They come to walk with noiseless tread Upon the land they knew;--

Men who have tilled the pasture The writhen thorn beside, Women within grey vanished walls Who bore and loved and died.

And when the great town closes Upon me like a sea, Daylong, above its weary din, I hear them call to me.

Dead folk, the roofs are round me, To bar out field and hill, And yet I hear you on the wind Calling and calling still;

And while, by street and pavement, The day runs slowly through, My soul, across these haunted downs, Goes forth and walks with you.

THE SCARLET LILIES

I see her as though she were standing yet In her tower at the end of the town, When the hot sun mounts and when dusk comes down, With her two hands laid on the parapet; The curve of her throat as she turns this way, The bend of her body--I see it all; And the watching eyes that look day by day O'er the flood that runs by the city wall.

The winds by the river would come and go On the flame-red gown she was wont to wear, And the scarlet lilies that crowned her hair, And the scarlet lilies that grew below. I used to lie like a wolf in his lair, With a burning heart and a soul in thrall, Gazing across in a fume of despair O'er the flood that runs by the river wall.

I saw when he came with his tiger's eyes, That held you still in the grip of their glance, And the cat-smooth air he had learned in France, The light on his sword from the evening skies; When the heron stood at the water's edge, And the sun went down in a crimson ball, I crouched in a thicket of rush and sedge By the flood that runs by the river wall.

He knew where the stone lay loose in its place, And a foot might hold in the chink between, The carven niche where the arms had been, And the iron rings in the tower's face; For the scarlet lilies lay broken round, Snapped through at the place where his tread would fall, As he slipped at dawn to the yielding ground, Near the flood that runs by the river wall.

I gave the warning--I ambushed the band In the alder-clump--he was one to ten-- Shall I fight for my soul as he fought then, Lord God, in the grasp of the devil's hand? As the cock crew up in the morning chill, And the city waked to the watchman's call, There were four left lying to sleep their fill At the flood that runs by the city wall.

Had I owned this world to its farthest part, I had bartered all to have had his share; Yet he died that night in the city square, With a scarlet lily above his heart. And she? Where the torrent goes by the slope, There rose in the river a stifled call, And two white hands strove with a knotted rope In the flood that runs by the river wall.

Christ! I had thought I should die like a man, And that death, grim death, might himself be sweet, When the red sod rocked to the horses' feet, And the knights went down as they led the van;-- But the end that waits like a trap for me, Will come when I fight for my latest breath, With a white face drowned between God and me In the flood that runs by the banks of death.

FROSTBOUND

When winter's pulse seems dead beneath the snow, And has no throb to give, Warm your cold heart at mine, beloved, and so Shall your heart live.

For mine is fire--a furnace strong and red; Look up into my eyes, There shall you see a flame to make the dead Take life and rise.

My eyes are brown, and yours are still and grey, Still as the frostbound lake Whose depths are sleeping in the icy sway, And will not wake.

Soundless they are below the leaden sky, Bound with that silent chain; Yet chains may fall, and those that fettered lie May live again.

Yes, turn away, grey eyes, you dare not face In mine the flame of life; When frost meets fire, 'tis but a little space That ends the strife.

Then comes the hour, when, breaking from their bands, The swirling floods run free, And you, beloved, shall stretch your drowning hands, And cling to me.

ARMED

Give me to-night to hide me in the shade, That neither moon nor star May see the secret place where I am laid, Nor watch me from afar.

Let not the dark its prying ghosts employ To peer on my retreat, And see the fragments of my broken toy Lie scattered at my feet.

I fashioned it, that idol of my own, Of metal strange and bright; I made my toy a god--I raised a throne To honour my delight.

This haunted byway of the grove was lit With lamps my hand had trimmed, Before the altar in the midst of it I kept their flame undimmed.

My steps turned ever to the hidden shrine; Aware or unaware, My soul dwelt only in that spot divine, And now a wreck lies there.

Give me to-night to weep--when dawn is spread Beyond the heavy trees, And in the east the day is heralded By cloud-wrought companies,

I shall have gathered up my heart's desire, Broken, destroyed, adored, And from its splinters, in a deathless fire, I shall have forged a sword.

"THE HAPPY WARRIOR"

I have brought no store from the field now the day is ended, The harvest moon is up and I bear no sheaves; When the toilers carry the fruits hanging gold and splendid, I have but leaves.

When the saints pass by in the pride of their stainless raiment, Their brave hearts high with the joy of the gifts they bring, I have saved no whit from the sum of my daily payment For offering.

Not there is my place where the workman his toil delivers, I scarce can see the ground where the hero stands, I must wait as the one poor fool in that host of givers, With empty hands.

There was no time lent to me that my skill might fashion Some work of praise, some glory, some thing of light, For the swarms of hell came on in their power and passion, I could but fight.

I am maimed and spent, I am broken and trodden under, With wheel and horseman the battle has swept me o'er, And the long, vain warfare has riven my heart asunder, I can no more.

But my soul is still; though the sundering door has hidden The mirth and glitter, the sound of the lighted feast, Though the guests go in and I stand in the night, unbidden, The worst, the least.

My soul is still. I have gotten nor fame nor treasure, Let all men spurn me, let devils and angels frown, But the scars I bear are a guerdon of royal measure, My stars--my crown.

UNITY

I dreamed that life and time and space were one, And the pure trance of dawn; The increase drawn From all the journeys of the travelling sun, And the long mysteries of sound and sight, The whispering rains, And far, calm waters set in lonely plains, And cry of birds at night.

I dreamed that these and love and death were one, And all eternity, The life to be Therewith entwined, throughout the ages spun; And so with Grief, my playmate; him I knew One with the rest,-- One with the mounting day, the east and west-- Lord, is it true? Lord, do I dream? Methinks a key unlocks Some dungeon door, in thrall of blackened towers, On ecstasies, half hid, like chill white flowers Blown in the secret places of the rocks.