Chapter 2

Not for itself is beauty, but for us Who gaze upon it with all reverent eyes; And youth which sheds its glory luminous, Gives ever in this wise:-- Itself the joy it may not realise. Only we know, who linger overlong Youth that is made of beauty and of song.

THE EMPTY HOUSE

April will come to the quiet town That I left long ago, Scattering primroses up and down-- Row upon happy row. (Oh, little green lane, will she come your way, To a certain path I know?)

April will pause by cottage and gate In the wild, sweet evening rain, Where the garden borders run brown and straight, To coax them to bloom again. (Oh, little sad garden that once was gay, Must she call to you all in vain?)

April will come to cottage and hill, Laughing her lovers awake. (Oh, little closed house, so cold and still, Will she find you for old joy's sake, And leave one primrose beside your door, Lest the heart of your garden break?)

THE BROKEN LUTE

Good-bye, my song--I, who found words for sorrow, Offer my joy to-day a useless lute. In the deep night I sang me of the morrow; The sun is on my face and I am mute.

Good-bye, my song, in you was all my yearning, The prayer for this poor heart I wore so long. Now love heaps roses where the wounds were burning; What need have I for song?

Long since I sang of all one loves and misses; How may I sing to-day who know no wrong? My lips are all for laughter and for kisses. Good-bye, my song.

ORCHARDS

Orchards in the Spring-time! Oh, I think and think of them,-- Filmy mists of pink and white above the fresh, young green, Lifting and drifting,--how my eyes could drink of them, _I'm staring at a dirty wall beyond a big machine._

Orchards in the Spring-time! Deep in soft, cool shadows,-- Moving all together when the west wind blows Fragrance upon fragrance over road and meadows-- _I'm smelling heat and oil and sweat, and thick, black clothes._

Orchards in the Spring-time! The clean white and pink of them Lifting and drifting with all the winds that blow. Orchards in the Spring-time! Thank God I still can think of them! _You're not docked for thinking,--if the foreman doesn't know._

TWILIGHT

Below them in the twilight the quiet village lies, And warm within its holding, the old folks and the wise, But here within the open fields the paths of Eden show, And, hand in hand, across them the little lovers go.

Below them in the village are peaceful folk and still, They gossip of old yesterdays, of merry times or ill. But here beyond the twilight stray two who only see The promise of to-morrow--the dawn that is to be.

Below them in the village the quiet hearth-flames glow, With friendly word and greeting the neighbours come and go, But here the silence folds them together, each to each, And lights within the mating eyes the dream beyond their speech.

Below them in the village stay honest toil and truth,-- They rest there who adventured the road of love and youth. Smile out, old hearts, when once again two take the path you know, And, hand in hand, at twilight the little lovers go.

A LOVE SONG

My love it should be silent, being deep-- And being very peaceful should be still-- Still as the utmost depths of ocean keep-- Serenely silent as some mighty hill.

Yet is my love so great it needs must fill With very joy the inmost heart of me, The joy of dancing branches on the hill, The joy of leaping waves upon the sea.

OLD BOATS

I saw the old sea captain in his city daughter's house, Shaved till his chin was pink, and brushed till his hair was flat, In a broadcloth suit and varnished boots and a collar up to his ears. (I'd seen him last with a slicker on and a tied down oilskin hat.)

And it happened that I went home last June, and saw in Mallory's yard The old red dory that sprung a leak a couple of years ago, Dragged out of good salt water and braced to stand in the grass And be filled with dirt from stem to stern, where posies and such could grow.

Painted to beat the band, with vines strung over the sides And red geraniums in the bow,--a boat that was built for water Made into a flower garden. I looked, but I didn't laugh, For I thought of the old sea captain living in town with his daughter.

BEAUTY

Sometimes, slow moving through unlovely days, The need to look on beauty falls on me As on the blind the anguished wish to see, As on the dumb the urge to rage or praise; Beauty of marble where the eyes may gaze Till soothed to peace by white serenity, Or canvas where one master hand sets free Great colours that like angels blend and blaze.

O, there be many starved in this strange wise-- For this diviner food their days deny, Knowing beyond their vision beauty stands With pitying eyes--with tender, outstretched hands, Eager to give to every passer-by The loveliness that feeds a soul's demands.

A SONG

I am as weary as a child That weeps upon its mother's breast For joy of comforting. But I Have no such place to rest.

I am as weary as a bird Blown by wild winds far out to sea When it regains its nest. But, Oh, There waits no nest for me.

What think you may sustain the bird That finds no housing after flight? And what the little child console Who weeps alone at night?

MOTHERS OF MEN

Mothers of men--the words are good indeed in the saying, Pride in the very sound of them, strength in the sense of them, then Why is it their faces haunt me, wistful faces as praying Ever some dear thing vanished and ever a hope delaying, Mothers of Men?

Mothers of Men, most patient, tenderly slow to discover The loss of the old allegiance that may not return again. You give a man to the world, you give a woman a lover-- Where is your solace then when the time of giving is over, Mothers of Men?

Mothers of Men, but surely, the title is worth the earning. You who are brave in feigning must I ever behold you then By the door of an empty heart with the lamp of faith still burning, Watching the ways of life for the sight of a child returning, Mothers of Men?

LOVELACE GROWN OLD

I

My life has been like a bee that roves Through a scented garden close, And 'tis I who have kept the honey of love, The hoarded sweetness and scent thereof, For all I forget the rose.

Oh, exquisite gardens long forgot That have made my store complete, Though winter fall upon blossom and bee, Yet the kisses I garnered remain with me Forever and ever sweet.

II

The Priest hath had his word and said his say-- A word i' faith more honest than beguiling-- But now he turns upon his gloomy way-- Good soul, he leaves me smiling.

I may not ponder much on future wrath; Of all those loves of mine, some six or seven, Surely ere this have climbed that thorny path That leads at last to Heaven.

My bold, brown beauties, eh, my delicate And golden damsels with uncensuring eyes, Not long once did you make your Lovelace wait Outside of Paradise.

Much am I minded of a certain night-- A night of moon and drifting clouds that hid The convent wall from overmuch of light Whereby one watched forbid.

Watched, till he heard within the trembling sound Of white, girl fingers on the rusting key That turned her heart as well, till each unbound Let in felicity.

Ah well, I have small fear--her eyes were blue; Blue eyes remember though it cost them tears. Who knows but that same hand shall lead me through Another Gate of Fears.

In the same fashion, brave, yet most afraid, Bold for her love yet trembling for her sin-- So, Saints were tricked before. My blue-eyed maid, Be there to let me in.

III

Since I loved you for a day--Ah, a day, the fleetest-- Since I sighed and rode away when our love was sweetest, So shall you remember me, now that youth is over, Fairly, of your courtesy, as your fondest lover.

Since I turned and said good-bye when my heart was truest, Since we parted, you and I, when our joy was newest, Love might never turn to doubt and from doubt to scorning. We but lived his sweetness out twixt a night and morning.

So shall you remember me, eager in pursuing, Faithful as a man must be in his time o' wooing. Greater loves but stay and pine so, now youth is over, Smiling shall you think of mine--mine, your fondest lover.

SHADE

The kindliest thing God ever made, His hand of very healing laid Upon a fevered world, is shade.

His glorious company of trees Throw out their mantles, and on these The dust-stained wanderer finds ease.

Green temples, closed against the beat Of noontime's blinding glare and heat, Open to any pilgrim's feet.

The white road blisters in the sun; Now, half the weary journey done, Enter and rest, Oh weary one!

And feel the dew of dawn still wet Beneath thy feet, and so forget The burning highway's ache and fret.

This is God's hospitality, And whoso rests beneath a tree Hath cause to thank Him gratefully.

THE VAGABOND

The little dream she had forgot Oh, long and long ago, Came back across the April fields And touched her garment so (As might a wind-blown primrose cling And one scarce guess or know.)

A little beggared outcast dream Forgot of Love and men, And all because a fiddler played An old song in the glen, And two Young Lovers hand in hand, Sent back its tune again.

The little dream she had forgot Crept near and clung and stayed-- A roving, ragged vagabond Half daring, half afraid, And all because young love went by And one old fiddler played.

DISTANCE

A hundred miles between us Could never part us more Than that one step you took from me What time my need was sore.

A hundred years between us Might hold us less apart Than that one dragging moment Wherein I knew your heart.

Now what farewell is needed To all I held most dear, So far and far you are from me I doubt if you could hear.

THE GYPSYING

I wish we might go gypsying one day the while we're young-- On a blue October morning Beneath a cloudless sky, When all the world's a vibrant harp The winds o' God have strung, And gay as tossing torches the maples light us by; The rising sun before us--a golden bubble swung-- I wish we might go gypsying one day the while we're young.

I wish we might go gypsying one day before we're old-- To step it with the wild west wind And sing the while we go, Through far forgotten orchards Hung with jewels red and gold; Through cool and fragrant forests where never sun may show, To stand upon a high hill and watch the mist unfold-- I wish we might go gypsying one day before we're old.

I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care-- The while we've heart for hazarding, The while we've will to sing, The while we've wit to hear the call And youth and mirth to spare, Before a day may find us too sad for gypsying, Before a day may find us too dull to dream and dare-- I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care.

GOOD-BYE, PIERRETTE

Good-bye, Pierrette. The new moon waits Like some shy maiden at the gates Of rose and pearl, to watch us stand This little moment, hand in hand-- Nor one red rose its watch abates.

The low wind through your garden prates Of one this twilight desolates. Ah, was it this your roses planned? Good-bye, Pierrette.

Oh, merriest of little mates, No sadder lover hesitates Beneath this moon in any land; Nor any roses, watchful, bland, Look on a sadder jest of Fate's. Good-bye, Pierrette.

THE AWAKENING

When the white dawn comes I shall kneel to welcome it; The dread that darkened on my eyes Shall vanish and be gone. I shall look upon it As the parched on fountains, _Yet it was the blinding night_ _That taught the joy of dawn._

When the first bird sings, Oh, I shall hear rejoicing, And all my life shall thrill to it And all my heart draw near. I shall lean to listen Lest a note elude me, _Yet it was the fearsome night_ _That taught me how to hear._

When the sun comes up I shall lift my arms to it; The fear of fear shall fall from me As shackles from a slave. I shall run to hail it, Free and unbewildered, _Yet it was the silent night_ _That taught me to be brave._

THE WEDDING GOWN

She put her wedding-gown away As tenderly as one might close, With kissing lips and finger-tips, The petals of a rose Still held for the Belovèd's sake-- The loveliest that blows.

She put her wedding-gown away-- The quiet place was all astir With vague perfume that filled the room, Cedar and lavender, Yet sweeter still about it clung The fragrant thoughts of her.

She put her wedding-gown away-- Yet lingered where its whiteness gleamed As one above a sleeping Love, Oh, thus it was she seemed, Reluctant still to turn and go And leave him as he dreamed.

THE DISCIPLES

A great king made a feast for Love, And golden was the board and gold The hundred, wondrous gauds thereof; Soft lights like roses fell above Rare dishes exquisite and fine; In jeweled goblets shone the wine-- A great king made a feast for Love.

_Yet Love as gladly and full-fed hath fared_ _Upon a broken crust that two have shared;_ _And from scant wine as glorious dreams drawn up_ _Seeing two lovers kissed above the cup._

A great king made for Love's delight A temple wonderful wherein Served jeweled priest and acolyte; There fell no darkness day or night Since there his highest altar shone With flaming gems as some white sun, A temple made for Love's delight.

_Yet Love hath found a temple as complete_ _In some bare attic where two lovers meet;_ _And made his altar by one candle's flame_ _Seeing two lovers burned it in his name._

THE UNKNOWING

They do not know the awful tears we shed, The tender treasures that we keep and kiss; They could not be so still--our quiet dead In knowing this.

They do not know what time we turn to fill Love's empty chalice with a cheaper bliss; They could not be so still--so very still In knowing this.

HEART OF A HUNDRED SORROWS

Oh, Heart of a Hundred Sorrows, Whose pity is great therefore, The gift that thy children bring thee Is ever a sorrow more.

Sure of thy dear compassion, Concerned for our own relief, Ever and ever we seek thee, And each with his gift of grief.

Oh, not to reprove my brothers, Yet I, who am less than less, Would bring thee my joy of being The rose of my happiness.

The spirit that makes my singing The gladness without alloy, Oh, Heart of a Hundred Sorrows, I bring thee a little joy.

THE RETURNING

I said I will go back again where we Were glad together. But my dear, my dear, Where are the roses we were wont to see The songs we used to hear?

I said the hearth-flame that once burned for us I will renew with all the cheer of old, Yet here within the circle luminous Our very hearts are cold.

That was a barren garden that we found, This was an empty house we came to meet, We, who for all our longing, hear no sound Of Love's returning feet.

THE INLANDER

I never climb a high hill Or gaze across the lea, But, Oh, beyond the two of them, Beyond the height and blue of them, I'm looking for the sea.

A blue sea--a crooning sea-- A grey sea lashed with foam-- But, Oh, to take the drift of it, To know the surge and lift of it, And 'tis I am longing for it as the homeless long for home.

I never dream at night-time Or close my eyes by day, But there I have the might of it, The wind-whipped, sun-drenched sight of it, That calls my soul away.

Oh, deep dreams and happy dreams, Its dreaming still I'd be, For still the land I'm waking in, 'Tis that my heart is breaking in, And 'tis far where I'd be sleeping with the blue waves over me.

AD FINEM

I like to think this friendship that we hold As youth's high gift in our two hands to-day Still shall we find as bright, untarnished gold What time the fleeting years have left us grey. I like to think we two shall watch the May Dance down her happy hills and Autumn fold The world in flame and beauty, we grown old Staunch comrades on an undivided way.

I like to think of Winter nights made bright By book and hearth-flame when we two shall smile At memories of to-day--we two content To count our vanished dawns by candle-light Seeing we hold in our old hands the while The gift of gold youth left us as she went.

A SONG OF HELOISE

God send thee peace, Oh, great unhappy heart-- A world away, I pray that thou mayst rest Softly as on the Well-Belovèd's breast, Where ever in her wistful dreams thou art.

At dawn my prayer is all for thee, at noon My very heart and, Oh, at night my tears For all we walk alone the empty years Nor meet neath any sun--neath any moon.

Yet must my love go with thee--all apart From this the life I lend to lesser things; God send to thee this night beneath its wings, A little peace, Oh, great unhappy heart.

THE RETURN

I come to you grown weary of much laughter, From jangling mirth that once seemed over-sweet, From all the mocking ghosts that follow after A man's returning feet; Give me no word of welcome or of greeting Only in silence let me enter in, Only in silence when our eyes are meeting, Absolve me of my sin.

I come to you grown weary of much living, Open your door and lift me of your grace, I ask for no compassion, no forgiving, Only your face, your face; Only in that white peace that is your dwelling To come again, before your feet to sink, And of your quiet as of wine compelling Drink as the thirsting drink.

Be kind to me as sleep is kind that closes With tender hands men's fever-wearied eyes, Your arms are as a garden of white roses Where old remembrance lies, I, who am bruised with words and pierced with chiding, Give me your silence as a Saint might give Her white cloak for some hunted creature's hiding, That he might rest and live.

THE POPLARS

My poplars are like ladies trim, Each conscious of her own estate; In costume somewhat over prim, In manner cordially sedate, Like two old neighbours met to chat Beside my garden gate.

My stately old aristocrats-- I fancy still their talk must be Of rose-conserves and Persian cats, And lavender and Indian tea;-- I wonder sometimes as I pass If they approve of me.

I give them greeting night and morn, I like to think they answer, too, With that benign assurance born When youth gives age the reverence due, And bend their wise heads as I go As courteous ladies do.

Long may you stand before my door, Oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green, And bend with rustling welcome o'er The many friends who pass between; And where the little children play Look down with gracious mien.

THE LITTLE JOYS

My little joys went by me As little children run Across the fields at sunset When playing time is done.

And now alone at twilight What is there may content The heart that loved their laughter And frolic merriment?

Ah well, who knows but still may dawn Another fairer day Wherein my little joys may come A-dancing out to play.

SONGS OF HIMSELF

HIMSELF

The houseful that we were then, you could count us by the dozens, The wonder was that sometimes the old walls wouldn't burst: Herself (the Lord be good to her!), the aunts and rafts of cousins, The young folks and the children,--but Himself came first.

_Master of the House he was, and well for them that knew it:_ _His cheeks like winter apples and his head like snow;_ _Eyes as blue as water when the sun of March shines through it._ _And steppin' like a soldier with his stick held so._

Faith, but he could tell a tale would serve a man for wages, Sing a song would put the joy of dancin' in two sticks; But Saints between themselves and harm that saw him in his rages, Blazin' and oratin' over chess and politics.

_Master of the House he was, and that beyond all sayin',_ _Eh, the times I've heard him exhortin' from his chair_ _The like of any Bishop, yet snappin' off his prayin'_ _To put the curse on Phelan's dog for howlin' in the prayer._

The times I've seen him walkin' out like Solomon in glory, Salutin' with great elegance the gentry he might meet; An eye for every pretty girl, an ear for every story, And takin' as his just deserts the middle of the street.

_Master of the House, with much to love and be forgiven,--_ _Yet, thinkin' of Himself to-day--Himself--I see him go_ _With that old light step of his, across the Courts of Heaven,_ _His hat a little sideways and his stick held so._

THE FAIR

The pick o' seven counties, so they're tellin' me, was there, Horses racin' on the track, and fiddles on the green, Flyin' flags and blowin' horns and all that makes a fair, I'm hearin' that the like of it was something never seen.

So it is they're tellin' me, Girl dear, it may be true-- I only know the bonnet strings Beneath your chin were blue.

I'm hearin' that the cattle came that thick they stood in rows, And Doolan's Timmy caught the pig and Terry climbed the pole, They're tellin' me they showed the cream of everything that grows, And never man had eyes enough for takin' in the whole.

So it is they're tellin' me, Girl dear, it may be so, I only know your little gown Was whiter than the snow.

They're tellin' me the gentry came from twenty miles about, And him that came from Ballinsloe sang limpin' Jamesey down, And 'twas Himself, no less, stood by to give the prizes out, They're tellin' me you'd hear the noise from here to Dublin town.

So it is they're tellin' me, Girl dear, the same may be, I only know that comin' home You gave your word to me.

HIS DANCING DAYS

Never did I find me mate for charmin' an' delightin', Never one that had me bate for courtin' an' for fightin';-- (A white moon at the crossroads then, and Denny with the fiddle; The parish round admirin', when I danced down the middle.) Up the earth and down again, me like you'd not discover; Arrah! for the times before me dancin' days were over!