Chapter 2

Oh, who will hush that cry outside the doors, While we are glad within? Go forth, go forth, all you my servitors; (And gather close, my kin.) Go out to her. Tell her we keep a feast,-- Lost Loveliness who will not sit her down Though we implore. It is her silence binds me unreleased, It is her silence that no flute can drown, It is her moonlit silence at the door, Wide as the whiteness, but a fire on high That frights my heart with an immortal Cry, Calling me evermore.

Louder, you viols;--louder, O my harp; Let me not hear her voice; And drown her keener silence, silver-sharp, With waves of golden noise! For she is wise as Eden, even mute, To search my spirit through the deep and height Again, again. Outpierce her with your singing, dawnlike flute; And you, gloom over, viols of the night With colors lost in umber,--with sweet pain Of richest world's desire,--prevail, sing down All memory with pleading, so you drown Her merciless refrain!

Oh, can you not with music, nor with din, Save me the stress and stir In my lone spirit, throned among my kin, From that same voice of her?-- The never ending query she hath had Only to wake my Soul, and only then Wake it to weep? With '_Why?_' and '_Art thou happy? Art thou glad? And hast thou fellowship with fellow-men?_' So, through my mirth and underneath my sleep; Her voice,--abysmal hunger unfulfilled;-- The calling, calling, never to be stilled,-- Calling of deep to deep.

But I have that shall fill this wound of mine, Since Loveliness must be;-- Since Loveliness must save us, or we pine And perish utterly. All that the years have left us, undismayed Of age or death; and happier fair than truth, --When truth is fair! Shapes of immortal sweetness, to persuade Iron and fire and marble to their youth; Wild graces trapped from the three kingdoms' lair Of wildest Beauty; shadow and smile and hush; --Fleet color, of a daybreak, of a blush, For my sad soul to wear!

Let April fade! For me, unfading bloom!... The little fruitless seed Deep sown of fire within the midmost gloom, A sterner fire to feed:-- The rainbow, frozen in a lasting dew; Green-gazing emerald, fresh as grass beneath The placid rose. Fair pearl, and you, fair pearl, and you and you, Rained from the moon, and kissing in a wreath, As moment unto eager moment goes! Look back at me, you sapphires blue and wise With farthest twilight, blue resplendent eyes That never weep, nor close.

O house me, glories! Give me house and home Here for my homelessness. Set forth for me the wine, the honeycomb Whereto desire saith 'Yes!' O Senses, weave me from all lovely dust Some home-array, some fair familiar garb For me, exiled. Charm me some rare anointment I may trust Against her query, searching like a barb The dumbness of a heart unreconciled. Clothe me with silver; fold me from dismay; Save me from pity. For I hear her say, 'Alas, Alas, poor child!'

'Alas, Alas, thou lost poor child, how long? Why wilt thou suffer want? Why must I hear thy weeping through thy song, And see thine eyes grow gaunt? Making sad feast upon the crumbs of light Shed long ago from heavenly highways where Thy brethren are! And thy heart smoulders in thee, to be bright, Thy one sole refuge from thy one despair, Fraying the thwarted body with a scar. How long, before thine eyelids, desolate, How long shall this thy dark dominion wait For thee, belated Star?'

_Belovèd, if the Moon could weep, Or if the Sun could see How all these weltering alleys keep Their outcast treasury!_

_O bitter, bitter-sweet!-- Beauty of babyhood,-- Earth's wistful uttermost of good Flung out upon the street; Fouled, even as the highways would, With mirk and mire and bruise; The cheek more petal-fine Than rose before a shrine! Those hands like star-fish in the ooze, And fingers fain to cling To any stronger thing! And smiles, for one triumphal Gift, Should one lean down, and lift! And tendril hair;--O in such wise, With wild lights aureoled, The morning-glories twine and hold, In some far paradise!_

_Oh well and deep, the foul ways keep Lost treasure hid from day!-- Sun may not see: but only we, Who look; and look away._

THE GOLDEN SHOES

The winds are lashing on the sea; The roads are blind with storm. And it's far and far away with me; So bide you there, stay warm. It's forth I must, and forth to-day; And I have no path to choose. The highway hill, it is my way still.-- Give me my golden shoes.

_God gave them me on that first day I knew that I was young. And I looked far forth, from west to north; And I heard the Songs unsung._

This cloak is worn too threadbare thin, But ah, how weatherwise! This girdle serves to bind it in; What heed of wondering eyes?-- And yet beside, I wear one pride --Too bright, think you, to use?-- That I must wear, and still keep fair.-- Give here my golden shoes.

_God gave them me, on that first day I heard the Stars all chime. And I looked forth far, from road to star; And I knew it was far to climb._

They would buy me house and hearth, no doubt, And the mirth to spend and share; Could I sell that gift, and go without, Or wear--what neighbors wear. But take my staff, my purse, my scrip; For I have one thing to choose. For you,--Godspeed! May you soothe your need. For me, my golden shoes!

_He gave them me, that far, first day When I heard all Songs unsung. And I looked far forth, from west to north. God saw that I was young!_

NOON AT PÆSTUM

Lord of the Sea, we sun-filled creatures raise Our hands among the clamorous weeds,--we too. Lord of the Sun, and of the upper blue, Of all To-morrow, and all yesterdays, Here, where the thousand broken names and ways Of worship are but shards we wandered through, There is no gift to offer, or undo; There is no prayer left in us, only praise.

Only to glory in this glory here, Through the dead smoke of myriad sacrifice;-- To look through these blue spaces, blind and clear Even as the seaward gaze of Homer's eyes; And from uplifted heart, and cup, to pour Wine to the Unknown God.--We ask no more.

VESTAL FLAME

Light, light,--the last: Till the night be done, Keep the watch for stars and sun, and eyelids over-cast.

Once there seemed a sky, Brooding over men. Now no stars have come again, since their bright good-bye!

Once my dreams were wise. Now I nothing know; Fasting and the dark have so put out my heart's eyes.

But thy golden breath Burns against my cheek. I can feel and love, and seek all the rune it saith.

Do not thou be spent, Holy thing of fire,-- Only hope of heart's desire dulled with wonderment!

While there bide these two Hands to bar the wind; Though such fingers chill and thinned, shed no roses through.

While this body bends Only for thy guard; Like a tower, to ward and worship all the light it sends.

It is not for fear Lest there ring some cry On the midnight, 'Rise and come. Lo, the Bridegroom near!'

It is not for pride, To be shining fair In a wedding-garment there, lighting home the Bride.

It is not to win Love, for hoarded toil, From those poor, with their spent oil, weeping, 'Light us in!'--

No; but in despite Of all vigils set, Do I bind me to thee yet,--strangest thing of Light!

Only, all, for thee Whatsoe'er thou art, Smiling through the blinded heart, things it cannot see.

Very Soul's Desire, Take my life; and live By the rapture thine doth give, ecstasy of fire!

Hold thy golden breath! For I feel,--not hear-- Spent with joy and fear to lose thee, all the song it saith.

Light, light, my own: Do not thou disown Thy poor keeper-of-the-light, for Light's sake alone.

_The dark had left no speech save hand-in-hand Between us two the while, with others near. Mine questioned thine with 'Why should I be here?' 'Yet bide thou here,' said thine, 'and understand.'_

_And mine was mute; but strove not then to go; And hid itself, and murmured, 'Do not hear The listening in my heart!' Said thine, 'My Dear, I will not hear it, ever. But I know.'_

_Said mine to thine: 'Let be. Now will I go!-- For you are saying,--you who do not speak, This hand-in-hand is one day cheek-to-cheek!' And said thy hand around me, 'Even so.'_

_Then mine to thine.--'Yea, I have been alone; --Yet happy.--This is strange. This is not I! You hold me, but you can not tell me why.' And said thy hand to mine again, 'My Own.'_

THE PROPHET

All day long he kept the sheep:-- Far and early, from the crowd, On the hills from steep to steep, Where the silence cried aloud; And the shadow of the cloud Wrapt him in a noonday sleep.

Where he dipped the water's cool, Filling boyish hands from thence, Something breathed across the pool Stir of sweet enlightenments; And he drank, with thirsty sense, Till his heart was brimmed and full.

Still, the hovering Voice unshed, And the Vision unbeheld, And the mute sky overhead, And his longing, still withheld! --Even when the two tears welled, Salt, upon that lonely bread.

Vaguely blessèd in the leaves, Dim-companioned in the sun, Eager mornings, wistful eves, Very hunger drew him on; And To-morrow ever shone With the glow the sunset weaves.

Even so, to that young heart, Words and hands, and Men were dear; And the stir of lane and mart After daylong vigil here. Sunset called, and he drew near, Still to find his path apart.

When the Bell, with gentle tongue, Called the herd-bells home again, Through the purple shades he swung, Down the mountain, through the glen; Towards the sound of fellow-men,-- Even from the light that clung.

Dimly too, as cloud on cloud, Came that silent flock of his: Thronging whiteness, in a crowd, After homing twos and threes; With the thronging memories Of all white things dreamed and vowed.

Through the fragrances, alone, By the sudden-silent brook, From the open world unknown, To the close of speech and book; There to find the foreign look In the faces of his own.

Sharing was beyond his skill; Shyly yet, he made essay: Sought to dip, and share, and fill Heart's-desire, from day to day. But their eyes, some foreign way, Looked at him; and he was still.

Last, he reached his arms to sleep, Where the Vision waited, dim, Still beyond some deep-on-deep. And the darkness folded him, Eager heart and weary limb.-- All day long, he kept the sheep.

THE LONG LANE

All through the summer night, down the long lane in flower, The moon-white lane, All through the summer night,--dim as a shower, Glimmer and fade the Twain: Over the cricket hosts, throbbing the hour by hour, Young voices bloom and wane.

Down the long lane they go, and past one window, pale With visions silver-blurred; Stirring the heart that waits,--the eyes that fail After a spring deferred. Query, and hush, and Ah!--dim through a moon-lit veil, The same one word.

Down the long lane, entwined with all the fragrance there; The lane in flower somehow With youth, and plighted hands, and star-strewn air, And muted 'Thee' and 'Thou':-- All the wild bloom and reach of dreams that never were, --Never to be, now.

So, in the throbbing dark, where ebbs the old refrain, A starved heart hears. And silver-bright, and silver-blurred again With moonlight and with tears. All the long night they go, down the long summer lane, The long, long years.

_Ah but, Belovèd, men may do All things to music;--march, and die; And wear the longest vigil through, ... And say good-by. All things to music!--Ah, but where Peace never falls upon the air;-- These city-ways of dark and din Where greed has shut and barred them in! And thundering, swart against the sky, That whirlwind,--never to go by-- Of tracks and wheels, that overhead Beat back the senses with their roar And menace of undying war,-- War--war--for daily bread!_

_All things to silence! Ah, but where Men dwell not, but must make a lair;-- And Sorrow may not sit alone, Nor Love hear music of its own; And Thought that strives to breast that sea Must struggle even for memory. Day-long, night-long,--besieging din To thrust all pain the deeper in!-- And drown the flutter of first-breath; And batter at the doors of Death. To lull their dearest:--watch their dead; While the long thunders overhead, Gather and break for evermore, Eternal tides--eternal War, War--war--Bread--bread!_

ALISON'S MOTHER TO THE BROOK

Brook, of the listening grass, Brook of the sun-fleckt wings, Brook of the same wild way and flickering spell! Must you begone? Will you forever pass, After so many years and dear to tell?-- Brook of all hoverings ... Brook that I kneel above; Brook of my love.

Ah, but I have a charm to trouble you; A spell that shall subdue Your all-escaping heart, unheedful one And unremembering! Now, when I make my prayer To your wild brightness there That will but run and run, O mindless Water!-- Hark,--now will I bring A grace as wild,--my little yearling daughter, My Alison.

Heed well that threat; And tremble for your hill-born liberty So bright to see!-- Your shadow-dappled way, unthwarted yet, And the high hills whence all your dearness bubbled;-- You, never to possess! For let her dip but once--O fair and fleet,-- Here in your shallows, yes, Here in your silverness Her two blithe feet,-- O Brook of mine, how shall your heart be troubled!

The heart, the bright unmothering heart of you, That never knew.-- (O never, more than mine of long ago. How could we know?--) For who should guess The shock and smiting of that perfectness?-- The lily-thrust of those ecstatic feet Unpityingly sweet?-- Sweet beyond all the blurred blind dreams that grope The upward paths of hope? And who could guess The dulcet holiness, The lilt and gladness of those jocund feet, Unpityingly sweet? Ah, for your coolness that shall change and stir With every glee of her!-- Under the fresh amaze That drips and glistens from her wiles and ways; When the endearing air That everywhere Must twine and fold and follow her, shall be Rippled to ring on ring of melody,-- Music, like shadows from the joy of her, Small starry Reveller!-- When from her triumphings,-- All frolic wings-- There soars beyond the glories of the height, The laugh of her delight!

And it shall sound, until Your heart stand still; Shaken to human sight; Struck through with tears and light; One with the one desire Unto that central Fire Of Love the Sun, whence all we lighted are Even from clod to star.

And all your glory, O most swift and sweet!-- And all your exultation only this; To be the lowly and forgotten kiss Beneath those feet.

You that must ever pass,-- You of the same wild way,-- The silver-bright good-bye without a look!-- You that would never stay, For the beseeching grass ... Brook!--

_You, Four Walls, Wall not in my heart! When the lovely night-time falls All so welcomely, Blinding, sweet hearth-fire, Light of heart's desire, Blind not, blind not me! Unto them that weep apart,-- While you glow, within, Wreckt, despairing kin,-- Dark with misery: --Do not blind my heart!_

_You, close Heart! Never hide from mine Worlds that I divine Through thy human dearness. O belovèd Nearness, Hallow all I understand With thy hand-in-hand;-- All the lights I seek, With thy cheek-to-cheek; All the loveliness I loved apart._

_You, heart's Home!-- Wall not in my heart._

CANTICLE OF THE BABE

I

Over the broken world, the dark gone by, Horror of outcast darkness torn with wars; And timeless agony Of the white fire, heaped high by blinded Stars, Unfaltering, unaghast;-- Out of the midmost Fire At last,--at last,-- Cry! ... O darkness' one desire,-- O darkness, have you heard?-- Black Chaos, blindly striving towards the Word? --The Cry!

Behold thy conqueror, Death! Behold, behold from whom It flutters forth, that triumph of First-Breath, Victorious one that can but breathe and cling,-- This pulsing flower,--this weaker than a wing, Halcyon thing!-- Cradled above unfathomable doom.

II

Under my feet, O Death, Under my trembling feet! Back, through the gates of hell, now give me way. I come.--I bring new Breath! Over the trampled shards of mine own clay, That smoulder still, and burn, Lo, I return! Hail, singing Light that floats Pulsing with chorused motes:-- Hail to thee, Sun, that lookest on all lands! And take thou from my weak undying hands, A precious thing, unblemished, undefiled:-- Here, on my heart uplift, Behold the Gift,-- Thy glory and my glory, and my child!

III

(_And our eyes were opened; eyes that had been holden. And I saw the world, and the fruits thereof. And I saw their glories, scarlet-stained and golden, All a crumbled dust beneath the feet of Love. And I saw their dreams, all of nothing worth; But a path for Love, for Him to walk above, And I saw new heaven, and new earth._)

IV

The grass is full of murmurs; The sky is full of wings; The earth is full of breath. With voices, choir on choir With tongues of fire, They sing how Life out-sings-- Out-numbers Death.

V

Who are these that fly; As doves, and as doves to the windows? Doves, like hovering dreams round Love that slumbereth; Silvering clouds blown by, Doves and doves to the windows,-- Warm through the radiant sky their wings beat breath. They are the world's new-born: Doves, doves to the windows! Lighting, as flakes of snow; Lighting, as flakes of flame; Some to the fair sown furrows; Some to the huts and burrows Choked of the mire and thorn,-- Deep in the city's shame. Wind-scattered wreaths they go, Doves, and doves, to the windows; Some for worshipping arms, to shelter and fold, and shrine; Some to be torn and trodden, Withered and waste, and sodden; Pitiful, sacred leaves from Life's dishonored vine.

VI

O Vine of Life, that in these reaching fingers, Urges a sunward way! Hold here and climb, and halt not, that there lingers So far outstripped, my halting, wistful clay. Make here thy foothold of my rapturous heart,-- Yea, though the tendrils start To hold and twine! I am the heart that nursed Thy sunward thirst.-- A little while, a little while, O Vine, My own and never mine, Feed thy sweet roots with me Abundantly. O wonder-wildness of the pushing Bud With hunger at the flood, Climb on, and seek, and spurn. Let my dull spirit learn To follow with its longing, as it may, While thou seek higher day.-- But thou, the reach of my own heart's desire, Be free as fire! Still climb and cling; and so Outstrip,--outgrow.

O Vine of Life, my own and not my own, So far am I outgrown! High as I may, I lift thee, Soul's Desire. --Lift thou me higher.

_And thou, Wayfaring Woman, whom I meet On all the highways,--every brimming street, Lady Demeter, is it thou, grown gaunt With work and want? At last, and with what shamed and stricken eyes, I see through thy disguise Of drudge and Exile,--even the holy boon That silvers yonder in the Harvest-moon;-- That dimly under glows The furrows of thy worn immortal face, With mother-grace._

_O Queen and Burden-bearer, what of those To whom thou gavest the lily and the rose Of thy far youth?... For whom, Out of the wondrous loom Of thine enduring body, thou didst make Garments of beauty, cunningly adorned, But only for Death's sake! Largess of life, but to lie waste and scorned.-- Could not such cost of pain, Nor daily utmost of thy toil prevail?-- But they must fade, and pale, And wither from thy desolated throne?-- And still no Summer give thee back again Thine own?_

_Lady of Sorrows,--Mother,--Drudge august. Behold me in the dust._

GLADNESS

Unto my Gladness then I cried: 'I will not be denied! Answer me now; and tell me why Thou dost not fall, as a broken star Out of the Dark where such things are, And where such bright things die. How canst thou, with thy fountain dance Shatter clear sight with radiance?-- How canst thou reach and soar, and fling, Over my heart's dark shuddering, Unearthly lights on everything? What dost thou see? What dost thou know?' My Gladness said to me, bowed below, 'Gladness I am: created so.'

'And dare'st thou, in my mortal veins Sing, with the Spring's descending rains? While in this hour, and momently, Forth of myself I look, and see Torn treasure of my heart's Desire; And human glories in the mire, That should make glad some paradise!-- The childhood strewn in foulest place, The girlhood, plundered of its grace; The eyelids shut upon spent eyes That never looked upon thy face! Answer me, thou, if answer be!'

My Gladness said to me: 'Weep if thou wilt; yea, weep, and doubt. I may not let the Sun go out.'

Then to my Gladness still I cried: 'And how canst thou abide?--' Here, where my listening heart must hark These sorrows rising from the Dark Where still they starve, and strive and die, Who bear each heaviest penalty Of humanhood;--nor grasp, nor guess, The garment's hem of happiness!-- The spear-wound throbbing in my song, It throbs more bitterly than wrong,-- It burns more wildly than despair,-- The will to share, The will to share! Little I knew,--the blind-fold I,-- Joy would become like agony,-- Like arrows of the Sun in me!

* * * * *

I hold thee here. I have thee, now,-- And I am human. But what art thou!'

My Gladness answered me: 'Wayfarer, wilt thou understand?-- Follow me on. And keep my hand.'

THE NIGHTINGALE UNHEARD

Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time We followed on, from moon to golden moon; From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon, And the far rose of Pæstum once did climb. All the white way beside the girdling blue, Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime, We listened;--from the old year to the new. Brown bird, and where were you?

You, that Ravello lured not, throned on high And filled with singing out of sun-burned throats! Nor yet Minore of the flame-sailed boats; Nor yet--of all bird-song should glorify-- Assisi, Little Portion of the blest, Assisi, in the bosom of the sky, Where God's own singer thatched his sunward nest; That little, heavenliest!

And north and north, to where the hedge-rows are, That beckon with white looks an endless way; Where, through the fair wet silverness of May, A lamb shines out as sudden as a star, Among the cloudy sheep; and green, and pale, The may-trees reach and glimmer, near or far, And the red may-trees wear a shining veil. --And still, no nightingale!

The one vain longing,--through all journeyings, The one: in every hushed and hearkening spot,-- All the soft-swarming dark where you were not, Still longed for! Yes, for sake of dreams and wings, And wonders, that your own must ever make To bower you close, with all hearts' treasurings; And for that speech toward which all hearts do ache;-- Even for Music's sake. But most, his music whose belovèd name Forever writ in water of bright tears, Wins to one grave-side even the Roman years, That kindle there the hallowed April flame Of comfort-breathing violets. By that shrine Of Youth, Love, Death, forevermore the same, Violets still!--When falls, to leave no sign, The arch of Constantine.

Most for his sake we dreamed. Tho' not as he, From that lone spirit, brimmed with human woe, Your song once shook to surging overflow. How was it, sovran dweller of the tree, His cry, still throbbing in the flooded shell Of silence with remembered melody, Could draw from you no answer to the spell? --O Voice, O Philomel?