Part 2
He listened to the mighty lyre of earth, And learned the lore of soul-compelling song. He pondered on the rune of right and wrong, And saw the hearts of men, their woe, their mirth. In him our vision had a second birth, For by his words we saw as in some strong Enchanted lens the conscience of the throng, The font of ill, the hidden source of worth.
Shall Death claim him, on deathless knowledge reared? Shall dreams o’ertake the Master of the dream? Nay, his perfect love that never feared, His words send through our grief a radiant gleam: “With Life and Death I walked and Love appeared And made them on each side a shadow seem.”
“AND FORBID THEM NOT”
(“No Trespassing” signs in a churchyard.)
Tall, bleak, austere, the mighty buildings loom; Hard, bare and dull the grimy city street. Here by the church is found a little room Roofed with blue sky and with green turf made sweet.
Surely the Master of this house would smile Seeing the children on His grass at play, Seeing the mothers rest a little while Out of the turmoil of the busy day.
Soon will he ask, “Where are the children gone: They who should share this pleasant, sacred place? No little feet are treading this soft lawn, Here shines no glory from a little face.”
Ye in whose trust this Christian church is left, Think ye that thus ye serve your Master mild? None by His will are of this home bereft; They love Him not who wrong a little child.
A DEAD POET
Fair Death, kind Death, it was a gracious deed To take that weary vagrant to thy breast. Love, Song and Wine had he, and but one need-- Rest.
THE MORNING MEDITATIONS OF FRERE HYACINTHUS
So he is dead and damned and all is well. So fare all traitors to the church and God! Cursed and cast out with candle, book and bell, And thrust to rot beneath unhallowed sod.
The mouth that sounded once Saint Mary’s name He smirched and stained with scarlet wine of lust; Therefore is he become a thing of shame, Anathema and alien to the just.
We prayed within the cloister side by side, He chose the world, wise in his own conceit; I kept our Blessed Lady for my bride, To paths of sin he set his wayward feet.
And she is dead, too. Lies with him, they say? Aye, lies with him--they are together still-- That golden girl I saw one summer day Tending her kine upon the pasture hill.
God, God, is not my blood like his blood red? God, God, could I not see that she was fair? Did I not close my eyes and bow my head, And purge my soul with fasting and with prayer?
God, see my flesh with scourgings cut and scarred! God, see my frame with fasting weak and thin! God, see my face with tears and sorrow marred! God, see my soul burnt white and clean of sin!
Tempted I was like him, but did not yield. Outcast is he and damned and spit upon. Elect am I and with thine own sign sealed, Washed white and pure in blood of Christ thy Son.
And yet, and yet--Ah, God, that dream last night! When I had prayed before Thy blessed shrine, And sought to rest a while before the light Should call me to new services of Thine.
Then as I slept it seemed I was with Thee In Heaven, and I looked down into Hell, That I the cursed souls in pain might see And be more glad that I had served Thee well.
I saw the place with blood-red flames alight, I saw the damned and heard their shrieks and groans, And then there burst upon my eyes a sight That turned to lead the marrow in my bones.
There in his arms her soft white body lay; Shielded by him she kissed his mouth and smiled. Round them the flames kept their unheeded sway. Even to Hell Love made them reconciled.
It’s time for Mass. God bless the newborn day! How very fair it is, and sweet and still-- Down yonder lane she used to make her way To tend her kine upon the pasture hill.
VILLANELLE OF THE PLAYERS
Violets fade with the May, Purple and fragrant they die, Players live for a day.
What is their legacy, pray? Where does their loveliness lie? Violets fade with the May.
Actors in motley array Grace of your memory cry, Players live for a day.
Where the sad pine trees sway Lonely the reft winds sigh, Violets fade with the May.
Withered the wreaths of bay, Wine-cups are cracked and dry, Players live for a day.
Clouds of the sunset sky, None shall their eulogy say, Violets fade with the May, Players live for a day.
THE MAD FIDDLER
I sleep beneath a bracken sheet In sunlight or in rain, The road dust burns my naked feet, The sunrays sear my brain; But children love my fiddle’s sound And if a lad be straying, His mother knows he may be found Where old Mad Larry’s playing.
O fiddle, let us follow, follow, Till we see my Eileen’s face, Through the moonlight like a swallow Off she flew to some far place.
O, did you ever love a lass? I loved a lass one day, And she would lie upon the grass And sing while I would play. She was a cruel, lovely thing, Nor heart nor soul have I For Eileen took them that soft spring When she flew to the sky.
So fiddle, let us follow, follow, Till we see my Eileen’s face, Through the moonlight like a swallow Off she flew to some far place.
THE GRASS IN MADISON SQUARE
The pleasant turf is dried and marred and seared, The grass is dead. No soft green shoot, by rain and sunshine reared, Lifts up its head.
I think the grass that made the park so gay In early spring Now decks the lawns of Heaven where babies play And dance and sing.
And poor old vagabonds who now have left The dusty street, Find fields of which they were in life bereft, Beneath their feet.
CHEVELY CROSSING
Where two roads cross by Chevely town A man is lying dead. The rumbling wains of scented hay Roll over his fair head; A stake is driven through his heart, For his own blood he shed.
* * * * *
Among the pleasant flower-stars By God’s own garden gate, A little maid fresh come from earth One summer night did wait; Her poppy mouth dropped down with fear, With fear her eyes were great.
The angels saw her sinless face, The gate was opened wide. She only shook her dawn-crowned head And would not come inside. She was alone, and so afraid-- She hid her face and cried.
Her tears dropped down like sun-filled rain Through stars and starless space, Until at last in Chevely town Where in a moonlit place Her lover knelt upon her grave, They fell upon his face.
Said he, “My love, my only love, My Elena, my Sweet! Through what wild ways of mystery Have strayed your little feet? Alone, alone this lonely night Where only spirits meet!
“It is not my bleak desert life That turns my heart to lead, Not for my empty arms I mourn, Nor for my loveless bed; But that you wander forth alone On heights I may not tread.
“If I could stand beside you now Sin-burdened though I be, I’d bear you through the trackless ways From fear and danger free, Not God himself could daunt the strong Undying love of me!
“Though Heaven is a pleasant place What joy for you is there? Who tread the jewelled streets alone Without my heart to share Each throb of your heart, and my arm Around you, O my Fair!
“I hear your sobbing in the wind, And in the summer rain I feel your tears. My heart is pierced With your sad, lonely pain. My Love! My only Love! I come! You shall not call in vain!”
* * * * *
Where two roads cross by Chevely town A man is lying dead. The rumbling wains of scented hay Roll over his fair head; A stake is driven through his heart, For his own blood he shed.
SAID THE ROSE
No flower hath so fair a face as this pale love of mine When he bends down to kiss my heart, my petals try to twine About his lips to hold them fast. He is so very fair, My lover with the pale, sad face and forest-fragrant hair.
I think it is a pleasant place, this garden where I grow, With gravel walks and grassy mounds and crosses in a row. There is no toil nor worry here, nor clatter of the street, And here each night my lover comes, pale, sad and very sweet.
He never heeds the violets or lilies tall and white; I am his love, his only love, his Flower of Delight; And often when the cold moonbeams are lying all around My lover kneels the whole night through beside me on the ground.
How can I miss the sunshine-laden breezes of the south When all my heart is burning with the kisses of his mouth? How can I miss the coming of the comfort-bringing rain When his hot tears are filling me with heaven-sweet love-pain?
There is a jealous little bird that envies me my love, He sings this bitter, bitter song from his brown nest above: “Was ever yet a mortal man who wed a flower wife? He loves the girl down in your roots whose dead breast gives you life.”
O little bird, O jealous bird, fly off and cease your chatter! My lover is my lover, and what can a dead girl matter? In his hot kisses and sweet tears I shall my petals steep; I am his love, his only love, I have his heart to keep.
WHITE MARBLE AND GREEN GRASS
Starlight, sunlight, silver light and gold, All are dark for Love’s great flame is cold. Rose wind, garden wind and morning’s breath, Are ye stronger than the scent of death?
METAMORPHOSIS
He was an evil thing to see-- Of joy his mouth was desolate, His body was a stunted tree, His eyes were pools of lust and hate.
Now silverly the linnet sings On leaves that from his temples start And gay the yellow crocus springs From the rich clod that was his heart.
ABSINTHE
I have prayed to the Christ of the merciful eyes, I have prayed to the Lord of Hosts, I have prayed, but in vain, for God to rise And scatter these murderous ghosts, These horrible, beckoning ghosts that sign And beckon me where? ah, where? O little green god in your crystal shrine, You only will heed my prayer!
The breath of your mouth is a powerful wind That whirls sorrow-shadows away; The light of your eyes burns the bonds that bind, I escape from the earth’s fell sway. The pallid figures in threatening line, They falter and tremble and flee. O little green god in your crystal shrine, Shed some of your glory on me!
I have given you service, sincere and prolonged, I have given you love--ah, you know! Though I pray in a fane by your worshippers thronged, There is no one who worships you so. My hand and my heart and my brain, ah, divine Lord, master of living, I give, O little green god in your crystal shrine, Take these--and then bid me to live!
By a green marble house in a garden of green, Green roses bloom ’neath a green sun, Where the maidens have eyes of an emerald sheen, And the strife and the labor are done, O there let me dwell, where the ravenous whine Of the earth ghosts is soundless and dead. O little green god in your crystal shrine, Your heavenly dream-shower shed!
THEOLOGY
The blade is sharp, the reaper stout, And every daisy dies. Their souls are fluttering about-- We call them butterflies.
FOR A CHILD
His mind has neither need nor power to know The foolish things that men call right and wrong. For him the streams of pleasant love-wind flow, For him the mystic, sleep-compelling song. Through love he rules his love-made universe, And sees with eyes by ignorance made keen The fauns and elves whom older eyes disperse, Great Pan and all the fairies with their queen. King gods, I pray, bestow on him this dole, Not wisdom, wealth, nor mighty deeds to do, But let him keep his happy pagan soul, The poet-vision, simple, free and true, To hunt the rainbow-gold and phantom lights, And meet with dryads on the wooded heights.
TO J. B. Y.
Bitter and selfish sorrow, poverty, strife and ruth, Fear of the dreadful morrow,--these took away our youth. Ængus is bending o’er us--we are too old to see, Too old to hear before us moon-drenchèd songs of Shee.
Dreamer of dreams and lover, young as are love and dreams, Show us the Shee that hover over the silver streams, Give us the song and story, make us to live anew, Bathed in your youthful glory let us be young like you.
THE KING’S BALLAD
Good my king, in your garden close, (Hark to the thrush’s trilling,) Why so sad when the maiden rose Love at your feet is spilling? Golden the air and honey-sweet, Sapphire the sky, it is not meet Sorrowful faces should flowers greet, (Hark to the thrush’s trilling.)
All alone walks the king to-day, (Hark to the thrush’s trilling,) Far from the throne he steals away Loneness and quiet willing. Roses and tulips and lilies fair Smile for his pleasure everywhere, Yet of their joyaunce he takes no share, (Hark to the thrush’s trilling.)
Ladies wait in the palace, Sire, (Hark to the thrush’s trilling,) Red and white for the king’s desire Lovewarm and sweet and thrilling, Breasts of moonshine and hair of night, Glances amorous soft and bright, Nothing is lacking for thy delight, (Hark to the thrush’s trilling.)
Kneels the king in a grassy place, (Hark to the thrush’s trilling,) Little flowers under his face With his warm tears are filling: Says the king, “Here my heart lies dead Where my fair love is buried, Would I were lying here instead!” (Hark to the thrush’s trilling.)
JESUS AND THE SUMMER RAIN
Over the hills and across the plain, Treading their gypsy way, Ragged and penniless, vagrants twain Went with a child one day.
Sunburnt and barefooted was the man, Poor was the woman’s dress, Over the baby the sunbeams ran, Winds gave him soft caress.
“Brother o’ mine,” said the summer rain, “Brother o’ mine,” said he, “Take you the vagabond’s joy and pain, Vagabond shall you be.
“Banned by the rich and the folk of power, Outcasts shall love you well; Harlots and thieves in your dying hour Closest to you shall dwell.
“Never a home nor abiding place Where you may rest your load; Ever the starlight on your face, Ever the open road.
“Brother o’ mine,” said the summer rain, “Brother o’ mine,” said he, “Take you the vagabond’s joy and pain, Vagabond shall you be.”
THE BALLADE OF BUTTERFLIES
Because we never build a nest And no one of us ever sings, We are the butt of every jest That strutting loud-mouthed robin flings. Unless the field with laughter rings And we are meek in our replies His claws and beak to bear he brings; Have pity on all butterflies!
Since we are of no home possest, And have no joy in courts and kings, And love on working-days to rest, The name of “Idlers” to us clings. On all our gypsy travellings They follow us with jeering cries. From every rose a spider springs; Have pity on all butterflies!
A little thing is our request-- Some peace from nets of sticks and strings, An hour to feel the sunlight’s zest, To ’scape the deadly bee that stings. From hostile fortune’s bolts and slings Give us release ere Summer dies-- We dread the Winter’s threatenings; Have pity on all butterflies!
L’ENVOI
Great Pan, kind lord of living things, Look on us now with friendly eyes. We pray to you on trembling wings, Have pity on all butterflies!
THE CLOUDED SUN
(To A. S.)
It is not good for poets to grow old For they serve Death that loves and Love that kills; And Love and Death, enthroned above the hills, Call back their faithful servants to the fold Before Age makes them passionless and cold.
Therefore it is that no more sorry thing Can shut the sunlight from the thirsty grass Than some grey head through which no longer pass Wild dreams more lively than the scent of Spring To fire the blood and make the glad mouth sing.
Far happier he, who, young and full of pride And radiant with the glory of the sun, Leaves earth before his singing time is done. All wounds of Time the graveyard flowers hide, His beauty lives, as fresh as when he died.
Then through the words wherein his spirit dwells The world may see his young impetuous face Unmarred by Time, with undiminished grace; While memory no piteous story tells Of barren days, stale loves and broken spells.
* * * * *
Brother and Master, we are wed with woe. Yea, Grief’s funereal cloud it is that hovers About the head of us thy mournful lovers. Uncomforted and sick with pain we go, Dust on our brows and at our hearts the snow.
The London lights flare on the chattering street, Young men and maidens love and dance and die; Wine flows, and perfumes float up to the sky. Once thou couldst feel that this was very sweet, Now thou art still--mouth, hands and weary feet.
O subtle mouth, whereon the Sphinx has placed The smile of those she kisses at their birth, Sing once again, for Spring has thrilled the earth. Nay, thou art dumb. Not even April’s taste Is sweet to thee in thy live coffin cased.
There is no harsher tragedy than this-- That thou, who feltest as no man before Scent, color, taste and sound and didst outpour For us rich draughts of thine enchanted bliss Shouldst be plunged down this cruel black abyss.
Brother and Master, if our love could free Thy flameborn spirit from its leaden chain Thou shouldst rise up from this sad house of pain, Be young and fair as thou wast wont to be, And strong with joy as is the boundless sea.
Brother and Master, at thy feet we lay These roses, red as lips that thou hast sung. And cypress wreaths above thy head are hung To mingle with the green and fragrant bay. We kneel awhile, then turn in tears away.
IN MEMORIAM: FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE
She whom we love, our Lady of Compassion, Can never die, for Love forbids her death. Love has bent down in his old kindly fashion, And breathed upon her his immortal breath.
On wounded soldiers, in their anguish lying, Her gentle spirit shall descend like rain. Where the white flag with the red cross is flying, There shall she dwell, the vanquisher of pain.
BALLAD OF THREE
Upon the river’s brink she stands And tastes the dawn’s white breath. She wrings her slender, silver hands, “God’s curse on love,” she saith. “Love binds me with his cruel bands That break not save with death.”
“Now Geoffrey is a huntsman bold And slays the mountain deer, And Hugh plows up the fragrant mold And plucks the ripened ear. In friendship would these twain grow old Did I not dwell anear.
“Hugh brings me grapes with sunlight sweet, Like globes of amethyst, While Geoffrey’s fawn with snowflake feet Is corded to my wrist. They mutter curses when they meet, Their sight dims with red mist.
“And it is love hath done this thing; Yea, Geoffrey loves my hair, And Hugh lifts up his voice to sing That my sad face is fair, And love strews poison in the spring And fouls the pleasant air.
“But not for my poor loveliness Shall blood of brothers flow. What is one woman, more or less? And what is love but woe! I want no murderer’s caress, So for love’s sake--I go.”
Lads, sheathe your knives, no use to fight. The lady you would wed Shall sleep alone in state tonight With candles at her head. Lift, friends, this figure still and white And bear her to her bed.
COURT MUSICIANS
As when in summer-scented days gone by The court-musicians, dressed in velvets gay And golden silks, would on their gitterns play And blend their voices with the strings’ love-cry, So that the princess from her tower on high Might through the rose-framed window hear their lay, And make more splendid the resplendent day By leaning out, her choristers to spy;
So now, with weary voice and violin, Two court-musicians rend the dusty air. Their shrill notes pierce the elevated’s din, And thrill a girl’s heart with a pleasure rare. For her has sweeter music never been; They never saw a princess half so fair.
THE DEAD LOVER
I tire of lovely faces free from pain And free from sin; Here none with lips wet with the crimson stain May enter in. One thing I lack, and lacking it, am dead-- A woman’s heart. “She cannot enter here,” an angel said; I will depart.
I have one prayer that I will make to God, That I may stay Where lies my body underneath the sod. Then night and day I shall be where my dear false love may pass; It will be sweet To hear above my head, upon the grass, Her little feet.
THE POET’S EPITAPH
Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, good-night.
Over our earthly sight Shadows of woe must be; Dreams fade with morning light.
Soldiers awake to fight-- Thou art from strife set free, Dreamer of dreams, good-night.
Day breaketh, cruel, white, Lovely the forms that flee; Dreams fade with morning light.
Thine is the sure delight, Sleep-visions still to see, Dreamer of dreams, good-night.
Pity us from thy height, Dawn-haunted slaves are we; Dreams fade with morning light, Dreamer of dreams, good-night.
THE SUBWAY
Tired clerks, pale girls, street cleaners, business men, Boys, priests and harlots, drunkards, students, thieves, Each one the pleasant outer sunshine leaves; They mingle in this stifling, loud-wheeled pen. The gate clangs to--we stir--we sway--and then We thunder through the dark. The long train weaves Its gloomy way. At last above the eaves We see awhile God’s day, then night again.
Hurled through the dark--day at Manhattan Street, The rest all night. That is my life, it seems. Through sunless ways go my reluctant feet. The sunlight comes in transitory gleams. And yet the darkness makes the light more sweet, The perfect light about me--in my dreams.
THE OTHER LOVER
I’m home from off the stormy sea, And down the street The folk come out to welcome me On eager feet. O neighbors, God be with you all, But for my true love I must call; She lingers in her father’s hall So shy, so sweet!
Here is a string of milky pearls For her to wear, An amber comb to match the curls Of her bright hair. O neighbors, do not crowd me so! Stand by! stand by! for I must go To put on my love’s hand of snow This gold ring fair.
Good dame, why do you block the way And shake your head? Must all the things you have to say Just now be said? O neighbors, let me pass--but why-- My God, what makes you women cry? Come tell me that I too may die! Is my love dead?
“Nay, Marjorie’s a living thing, And fair and strong. Yet did you wait to give your ring A year too long. To seek her love there came the Moon; Now Marjorie at night and noon Is chained and sits alone to croon The Moon’s love-song.”
AGE COMES A-WOOING
With shameless and incessant lust Thy tremulous hot hands are thrust Upon my body’s loveliness. O loathsome Age, thy foul caress Puts on my heart a deadly blight, Withers my hair to leprous white, Binds fetters on my eager feet That once on Springtime’s road were fleet To bear me to Love’s shining goal. Now bitter tides of sorrow roll To drown me in a sea of woe And God looks on, and wills it so!