Part 15

There is no inspiration in the view. From where this acorn drops its thimbles brown The landscape stretches like a shaggy frown; The wrinkled hills hang haggard and harsh of hue: Above them hollows the heaven’s stony blue, Like a dull thought that haunts some sleep-dazed clown Plodding his homeward way; and, whispering down, The dead leaves dance, a sere and shelterless crew. Let the sick day stagger unto its close, Morose and mumbling, like a hoary crone Beneath her faggots--huddled fogs that soon Shall flare the windy west with ashen glows, Like some deep, dying hearth; and let the lone Night come at last--night, and its withered moon.

AUTUMN STORM

The wind is rising and the leaves are swept Wildly before it, hundreds on hundreds fall Huddling beneath the trees. With brag and brawl Of storm the day is grown a tavern, kept Of madness, where, with mantles torn and ripped Of flying leaves that beat above it all, The wild winds fight; and, like some half-spent ball, The acorn stings the rout; and, silver-stripped, The milkweed-pod winks an exhausted lamp: Now, in his coat of tatters dark that streams, The ragged rain sweeps stormily this way, With all his clamorous followers--clouds that camp Around the hearthstone of the west where gleams The last chill flame of the expiring day.

THE JONGLEUR

Last night I lay awake and heard the wind, That madman jongleur of the world of air, Making wild music: now he seemed to fare With harp and lute, so intimately twinned They were as one; now on a drum he dinned, Now on a tabor; now, with blow and blare Of sackbut and recorder, everywhere Shattered the night; then on a sudden thinned To bagpipe wailings as of maniac grief That whined itself to sleep. And then, me-seemed, Out in the darkness, mediæval-dim, I saw him dancing, like an autumn leaf, In tattered tunic, while around him streamed His lute’s wild ribbons ’thwart the moon’s low rim.

OLD SIR JOHN

Bald, with old eyes a blood-shot blue, he comes Into the Boar’s Head Inn: the hot sweat streaks His fulvous face, and all his raiment reeks Of all the stews and all the Eastcheap slums. Upon the battered board again he drums And croaks for sack: then sits, his harsh-haired cheeks Sunk in his hands, rough with the grime of weeks, While round the tap one great bluebottle hums. All, all are gone, the old companions--they Who made his rogue’s world merry: of them all Not one is left. Old, toothless now, and gray, Alone he waits: the swagger of that day Gone from his bulk--departed even as Doll, And he, his Hal, who broke his heart, they say.

IN AGES PAST

I stood upon a height and listened to The solemn psalmody of many pines, And with the sound I seemed to see long lines Of mountains rise, blue peak on cloudy blue, And hear the roar of torrents hurling through Riven ravines; or from the crags’ gaunt spines Pouring wild hair, where,--as an eyeball shines,-- A mountain pool shone, clear and cold of hue. And then my soul remembered--felt, how once, In ages past, ’twas here that I, a Faun, Startled an Oread at her morning bath, Who stood revealed; her beauty, like the sun’s, Veiled in her hair, heavy with dews of dawn, Through which, like stars, burnt blue her eyes’ bright wrath.

THE MISER

Withered and gray as winter; gnarled and old, With bony hands he crouches by the coals; His beggar’s coat is patched and worn in holes; Rags are his shoes: clutched in his claw-like hold A chest he hugs wherein he hoards his gold. Far-heard a bell of midnight slowly tolls: The bleak blasts shake his hut like wailing souls, And door and window chatter with the cold. Nor sleet nor snow he heeds, nor storm nor night. Let the wind howl! and let the palsy twitch His rheum-racked limbs! here’s that will make them glow And warm his heart! here’s comfort, joy and light!-- How the gold glistens!--Rich he is; how rich-- Only the death that knocks outside shall know.

UNTO WHAT END

Unto what end, I ask, unto what end Is all this effort, this unrest and toil? Work that avails not? strife and mad turmoil? Ambitions vain that rack our hearts and rend? Did labor but avail! did it defend The soul from its despair, who would recoil From sweet endeavor then? work that were oil To still the storms that in the heart contend! But still to see all effort valueless! To toil in vain year after weary year At Song! beholding every other Art Considered more than Song’s high holiness,-- The difficult, the beautiful and dear!-- Doth break my heart, ah God! doth break my heart!

EPILOGUE

_We have worshipped two gods from our earliest youth, Soul of my soul and heart of me! Young forever and true as truth-- The gods of Beauty and Poesy. Sweet to us are their tyrannies, Sweet their chains that have held us long, For God’s own self is a part of these, Part of our gods of Beauty and Song._

_What to us if the world revile! What to us if its heart rejects! It may scorn our gods, or curse with a smile, The gods we worship, that it neglects: Nothing to us is its blessing or curse; Less than nothing its hate and wrong: For Love smiles down through the universe Smiles on our gods of Beauty and Song._

_We go our ways: and the dreams we dream, People our path and cheer us on; And ever before is the golden gleam, The star we follow, the streak of dawn: Nothing to us is the word men say; For a wiser word still keeps us strong, God’s word, that makes fine fire of clay, That shaped our gods of Beauty and Song._