II. MUMMY WHEAT.

III. THE VEIL OF MAYA.

IV. "OUT OF THE FULNESS OF THE HEART THE MOUTH SPEAKETH."

V. TO IRIS.

VI. THE ISLAND.

VII. THE PRODIGAL SON.

VIII. AT THE GATE.

IX. AFTER DEATH.

Title: The Rainbow and the Rose

Author: E. Nesbit

Language: English

Produced by Charles Aldarondo.

THE RAINBOW AND THE ROSE

BY

E. NESBIT

1905

TO IRIS AND ROSAMUND

CONTENTS.

I.

THE THINGS THAT MATTER THE CONFESSION WORK THE JILTED LOVER THE WILL TO LIVE THE BEATIFIC VISION

II.

MUMMY WHEAT THE BEECH TREE IN ABSENCE SILENCE RAISON D'ETRE THE ONLOOKER THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE AT PARTING SONG RENUNCIATION

III.

THE VEIL OF MAYA SONG TO VERA THE POET TO HIS LOVE THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER SONG THE MAGIC FLOWER LA DERNIERE ROBE DE SOIE THE LEAST POSSIBLE EN TOUT CAS APPEAL ST. VALENTINE'S DAY CHAGRIN D'AMOUR BRIDAL EVE LOVE AND LIFE FROM THE ITALIAN

IV.

"OUT OF THE FULNESS OF THE HEART" SUMMER SONG THE LOWER ROOM SONG MAY SONG

V.

TO IRIS TO A CHILD BIRTHDAY TALK FOR A CHILD TO ROSAMUND FROM THE TUSCAN MOTHER SONG: FROM THE PORTUGUESE

VI.

THE ISLAND POSSESSION ACCESSION THE DESTROYER THE EGOISTS THE WAY OF LOVE TO ONE WHO PLEADED FOR CANDOUR IN LOVE THE ENCHANTED GARDEN THE POOR MAN'S GUEST IN THE SHALLOWS "AND THE RAINS DESCENDED AND THE FLOODS CAME" THE STAR

VII.

THE PRODIGAL SON DESPAIR THE TEMPTATION SECOND NATURE DE PROFUNDIS

VIII.

AT THE GATE VIA AMORIS RETRO SATHANAS THE OLD DISPENSATION THE NEW DISPENSATION THE THREE KINGS

IX.

AFTER DEATH CHLOE INVOCATION THE LAST BETRAYAL A PRAYER FOR THE KING'S MAJESTY TRUE LOVE AND NEW LOVE DEATH IN MEMORY OF SARETTA DEAKIN A PARTING

I.

THE THINGS THAT MATTER.

  NOW that I've nearly done my days,
  And grown too stiff to sweep or sew,
  I sit and think, till I'm amaze,
  About what lots of things I know:
  Things as I've found out one by one—
  And when I'm fast down in the clay,
  My knowing things and how they're done
  Will all be lost and thrown away.

  There's things, I know, as won't be lost,
  Things as folks write and talk about:
  The way to keep your roots from frost,
  And how to get your ink spots out.
  What medicine's good for sores and sprains,
  What way to salt your butter down,
  What charms will cure your different pains,
  And what will bright your faded gown.

  But more important things than these,
  They can't be written in a book:
  How fast to boil your greens and peas,
  And how good bacon ought to look;
  The feel of real good wearing stuff,
  The kind of apple as will keep,
  The look of bread that's rose enough,
  And how to get a child asleep.

  Whether the jam is fit to pot,
  Whether the milk is going to turn,
  Whether a hen will lay or not,
  Is things as some folks never learn.
  I know the weather by the sky,
  I know what herbs grow in what lane;
  And if sick men are going to die,
  Or if they'll get about again.

  Young wives come in, a-smiling, grave,
  With secrets that they itch to tell:
  I know what sort of times they'll have,
  And if they'll have a boy or gell.
  And if a lad is ill to bind,
  Or some young maid is hard to lead,
  I know when you should speak 'em kind,
  And when it's scolding as they need.

  I used to know where birds ud set,
  And likely spots for trout or hare,
  And God may want me to forget
  The way to set a line or snare;
  But not the way to truss a chick,
  To fry a fish, or baste a roast,
  Nor how to tell, when folks are sick,
  What kind of herb will ease them most!

  Forgetting seems such silly waste!
  I know so many little things,
  And now the Angels will make haste
  To dust it all away with wings!
  O God, you made me like to know,
  You kept the things straight in my head,
  Please God, if you can make it so,
  Let me know something when I'm dead.

THE CONFESSION.

  I HAVEN'T always acted good:
  I've taken things not meant for me;
  Not other people's drink and food,
  But things they never seemed to see.
  I haven't done the way I ought
  If all they say in church is true,
  But all I've had I've fairly bought,
  And paid for pretty heavy too.

  For days and weeks are very long
  If you get nothing new and bright,
  And if you never do no wrong
  Somehow you never do no right.
  The chap that daresent go a yard
  For fear the path should lead astray
  May be a saint—though that seems hard,
  But he's no traveller, any way.

  Some things I can't be sorry for,
  The things that silly people hate:
  But some I did I do deplore,
  I knew, inside, they wasn't straight.
  And when my last account is filed,
  And stuck-up angels stop their song,
  I'll ask God's pardon like a child
  For what I really knew was wrong.

  If you've a child, you'd rather see
  A bit of temper, off and on,
  A greedy grab, a silly spree—
  And then a brave thing said or done
  Than hear your boy whine all day long
  About the things he musn't do:
  Just doing nothing, right or wrong:
  And God may feel the same as you.

  For God's our Father, so they say,
  He made His laws and He made me;
  He'll understand about the way
  Me and His laws could not agree.
  He might say, "You're worth more, My son,
  Than all My laws since law began.
  Take good with bad—here's something done—
  And I'm your God, and you're My man."

WORK.

  WHEN I am busying about,
  Sewing on buttons, tapes, and strings,
  Hanging the week's wet washing out
  Or ironing the children's things,
  Sweeping and dusting, cleaning grates,
  Scrubbing the dresser or the floors,
  Washing the greasy dinner plates,
  Scouring the brasses on the doors—

  I wonder what it's all about,
  And when did people first begin
  To keep the dirt and wornness out
  And keep the wholesome comfort in:
  How long it is since women bore
  This round of wash and make and mend,
  And what God makes us do it for
  And whether it will ever end!

  When God began to do His work
  He made a new thing every day—
  Even now He is not one to shirk,
  But makes things, always some new way
  He made the earth, and sky, and sun,
  The creatures of the sea and wood,
  And when his first week's work was done
  He saw that it was very good.

  But He—for all He worked so fast
  To finish air, and wave, and shore,
  Knew that this work of His would last
  For ever and for evermore.
  On Saturday night He was content,
  He knew that Monday would not bring
  Need for another firmament,
  Another set of everything.

  But though my work is easier far
  Than making sky and sea and sun,
  It's harder than God's labours are,
  Because my work is never done.
  I sweep and churn, save and contrive,
  I bake and brew, I don't complain,
  But every Monday morning I've
  Last Monday's work to do again.

  I'm good at work—I work away;
  Always the same my work must go;
  The flowers grow different every day,
  That's why I like to see them grow.
  If, up in Heaven, God understood
  He'd let me for my Paradise
  Make all things new and very good
  And never make the same thing twice!

THE JILTED LOVER TO HIS MOTHER.

  You needn't pray for me, old lady, I don't want no one's prayer,
  I'm fit and jolly as ever I was—you needn't think I care.
  When I go whistling down the road, when the warm night is falling,
  She needn't think I'm whistling her, it's another girl I'm calling.

  If I pass her house a dozen times, or fifty times a day,
  She needn't think I think of her, my work lies out that way.
  If they should tell her I've grown thin (for that is what they've told me)
  This cursed weather counts for that, and not the girl who sold me.

  And if they say I'm off my feed I still can tip a can;
  If I get drunk what's that to her? I am not her young man.
  I know I've had a lucky let-off—she ain't no class, she ain't,
  For all she looked like a bush o' roses and talked like a story book saint.

  I never give a thought to her. Don't worry your old head,
  I've quite forgot her pretty ways and the cruel things she said,
  There's lots of other gals to be had as any chap can see,
  So you cheer up, you've got no call to go and pray for me.
  But all the same, if you want to pray, you'd best pray God take care of them,
  For if I catch them two together, by hell! I'll swing for the pair of them.

THE WILL TO LIVE.

  SINCE Faith is a veil that has nothing behind it,
  And Hope wanders lost where no mortal can find it,
  Since Love is a mirror we break in a minute
  In snatching the image our soul has cast in it,
  What is the use of the Summers and Springs,
  The wave of the woods and the waft of the wings—
  Since all means nothing, and good things and ill
  Make madness,—a mirage tormenting us still?

  Since all the fighting, the ardent endeavour,
  The heart cast bleeding to feed the Ideal,
  Are vain, vain, vain, and the one thing real
  Is that all's vain, for ever and ever;
  Why then, be a man and stand back from the strife,
  Fall by the sword, but keep out of the snare;
  Will but to be—and be willing to bear
  All that the gods may lay on your of life!

  In the far East, where light ever dawns first,
  There has man learned how the Fates may be cheated,
  How by our craft may their strength be defeated,
  Though all our best be no match for their worst!
  Kill the desire that they set in your bosom,
  Long not for fruit when you gaze on the blossom,
  Dream not of flowers when you gaze on the bud,
  Kill all the rebels that shout in your blood.
  Sorrow and sickness, disease and decay—
  These toll the hours of Life's desolate day;
  Hopes unfulfilled and forbidden delight
  These are the dreams of Life's treacherous night.
  So let me image an infinite peace
  Touched with no joy but the ease of release.
  Out of the eddies I climb and I cease
  Keeping, in change for this man's soul of me,
  Something which, by the eternal decree,
  Is as like Nothing as Something can be!

  Not to desire, to admit, to adore,
  Casting the robe of the soul that you wore
  Just as the soul casts the body's robe down.
  This is man's destiny, this is man's crown.
  This is the splendour, the end of the feast;
  This is the light of the Star in the East.

  So, Silence reconciles Life's jarring phrases
  Far in the future, austere and august:
  Meanwhile, the buds of the poplars are falling,
  Spring's on the lawn, and a little voice calling:
  "Daddy, come out! Daddy darling, you must!
  Daddy come out and help Molly pick daisies!"
  And, since one's here, and the Spring's in the garden
  (How many lives hence will that thought earn pardon?)
  Since one's a man and man's heart is insistent,
  And, since Nirvana is doubtful and distant,
  Though life's a hard road and thorny to travel—
  Stones in the borders and grass on the gravel,
  Still there's the wisdom that wise men call folly,
  Still one can go and pick daisies with Molly!

THE BEATIFIC VISION.

  OH God! if I do my duty
  And walk in the thorny way,
  Will you pay me with heavens of beauty,
  Millions of lives away?
  Will you give me the music of heaven,
  And the joy that none understands,
  In place of what life would have given
  If I had held out my hands?

  I have lived in a narrow prison,
  I have writhed 'neath a bitter creed,
  And I dare to say that no heaven can pay
  The renounced dream and deed,
  But when my life's portal closes,
  If you have no heaven to spare
  God! give me a garden of roses,
  And some one to walk with there.