Part 2
But now in my bowl dawn breaks no more, Over the bowl’s lip I hear the iron shudder of dry leaves Beaten by frozen wind. There is no rain to soften sleep, No day like topaz in the sun, I see the larch crumble to ash,-- My arms grow numb back to the very heart Holding this bowl God gave to me!
THE GREAT SILENCE
I
Magnificent, my Own, Across the City’s crash of sound, Above the marching of her war-shod feet, I hear you call, “I am alone,--alone!” In that full, tragic voice of yours repeat, Echo and tone, “Alone,--I am alone!”
II
Oh, Splendid One, The stars still hang the City’s night With peace and light! What wars could ever bind The signing of God’s universe in space? You turn your eyes, Burning, ancient, wise, And speak, “All have I seen, Evil and good, All man has been, All man has done,-- And I am blind.” But God, I cried ... Then came your moan, Like Pontius Pilate overthrown, “God I have denied!”
III
Magnificent, my Own, There beyond the City’s sky Are pinnacle and dream, The rushing of a mighty stream, The night-wind’s cry And thunder-harp of pine. “Oh, Christ,” you weep, “They are not mine, They are not mine! I cannot see, I cannot hear, Only I remember year on year Abel and Cain. Yet somewhere in this welter of my pain I keep Memory of another,-- those two lost syllables of doom.” “What syllables are they, my Own?” “That word is ‘Brother’!”
WHITE HAIR
All the warmth has gone out of white hair, It only answers to the wind And lifts and stirs like creeping snow Close to the frozen scalp of earth. It has no gold of autumn grasses Or red of beech buds Or warm brown of tree bark Or depths of quiet In which eyes burn like star-flame in a dark night.
Has death white hair And the cramped empty shoulders of old age? If he has, I shall be as a child, frightened and trying to hide from him. But if his touch is the touch of warm rain, If his breath is sweet like the gray-green fruit of the juniper, If his shoulder is deep and strong like the up-heaved root of hemlock And his hair velvet-dusk as a moth’s wing, Then I shall go to him gladly, And sleep well....
CLEAR POOLS
What is this bitterness of love that scatters dust in the eyes? What this absence that shrivels the heart and the blood? What these cries that stop the ears with their pain? Let us take our love unto God, He understands, He has fashioned us and is kind; How well He knows that love must carry its burden If it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars!
What are we that we should not know that we are His, And of Him our passion and of Him our tears? His breast is deep and He will fold us there In the mystery of His dark, in the miracle of His closeness. Distance from us knows He not nor space, And our love which is His how can it be divided from itself? Are we not one even as we are His?
What is that cry? Is it sorrow or is it the wind upon the waters? What is this light that flows like a brook? How well He knows that love must carry its burden, If it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars!
THESE TWO
Sometimes when I am alone at night I put my hand upon my heart; But it matters little to me that these two are one From the deep inflow of the rushing blood Even to the extremity of each living finger Swung from hollowed palm and flexible wrist:-- This heart and hand that are so wonderful, So joined in life; so fashioned In the beat of pulse And passionate discernment of touch for joy, So separate and yet not to be divided.
It is not of them I am thinking When I place my hand on my heart In the lonely night. In its weight Again I feel your head lying on my breast And in its touch the oval of your childlike face. You are wide-eyed once more, With those gray eyes of the sea Full of space and the shadows of birds’ wings And the terror of known depths of human tragedy; You are wide-eyed now Looking into the dark with me, Wondering about the night.
I cannot believe that it is only my own hand upon my heart And that we are separated; I cannot understand the use of my own fingers Or the beating of my own pulse; And I take my hand away And lie alone in the dark And suffer.
THE RAILROAD STATION
A station is a place of miracle: So many trains passing and repassing, So many thoughts coming and going, So many greetings and farewells! Any surprise might happen there: God come and go, Street cries turn to stars, Dust of blown rubbish whirl to aureole! Thus, in such a place, Love met me once. That day the shining tracks seemed leaping toward eternity, And we heard the street cries sing like stars, And we saw God come and go And the dust upon our hair was gold! Now, blinded, I look past all I see: It might happen, Love might be there again! It’s not that I think a railroad station heaven. Who does! Yet so many greetings and farewells,-- Anything might happen! Have you not felt that way, And, bewildered, watched; And, longing, waited?
BUBBLES
How shall I link my thought to yours Through hours that whirl to dust! Fling me some word will keep me close to you, If but a rainbow bubble like our breath, And share with me its swift-revolving dream!
See how the bubble shapes the silver moon, the golden sun! In purple sleep it spins among the stars, Or crimson film it holds the dawn, Only to break in shattered mist upon our lips,-- One azure word turned kiss!
PEDDLED JOY
“May I not sell this gewgaw red?” “You must not sell! You cannot buy!” “Not sell my own, my heart?” “You two are one: you may not part,-- One peddled joy, you both are dead!”
“Must I go hungry all the way?” “You must not beg! You must not cry!” “Not for two bits o’love today?” “Your empty scrip for pillow keep: It brings great gifts,--thirst, sorrow, sleep!”
WORK
I told my heart that work must be The only aim of life for me. But oh! my heart cried, “Love, love, love!” And wept bitterly.
SOMEWHERE TONIGHT
_On hearing the Evening Bells at Westport-on-Lake Champlain_
I
Somewhere I have heard bells Mellow as the moon: Somewhere they hung and swung, With slender sound they rose Tiptoe with hunger for the sky, Star-pointed with the light of dream; Somewhere those eager bells whispered of love,-- That was another day, And we were gay!
II
And now this withered sound’s farewell Swinging like tethered rhyme, Slow-moving, pendulous, A sigh upon the water’s breast, A cloud within the sky! Never again for us, Belovèd, Yet somewhere the moon shines and is bright,-- Somewhere tonight!
YOUR SUNLIT WAY
I
Should one thought cry against me in your heart, I could not rise from Death, saying, “Love, my place Is by your living side; ghostly, I touch Your precious hands, I kiss your lovely face!”
II
I would not have you shrink to feel me near, Or claim despite your will what once was mine, Was ours in God-flung vow, passionate, dear By night, by day, companioned or apart.
III
Not mine to snare your liberty, to cage Your sunlit way. Yet, wish me gone, I leap From light, I plunge to find amen and shroud In Death,--this time for Love’s eternal sleep.
STRANGE FACES
There! That is the face for me-- That face I shall never see In this world again! All that I miss is there, Touch of life and its kiss! O, mysterious love in our heart Found for us both as we pass,-- As we part!
EVERYWHERE
You I love, You and you: One I never see And one I know.
Well, and what then? Nothing. But, I ask, Does the wind blow? Do feet drift or go? And where? How shall a tinker mend A pinch of dust?
Some things are mine to keep, Some to share: My thoughts I bear Because I must; My love I spend Because I wish, On you I never see, On you I know,-- Everywhere.
CLOUD
A slate galleon hurrying across a sea of fire,-- And they call _that_ “cloud”! And the sea it sails upon “sky”! Tut, it is a ship as plain as anything Full-spread to find the silver edges of the world Where ships and island daffodils Burn, follow sun, dip, Cling to the shining brim like flapping butterflies, Let go, Then, whirling sail and streaming daffodil, Dart into night and flame to stars! And the “sky” ... Now you tell what the sky is!
BUCENTAUR
_At Isle au Haut_
Dawn, bright dawn, White swan on the edge of the dark pool of night Fan the shade from its mirror, Cleave the stars on its deep!
Joyous barge of my dream, On the wave, on the wind, O Bucentaur, With your cry sweep the seas, Shake the wind from the trees, Wake the world from its sleep, Meet and greet Song within song!
Your eyes jewelled fire, Your touch my desire, Draw nearer, draw nearer Down the rose-colored stream; White swan, bright dawn, Kiss me, and lift me On the wing of your light!
MOTH
_At Isle au Haut_
Gray as a moth the light of day Dawns in the east, Dimming the star that crowns the hill, Stilling the wind, Hushing the deep Of the water’s sleep;
Flits like a moth’s pearl wing in the night To the peak of mast And the spire of tree, Touches the nest and its thrush to song, Flutters the edge of the sky along.
Gray like a moth Dawn slips away, Bright in apocalypse of light. Rose and gold and green of the world, Wind and bird and the great sea’s lay Possess the day!
GRAY WATERS
_At Isle au Haut_
Take me to some isle upon the sea! Bear me on wing of bird or keel of ship Out where gray waters slip About some isle upon the sea,-- Upon the sea!
Lay me within some caverned rock Whose bosom, hard from all the years, Knows nothing of men’s tears,-- Gray peaceful rest beside the sea, Beside the sea!
Take me to some isle upon the sea! Bear me on wing of bird or keel of ship Out where gray waters slip About some isle upon the sea! Upon the sea!
JOURNEY’S END
I shall not hear the thrushes sing, Though sing they will that day; For me will be an unknown sod And an undreamed-of May!
WHITE PATHS
Here are white paths that gleam In the twilight space of dream; Here the winds turn in their sleep With the rocking of the deep; Here the golden song of thrush Is music’s sunlight, evening’s hush; Here the rustle of our prayer Climbs the forest altar stair; And here the stars burn in the sod-- Peaceful candlelight for God.
EBONY
_On watching a beautiful black arm opening a Venetian Lantern at Fleur de Lys_
Ebony, Ebony, Dreaming of a rose, Flame in the flower-heart, Dusk in repose;
Jeweled eyes glistening, Dew on the leaf, Sweet to Africa Is the thought of her grief.
TO SOME PHILADELPHIA SPARROWS
Men say unfriendly words of you, poor birds! And I? I praise you for your saucy joy On dusty streets; I love you for your twitter In vines that cling to heated city walls; Your noisy congregations on the trees; Unchurchly ways of saying this and that About your brother men; your gaieties In parks nearby a fountain’s dripping brim.
Men say your manners are not fine. And, too, They call you scavengers, they call you thief And enemy to other prettier birds. Perhaps we are one feather, you and I! I would not hold it any grief to be Your brother bird upon the city street.
I love you, chatterers! Yet I have heard The lark in other lands, the thrush in this. Dull many a day had been without your din, Your wrangles under foot, your shameless ways.
Men say unfriendly words of you. Of me They speak unkindly, too. Yet see how gay We are! Ah, well, we are one feather, you And I! We have the city streets for plunder, The eaves for wonder, and above there is The sky!
ORIOLE’S NEST
AT FLEUR DE LYS
Night in an oriole’s hanging nest Is rocking a basket world to sleep. The wind blows soft And the wind blows far, Star, creep, star!
Pack me tight in my basket world, Tread me and turn me with feet of your love! O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest! O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast! Down in the marshes the little fish gleam, Down in the marshes the little fish stir Rushes in sleep, Rushes that keep Wrinkling the light of a drowsy star.
Here in my basket world hung on the wind Over me rustles an ebony bough, Over me hovers a silvery beak; And clear and soft And near and far Lustre of loving eyes rocked in this nest, Eyes that are gentle, Eyes that are meek. O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest! O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!
LITTLE MISS HILLY
Oh, little Miss Hilly of Northampton-town Goes walking the valleys and meadows adown; She looks in the brooks for the stars and the moon And she sings an old chanty a bit out of tune. Oh, little Miss Hilly is dear unto me,-- Is dear unto me!
Her arms are so eager but tiny are they, And her fingers are agile as waters at play. Yet little Miss Hilly must climb a steep slope, Must go without laughter and live without hope: Must chatter and patter like leaves and like rain, Must shiver and quiver and ache with the pain Of climbing for stars and wanting the moon As she puts an old chanty once more into tune, Ere the stars will come down or the moon will reply Except by a wink through a chink in the sky Oh, little Miss Hilly so dear unto me, So dear unto me!
ROSE TOADA
_A Sleep Song_
I
Shoo, Rose Toada, Shoo! Jewelled red eyes for you. Shoo, Rose Toada, Shoo!
II
Hoosh, Rose Toada, hoosh! Little green snake in the bush. Hoosh, Rose Toada, hoosh!
III
Bizz, Rose Toada, buzz! Gold on its wings and fuzz. Bizz, Rose Toada, buzz!
THATCH
Oh Boy, give me your yellow thatch for home, Your yellow thatch of hair, Straw with the wind and air!
Oh Boy, give me your stubble cheek to roam, Brown hayfield in the dew,-- Rusty with sun and you!
SUN-PATH
I
How should I touch your years with mine, Yours flushed with dawn, a flight For all ecstacy of light, of rose, of flame, Mine shadowed even now by night! Yet, child, blown by the dawn-wind of your name, Tossed by the sunlight in your eyes, Sped by the glow upon your lips, you came, Seeking my shadow and my rest.
II
Tell me what made you run to me? Was it the long, unsheltered way from dawn to dusk, The hot, unclouded, copper day of truth, Was it some legend of men’s tears and strife, Some tale of cowards prospering in the sun, Some sin red-flung across the lilies that men love? Or terror which the old forget, fears Following as you fled, some shame Of fact too awful for your youth to bear?
III
Back to your sun-path now you run And on with wing of bird and flight of sun. Your youth upon its golden way Forgets it ever asked for rest, Forgets my desolated day. To me you left your tears, Your fears a-tremble, And hunger in mine eyes for you. And I? I leave you free.
RAVELLO
_A Recollection of the Garden in which Wagner composed “Parzival”_
Words glimmering like candles in the dusk You tell your golden tale of Italy,-- Ravello and its starlit, tranquil sea Among massed trees sleep-hung with jewelled fruit; Antiquity against a shadowed sky, And everywhere old gardens where men loved So long ago, and the moon rose on vows And thirsty human lips aching to meet; And the moon set on darkling ivory-petalled rows Of lilies and on hands dim with loneliness:-- Below, Amalfi’s campanile plays Its even-song, full chant and antiphon, A wish, a hope, a call from star to star.
O, Compassionate One, night-long with you I hark The travelling of that music lost in space, The echoing of those faithful feet of men, And touch the blurred chalcedony of tears, And breathe those candle-lighted thoughts, faint musk Of old days vanished in silence now! Night-long I dream your face pressed close to mine Is lily of Ravello in its sleep, Touched with some ancient sorrow gardens keep,-- An ivory-petalled dream whose ghostly passions shine Like fingers in the dark struggling with fears:-- O, set your love for me, my Own, my Sweet, The whiteness of your breast and brow aglow With God, like candleshine before my feet!
CHESTER-ON-THE DEE
Sleep, little town, your moonlit walls Are hushed with long-ago! Night, like your river, brings to you Forgetfulness of woe.
Peace, little town! Grave sleep is this That aches in love and tears, With singing stream, with shining dream, With sense of other years.
THE RIVER SEIONT
_At Carnarvon in North Wales_
Where the salt sea winds her sleeping path Up the River Seiont in summer time, And daisies flush the aftermath Of stubble corn; and heavy cows Wait by the water’s edge, While cloud-capped Snowdon hills grow dim, And fading Anglesey a crystal rim,-- Then Your spirit comes, A tidal sea, Winding, Up the River Seiont, Past the purple hill; Winding, Past the Castle wall, Winding;-- Then Your spirit comes, Winding, Up the River Seiont To me.
GOLD AND IVORY
They lie beside me all the night, They crowd up close to me; And when I turn, they turn; And when I sigh, they cry. Says one: “I am the love you sought Now wrinkled to an afterthought.” The other whispers in my ear: “You coveted: Behold, I lie here dead!” These are the gifts sleep brings to me,-- My dreams of gold and ivory!
STEPS
I
There is a stair to climb That--Christ you keep!-- Men stumble there It is so steep.
II
Its steps give scarce foothold, Yet, pilgrim-shod, Hungry, athirst, Men climb to God.
BESIDE THE WAY
I
O, little wind of every day, O, little wind of hope, Bring to me love Beside the way, O, little wind of every day!
II
There’s vexing work for scanty keep, With tears for daily drink, And but this cup To bring me sleep, This cup of golden love dream-deep.
III
O, little wind of every day, O, little wind of hope, Bring to me love Beside the way, O, little wind of every day!
WAIT AWHILE
I
If you would know my mother-heart, Then wait awhile, be still; Watch for the settling dusky light, The silence, on the hill; And wait awhile, be still.
II
Love, heed the clap of little hands, Of leaves upon my trees; And hear the travelling of the wind, The moving of the seas; Then wait awhile, be still.
III
If you would know my mother-heart, But watch the wasting day! The wind steps softly in the corn, The light slips to the hill; Love, wait awhile, be still.
INDIAN SUMMER
Blossoms shaken from their star forms Back to earth, Flying seedlings warm and waiting Drift in sunlight with the going Of the birds towards the south!
Birds are going! They will sing before they go, Fill the orchard with their mirth: Song of harvest, song of summer, song of springtime,-- They remember it was April long ago!
We are parting, You are going towards the south! Love was birth. Is this dying,-- Death my harvest, grief my summer, tears my springtime?... Well, kiss me kindly, Song is warmest on the mouth! Give me love before you go!
A THOUSAND YEARS
A thousand years from now No one will know that you and I Lifted our arms to touch the sky And clasped an empty vow,-- No one will know, We loved so long ago!
A thousand years from now We shall not hear the cry of hope Linger, remember, echo, grope, While mornings glow And evenings come and go!
A thousand years from now No one will know that we have slept Breast to each other’s breast and wept,-- No one will know We loved so long ago!
A thousand years from now We shall not see love welcome death, Dreams harden into frosted breath, Spring burn the apple bough While mornings glow And evenings come and go!
THE BROKEN DOOR
This is the place! I know The broken door, the ragged bed of bloom Where poppies grow, Row after row.
This is the place. A year ago, her footprint Marked the garden path With tender hollow.
But now? Time’s step is slow to follow.
ONLY YOUR NAME
Sometimes I wake from sleep Only your name drawing across my lips In creeping wind from unlit space, No star sparks flickering on that wind, No signal tree top touched with racing light, No lantern-memory hung to show the way; Only a pathless name, Dark, terrible, meaningless because most near! And yet I never knew you,-- Only your name and pain!
REPETENDS
In the still woods I find your eyes, I hear your voice once more And the far-singing hermit thrush Beyond our northern door.
In the still woods pale repetends I find of death and grief In fallen nest and perished bee And sepulchre of leaf.
TOO LATE
It is too long, too long! My heart grows old with grieving For the touch of you.
It is too far, too far! My eyes are dazed With searching emptiness,-- The dark, the blurred horizon With its dust of other feet.
It is too late, too late! Gray thoughts stalk round me With their death. I strike my tent, I go. Not even dreams can bring you now,-- Too long, too far, too late!
THE TIDE
I shall find you when the tide comes in,-- A shell, a sound, a flash of light To live with me by day, To dream with me by night.
You come and go As waters flow; You lap me round You pour me full; A shell at rest You touch my breast. I feel your will, And I am bound By light, by sound; To love you still.
I shall find you when the tide comes in,-- A shell, a sound, a flash of light. Men say you died. They knew not what to say,-- I hear the tide, I hear the tide!
DUST AND DREAMS
At peace with every sweet remembered thing You lie; with woodland song that died long years Ago; with pebbles washed ashore and fears Released and feathers broken from the wing That beat its westward flight towards the sun And some far nest beside some unknown sea: I would not answer when you called to me, And now my thought of you is never done.
This starlit road with its dark towering pines, Its dust of misty pollen blown in cloud From field to field, its silences, its shroud Of clinging dark and all its trailing vines White with moonshine and the priestly dew, We shared. Tonight I travel it alone,-- Alone I go towards that glistening stone Which marks your rest, my thought a prayer for you.