Part 2
She wound her white arms round him, She touched his tawny hair, ‘O Hakon, hold me faster, My grave is opening there!’
He held her close and closer, Lower he bent his head-- An icy wind swept o’er his heart, One kiss, and he was dead.
❦
IGNIS FATUUS
‘Little Goblin at the fire, Have you found the Heart’s Desire? Have you seen it in your flitting by night or by noon?’ ‘O it may be in the swell Of the mist-wreath up the fell, Or the long clouds trailing at the tail o’ the moon.’
‘Little Goblin in the cold, Have you seen it on the wold, Where the winds with flying voices run free as they rave?’ ‘O it may be in the sigh Of a time that is gone by Or the long grass growing by the brink o’ the grave.’
‘Little Goblin in the trees, Looking down the darkening leas, Have you seen no golden country where the heart finds rest?’ ‘O, it may be where the night Comes to quench the flaming light, In the far lands lying through the fire o’ the west.’
❦
THE LITTLE NIGHTJAR
When the moon is on the wall And her shadow on the door, When darkness on the orchard lies like sea upon the shore, The apple-boughs are silver with the silence swimming through, With the halo of the dew; Hark! what little shrieking nightjar ever gave so soft a call When the moon is on the wall?
When the moon is on the wall There’s a sound among the trees; O master on the settle, with the sheep dog at your knees, At the little nightjar’s voice does he stir to wake and growl? Does the hooting of the owl Make him prick his ears and quiver, make his hackles rise and fall When the moon is on the wall?
When the moon is on the wall And the fire has sunk and died, The maid sits still to listen for the lad that lurks outside-- Good master, dozing o’er your pipe, how fast is slumber’s thrall When the moon is on the wall!
* * * * *
O! but ’tis strange how shadows move that lay so still, so still, And stranger yet how close they draw before the night grows chill, And the little nightjar shrieks no more from out the elm-tree tall, And the moon has left the wall.
❦
POSSESSION
She has laid her snare And her eyes hold midnight’s sign, Like pools in a moonless land Lit up by the stars that shine; With her burning hair She has bound you, strand by strand, She holds your heart in her hand, But your soul is mine.
She has set her feet In a path where roses blow, She plays with your heart, the sea Plays thus with its dead below, And the game is sweet; But your soul is here with me, O Man; it is yours and free-- But it cannot go.
We shall stand, we two, And her lips shall hold the sum Of notes in a syren’s tone, But mine shall be closed and dumb; And, the whole day through, Shall her eyes allure your own, But I will stand like a stone And your soul shall come.
❦
AIRLIE KIRK
A little spot of tangled ground Set in the folding hill, From curlew-haunted braes the sound Of flitting voices shrill; The high October sky unrolled Above the plough-land’s crest, Rank mallows by the hearthstone cold With the field-mouse for guest; Gudeman, it is long since the fire went out And time that we went to rest.
The naked rafters overhead Stand up like withered hands; I mind me when the roof-tree spread Where now the burdock stands. The threshold’s deep between the whin And fast in briers twined; Where little feet ran out and in The track is hard to find; Gudeman, it is long since we closed the door And left what it held behind.
Down in the strath the kirk is set Upon the running burn; It’s many roads we’ve trod, and yet It’s here we must return. Old lights along the fields are laid, Old shadows lie as deep, But new eyes watch them as they fade Among the grazing sheep, And it’s time we went down to Airlie kirk And laid ourselves down to sleep.
❦
THE FLUTE PLAYER
In the window’s shade ere the dusk has spread Over plain and hill, And the tulip-flowers in the garden-bed Have a glory still;
When the world of toil and the world of ease Are alike at rest; I can hear him play in the belt of trees Where the fields slope west.
And the notes run high and the notes run low In a rambling stream; Like an old voice calling from long ago, A dream of a dream.
His eyes are afire with the secret light Of a land unknown, And the tree-stems echo his footsteps’ flight Upon moss and stone.
There is no more staying nor rest for me When his flute is heard, It is out, out, out to the melody Without sign or word.
The lamps may be lit in the shuttered room And the door be fast, Or a long day faint with a summer’s bloom On the hedges cast;
Let the path be winding in crowded ways Or in woods profound, It is all forgotten when once he plays And I hear the sound.
Though foot may ache and though heart may fail And the brain grow numb, It is follow, follow the flying trail Till the flute is dumb.
For life was a breath of the early spring, When at first he came, And, now that the harvest is ripening, It is still the same;
And it well may be when the last dusk falls On my little day, When the last sun colours the crumbling walls Of the house of clay;
I shall hear him playing beyond the hill Where the fields slope west, And follow him on till his steps are still And the flute at rest.
❦
IN LOWER EGYPT
Above the ancient waters of the Nile The mists of earth and dusk of heaven meet, Where, slow along the bank, the camel-file Moves, like a passing dream, on velvet feet; And, as the choral voices of a dream, The night sounds play their chant upon the stream.
The crane stands silent; all the fields exhale A band of fertile damp along the shore; The same moon, red and low behind the veil, That lit Old Egypt, lights for me once more The mirage of a kingdom that has been, And, through the mist, the shadow of a queen.
Rise up, O Royal Egypt, from the dusk With all the weight of tresses on thine head Heavy with golden nets and faint with musk, Girt with the lotus from the river-bed, And eyes that once, with their devouring fire, Lit for men’s hearts a sacrificial pyre.
O Serpent, by a serpent slain at last! Come through the vapourous fields with garments trailed, Embroidered with the lotus-leaf, made fast With gems; with green and Tyrian purple veiled; Turn but thy face, that I may see and know The witchcraft throned in Egypt long ago.
There is a sound of flute and wavering reed, The measured throb of falling oars that beat, A tall prow swimming noiseless through the weed, The shifting glimmer of a silken sheet; And, from the dim luxuriance drawn nigh, The feet of Royal Egypt passing by.
And now, her foot is set upon the barge, The flutes play up, the fans ply to and fro, The ripples, dying at the river-marge, Curl, as the prow swings out upon the flow, And its retreating music and its state Leave, once again, the dusk inviolate:
Only, across the tillage lying low, There comes the creak of well-wheels working late.
❦
WINTER AND SPRING
O wet green winter grass, Sodden and chill with rain, There are some footsteps that will never pass Along the fields again.
O fresh blue air of Spring, When lights lie long upon the slope, There are two eyes to which you cannot bring Your lights of youth and hope.
O white syringa-tree, Year in, year out, below your feet There is one heart to all eternity That will not stir nor beat.
❦
A TRYST
Here, where our two ways part, That, for a little time, ran side by side, That now must turn and turning must divide, Look, look and see how straight through Eden’s heart, Unbarred, unbroken, lay the double track; The dark has fallen and the sun has set, The world lies round us, limitless, and yet I will come back.
Across the plain of life There stretches this enchanted forest’s band, Haunted of crying voices, stirred and fanned, Swept through by airs whose breath, I know, is rife In that far bourn wherein no man may lack His sure fulfilment; look on leaf and flower-- In the dim dawn of some unnumbered hour I will come back.
So meet me here: good-bye; The light that lies on all this golden time Shall burn on the horizon and shall climb Like some vast city’s glow into the sky, Unquenched by darkness or the cloudy wrack; In flesh or spirit--which, it matters not, --Remembered or unlooked for or forgot-- I will come back.
❦
THE CALL
The stars above the apple boughs, Like distant gazers, stand aloof, Watching the white walls of the house, Watching the room below the roof.
There is the night-hush over all Beneath the crescent hanging low, And, through the dark, there comes a call From hidden lips whose voice I know.
And every root and stem and leaf, Sends out its scented breath to me; The fox is waiting like a thief, The bird is watching from the tree.
And, in the room below the thatch, While the white house in sleep is drowned, Up to the open window-latch There come strange whispers from the ground.
* * * * *
I will arise and steal upon the stair, Where the tall clock counts up Time’s gathered hoard Telling its numbers to the empty air, My naked feet upon the creaking board. Out, out across the threshold I will go Into the night, the sighing, luring night, And all the eyes above, around, below, Like lamps upon my path shall peer and glow Till thorn and thicket are alive with light.
I will lie down upon my mother Earth, Heart to her heart and soul upon her soul, Until the sounds that in the night have birth Above my head their harmonies unroll; And over me the little pattering feet Shall come and go; and every bush and tree Shall send from out its shades a cloudy fleet Of flitting wings whose softly-thronging beat Shall neither stay nor turn because of me.
❦
TIME AND SPACE
‘How far, O friend, are you and I apart While all these wastes of sea between us roll?’ ‘So far, that now, the beating of your heart Has merged into the flutter of your soul.’
‘How far, my dear, has your hand gone from mine In these long days and months since they have met?’ ‘So far that memory has forgot to pine, Believing that its touch is present yet.’
‘And O! how far, when night has fallen between, Shall we be set in all the years untold?’ ‘So near that you, when trouble’s blast is keen, Shall feel my shade between you and the cold.’
❦
A TRANSLATION
(FROM THE GERMAN)
1
In the valley with moonlight streaming, In depths of the forest free, An old and forgotten dreaming Is weaving its spell round me.
2
Dim columns, ghostlike and lonely, Range darkly on yonder mound, To the bat and the owlet only Familiar trysting ground.
3
From the rocks come memories ringing, The west wind whispers and calls, And towers of gold are springing From ruin and crumbling walls.
4
In a haze, through cloudland blowing, Is wafted the old love--dead; She draws me towards her, glowing With radiance of youth that’s fled.
5
Like bliss from a far past carried Comes softly her whispered vow; And what in the years lay buried Stands living before me now.
6
Then, soft as it came, the vision Is gone; from the forest space, Where we kissed in the woods Elysian Has faded her vanished face.
7
The golden dreamland of wonder Has fled on the passing wind, The desolate walls up yonder Are all that remain behind.
8
And, under the branches sweeping, I walk in the dawn alone, For day on the hills is creeping And the glory of dreams has flown.
❦
GLAMOUR
It seems as though Spring’s light and waving leaves Were part of youth alone; As though the shadows, dancing by the eaves In shifting web on wall and window thrown, Forgot how nature weaves.
Still throbs the chorus of the birds content, Still, clouded with the may, Cream-white, the hedges trail their load of scent, Winding along the border of the way, The same, yet different.
It seems as though the pear-tree’s bridal veil Had lost its fluttered lace; The butterflies that dart their splendour frail Through sun and blossom in their endless chase On duller pinions sail.
What joy has faded out from field and tree? What glamour from the air? Are not the cowslips grouped as cunningly, Whispering together like young maidens fair To wait the errant bee?
All, all the hues that Springtime ever wore Return as fair again; The ribes hangs its tassels as of yore, Pungent and sweet beneath the dropping rain At every cottage door.
But what is lost? Nay, naught from nature’s flow Of magic infinite; Unchanged the earth, the skies of long ago-- Yet, once we saw them through the morning light And now the sun is low.
❦
LENORE IN THE OLIVEYARDS
(FOR MUSIC)
When, stooping from the walls of Heaven, the night Lets down on earth her star-bespangled hair, And all the pavement of the winding stair Is grey beneath a waning crescent’s light, Look down upon the planted olive-trees, A maze of twisted stem and silver leaf; This is the message sighing on the breeze ‘Joy sails on flying wings and youth is brief.’
(HE SINGS)
‘Come down, come down, the little Loves are peeping Between the stems and shadows on the grass And all the prying eyes of earth are sleeping, The sands are running in the hour-glass;
The red anemone a crown shall weave you, Be-jewelled with the dew and spiked with flame, And all the little waiting Loves receive you Beneath the branches whispering your name.
Come down, Lenore; the cock will soon be crowing, The noisy birds awake that now are dumb; Can new hours match the moments that are going? Who knows? Not you nor I, Lenore. Come.’
❦
NEW YEAR’S EVE
Go far from me, ye brood Of little Hates and Sins who thus intrude, Hide with the perished leaf below the mould; The Old Year’s shade is dim-- A touch, no more, upon the round world’s rim-- And all the sky a-glitter in the cold.
Stand closer, Faith and Truth And the long Patience that outlasts its youth, The hour is at the change; and, drawing near, There is a footstep’s sound, A measured fall upon the iron ground, And the earth, spell-bound, waits the coming year.
Come from your graves, O Lost! And stand, this once, beside me in the frost And turn, once more, your eyes upon my own; Leave, for the past’s old sake, Some look, some comrade’s sign for me to take, That, in the tossings of the time unknown, I may not be alone.
❦
THREE POEMS FOR CHILDREN
I. THE LILACS
The fields and garden-borders Are bright because of spring, The clouds of guelder roses Are out and blossoming; And close beside the gateway, Tall, upon either hand, Their green robes shot with sunlight, Like queens, the Lilacs stand.
And one is crowned with purple, And one is crowned with white; Look! where the wind is passing They bow to left and right, And trails of scent they scatter As royal gifts to all, To every creature dwelling Within the garden-wall.
O queen in plumes of purple! Throw me a breath of joy, You are all grand and glorious And I a little boy; But ask the lovely lady With white plumes in her hair To scent my heart with sweetness, To make it pure and fair.
❦
II. DREAMS
This is a thing that no one knows; When every hedge in summer blows With twining vetch and brier-rose,
When every bud has burst its sheath, The white convolvulus’ wreath Is hung with blossoms underneath.
They are so faint and pale and shy They almost look as if they’d die Before the sun has left the sky.
What children, even if they tried, Could ever guess that, far inside Each bell, a little sprite may hide?
And who’d suppose that, in the night, When no one’s there to see the sight, They all unclose their trumpets white?
And, when the world is fast asleep, Out of the flowers these fairies creep And down into the lanes they peep.
They see the little tinker-boys Who have no home, no nurse, no toys, And O! so few of children’s joys.
And, as they watch them lying there With weary heads and feet all bare, They hover round them in the air;
Such lovely dreams for them they make That their tired feet no longer ache, And they are happy when they wake.
What do they show them? Glorious things; Whole palaces of queens and kings And birds that fly on golden wings.
And silent waters, winding far Through groves of trees where angels are, Lit by the trail of one blue star.
And, when they wake, these visions stay To help them on along their way And keep them cheerful all the day.
_You_ want such dreams, you say to me? --Ah, if these wonders you would see A tinker’s child you’d have to be,
To wander far and wander wide From New Year’s Day to Christmastide, And then--you’d have to sleep outside.
But now the white moon walks the sky, So, from your beds, thank God on high, Because so soft and safe you lie.
--And yet, some day, however blest, You too may weary of your rest And think, perhaps, that dreams are best.
❦
III. THE SNOW WITCH
When all the world is under snow, And the wind, crying in the north, Sends its wild choir of voices forth, Now shrieking loud, now falling low, The Snow Witch with her ice-crowned hair Is hurling snowflakes everywhere.
Her garments are the Northern Lights Beyond the bare arms of the trees; And, from her height, she looks and sees Earth’s towns and hamlets lit o’ nights; And sighs, mayhap, far up above, For one poor hearth alight with love.
❦
THE VALLEY OF THE KINGS
Northward upon the stream our boat is creeping, The sky above is pearl, the river pearl, And soon will coming night her shades unfurl Like some great bird on stealthy pinions sweeping, As the effulgence chills And young stars stand above the Theban hills Within whose fastnesses the kings are sleeping.
To them the roll of time is but a dreaming, To them the lotus, mouldered on their breasts, Still dripping from the Nile, in beauty rests, As when the mourners broke those blossoms streaming And shook the silver shower, The pallid glory of the royal flower Fit guerdon for a royal spirit deeming.
To-night it seems that peak and rugged boulder Stand o’er their soundless dwellings for a sign; Surely some cipher of a hand divine Is graven yonder on the mountain’s shoulder, Hidden in shadows vast That melt to greyness as the boat slips past With the slow current, and the sky grows colder.
Mayhap, the phantom of a past endeavour, Born of that ancient striving to the light, Has wrapt the secret sepulchres with might And haunts the valley of the Nile for ever; Breathing eternally A note of immortality to be, Resounding ceaselessly and dying never.
While, round the sleepers, sounds of feet have broken The stillness that encompassed them so long, And the loud voices of an idle throng Within those halls of death have idly spoken; While sacrilegious hands Have loosed about them the funereal bands To rob their bosoms of life’s symbolled token,
From one unchanging hope can none divide them, Although its outward emblem be despoiled; Though silence and the peace for which they toiled A world whose ways they knew not has denied them, That hope its wings has spread Within the rifled strongholds of the dead As the wings shadowed on the wall beside them.
Changeless, unaltered still the soul’s desire is, Fixed as the hills whose heights we leave behind To merge in fading colours undefined, Purple and amethyst and rose and iris, And, to the dripping oar, The dusk is closing down along the shore, The brooding dusk of Isis and Osiris.
❦
THE LOWLAND PLOUGHMAN
The team is stabled up, my lass, The dew lies thick and grey; Beyond the world, the long green light Clings to the edge of day.
By farm and fold the work is still, Their breath the beanflowers yield, And, in the dusk, the gowans stand Like moons along the field.
A little ghost alone, my dear, The night moth flitters by; Beside the hedge I’m lonely too, Although no ghost am I.
Leave the gudeman to mind the hearth, The wife to mend the fire, Nor heed the lads whose voices come In mirth from yard and byre.
The evening star is up, my dear, And oh! the night is sweet, Come through the heavy drops that bend The grasses at your feet.
For I am young and I am strong And well can work for two, And ’tis a year, come Martinmas, I’ve loved no lass but you.
And, in a year, come Martinmas, Before the fields are sown, I will not need to walk nor stray Between the lights alone.
For then the cot beyond the farm A happy man will hold, A wife who wears a golden ring To match her hair of gold.
❦
LATE FEBRUARY
Blue vistas of an avenue Range, line on line, against the sky; Away, beyond, the low hills lie To frame this landscape in with blue.
And clear and far the light is spread As though earth smiled to feel the stir, The first faint thrill that moves in her Who, all these months, has lain as dead.
Fresh year, fresh sky, fresh hope--and yet A sigh is in the lengthening days; Between the trunks the blackbird strays Whose long-drawn note is called regret.
White snowdrops, close among the roots, Scored at your drooping hearts with green, What scents from springs that once have been Cling, like old griefs, among your shoots?
Yes, like old griefs; and we, who view, Year after year, life’s deathless round, Feel their spent throb in every wound And know that they are deathless too.
❦
FROM A TRAIN-WINDOW
Where, struck with sunset light, the shining rails Converge upon our track, The smoky canopy of London veils The distant heaven with black.
Behind us, dropping further in our wake, The lessening city lies, And all the landscape has begun to take A glamour from the skies.
Scarcely a cloud the sun’s effulgence shields From evening’s stealthy hand; But half the crimson disc beyond the fields Stares on the level land.
Through the moist meadows, broad on either side, Merged to one dusky plain, There sounds, the breathing stillness to divide, The clanking of the train.
And cooling silence, like a wave of balm, After the city’s heat, Is spread around us, odourous and calm, With foam of meadowsweet.