As the wave to the shore, as the dew to the leaf, As the breeze to the flower, As the scent of a rose to the heart of a child, As the rain to the dusty land— My heart goeth out unto Thee—unto Thee! The night is far spent and the day is at hand.
As the song of a bird to the call of a star, As the sun to the eye, As the anvil of man to the hammers of God, As the snow to the earth— Is my word unto Thy word—to Thy word! The night is far spent and the day is at hand
THE WAKING
To be young is to dream, and I dreamed no more; I had smothered my heart as the fighter can: I toiled, and I looked not behind or before— I was stone; but I waked with the heart of a man.
By the soul at her lips, by the light of her eyes, I dreamed a new dream as the sleeper can, That the heavenly folly of youth was wise— I was stone; but I waked with the heart of a man.
She came like a song, she will go like a star: I shall tread the hills as the hunter can, Mine eyes to the hunt, and my soul afar- I was stone; but I waked with the heart of a man.
WHEN ONE FORGETS
When one forgets, the old things are as dead things; The grey leaves fall, and eyes that saw their May Turn from them now, and voices that have said things Wherein Life joyed, alas! are still to-day— When one forgets.
The world was noble, now its sordid casement Glows but with garish folly, and the plains Of rich achievement lie in mean abasement— Ah, Hope is only midwife to our pains!
When one forgets, but maimed rites come after: To mourn, be priest, be sexton, bear the pall, Remembrance-robed, the while a distant laughter Proclaims Love's ghost—what wonder skies should fall, When one forgets!
ALOES AND MYRRH
Dead, with the dew on your brow, Dead, with the may in your face, Dead: and here, true to my vow, I, who have won in the race, Weave you a chaplet of song Wet with the spray and the rime Blown from your love that was strong— Stronger than Time.
August it was, and the sun Streamed through the pines of the west; There were two then—there is one; Flown is the bird from the nest; And it is August again, But, from this uttermost sea, Rises the mist of my pain— You are set free.
"Tell him I see the tall pines, Out through the door as I lie— Red where the setting sun shines— Waving their hands in good-bye; Tell him I hold to my breast, Dying, the flowers he gave; Glad as I go I shall rest Well in my grave."
This is the message they send, Warm with your ultimate breath; Saying, "And this is the end; She is the bride but of death." Is death the worst of all things? What but a bursting of bands, Then to the First of All Things Stretching out hands!
Under the grass and the snow You will sleep well till I come; And you will feel me, I know, Though you are motionless, dumb. I shall speak low overhead— You were so eager to hear— And even though you are dead, You will be near.
Dead, with the dew on your brow, Dead, with the May in your face, Dead: and here, true to my vow, I, who have won in the race, Weave you a chaplet of song Wet with the spray and the rime Blown from your love that was strong— Stronger than Time.
IN WASTE PLACES
The new life is fief to the old life, And giveth back pangs at the last; The new strife is like to the old strife A token and tear of the Past. We change, but the changes are only New forms of the old forms again, We die and some spaces are lonely, But men live in lives of new men.
We hate, and old wrongs lift their faces, To fill up the ranks of the new; We love, and the early love's graces Are signs of the false and the true; We clasp the white hands that are given To greet us in devious ways, But meet the old sins, all unshriven, To sadden the burden of days.
Though we lose the green leaves of the first days, Though the vineyards be trampled and red, We know, in the gloom of our worst days, That the dead are not evermore dead: December is only December, A space, not the infinite whole; Though the hearthstone bear but the one ember, There still is the fire of the soul.
The end comes as came the beginning, And shadows fail into the past; And the goal, is it not worth the winning, If it brings us but home at the last? While over the pain of waste places We tread, 'tis a blossoming rod That drives us to grace from disgraces, From the plains to the Gardens of God.
LAST OF ALL
Wave, walls to seaward, Storm-clouds to leeward, Beaten and blown by the winds of the West, Sail we encumbered Past isles unnumbered, But never to greet the green island of Rest.
Lips that now tremble, Do you dissemble When you deny that the human is best? Love, the evangel, Finds the Archangel— Is that a truth when this may be a jest?
Star-drifts that glimmer Dimmer and dimmer, What do ye know of my weal or my woe? Was I born under The sun or the thunder? What do I come from, and where do I go?
Rest, shall it ever Come? Is endeavour Still a vain twining and twisting of cords? Is faith but treason; Reason, unreason, But a mechanical weaving of words?
What is the token, Ever unbroken, Swept down the spaces of querulous years,— Weeping or singing— That the Beginning Of all things is with us, and sees us, and hears?
What is the token? Bruised and broken, Bend I my life to a blossoming rod? Shall then the worst things Come to the first things, Finding the best of all, last of all, God?
AFTER
Bands broken, cords loosened, and all Set free. Well, I know That I turned my cold face to the wall, Was silent, strove, gasped, then there fell A numbness, a faintness, a spell Of blindness, hung as a pall, On me, falling low, And a far fading sound of a knell.
Then a fierce stretching of hands In gloom; and my feet, Treading tremulous over hard sands; A wind that wailed wearily slow, A plashing of waters below, A twilight on bleak lone lands, Spread out; and a sheet Of the moaning sea shallows aflow.
Then a steep highway that leads Somewhere, cold, austere; And I follow a shadow that heeds My coming, and points, not in wrath, Out over: we tread the sere path Up to the summit; recedes All gloom; and at last The beauty a flower-land hath.
REMEDIAL
Well it has come and has gone, I have some pride, you the same; You will scarce put willow on, I will have buried a name.
A stone, "Hic Jacet"—no more; Let the world wonder at will; You have the key to the door, I have the cenotaph still.
A tear—one tear, is it much, Dropped on a desert of pain? Had you one passionate touch Of Nature there had been rain.
Purpose, oh no, there was none! You could not know if you would; You were the innocent one. Malice? Nay, you were too good.
Hearts should not be in your way, You must pass on, and you did; Ah, did I hurt you? you say: Hurt me? Why, Heaven forbid!
Inquisitorial ways Might have hurt, truly, but this, Done in these wise latter days, It was too sudden, I wis.
"Painless and pleasing," this is No bad advertisement, true; Painless extinction was his, And it was pleasing-to you.
Still, when the surgery's done (That is the technical term), Which has lost most, which has won? Rise now, and truly affirm.
You carry still what we call (Poets are dreamy we know) A heart, well, 'tis yours after all, And time hath its wonders, I trow.
You may look back with your eyes Turned to the dead of the Past, And find with a sad surprise, That yours is the dead at the last.
Seeing afar in the sands, Gardens grown green, at what cost! You may reach upward your hands, Praying for what you have lost.
Adieu! and the sun goes awearily down, The mist creeps up o'er the sleepy town, The white sails bend to the shuddering mere, And the reapers have reaped, and the night is here.
Adieu! and the years are a broken song, The right grows weak in the strife with wrong, The lilies of love have a crimson stain, And the old days never will come again.
Adieu! where the mountains afar are dim 'Neath the tremulous tread of the seraphim, Shall not our querulous hearts prevail, That have prayed for the peace of the Holy Grail?
Adieu! Some time shall the veil between The things that are, and that might have been Be folded back for our eyes to see, And the meaning of all be clear to me.
IRREVOCABLE
What you have done may never be undone By day or night, What I have seen may never be unseen In my sad sight.
The days swing on, the sun glows and is gone, From span to span; The tides sweep scornfully the shore, as when The tides began.
What we have known is but a bitter pledge Of Ignorance, The human tribute to an ageless dream, A timeless trance.
Through what great cycles hath this circumstance Swept on and on, Known not by thee or me, till it should come, A vision wan,
To our two lives, and yours would seem to me The hand that kills, Though you have wept to strike, and but have cried, "The mad Fate wills!"
You could not, if you would, give what had been Peace, not distress; Some warping cords of destiny had held You in duress.
Nay, not the Fates, look higher; is God blind? Doth He not well? Our eyes see but a little space behind, If it befell,
That they saw but a little space before, Shall we then say, Unkind is the Eternal, if He knew This from alway,
And called us into being but to give To mother Earth Two blasted lives, to make the watered land A place of dearth?
The life that feeds upon itself is mad— Is it not thus? Have I not held but one poor broken reed For both of us?
Keep but your place and simply meet The needs of life; Mine is the sorrow, mine the prayerless pain: The world is rife
With spectres seen and spectres all unseen By human eyes, Who stand upon the threshold, at the gates, Of Paradise.
Well do they who have felt the spectres' hands Upon their hearts, And have not fled, but with firm faith have borne Their brothers' parts,
Upheld the weary head, or fanned the brow Of some sick soul, Pointed the way for tired pilgrim eyes To their far goal.
So let it be with us: perchance will come In after days, The benison of happiness for us Always, always.
THE LAST DREAM
One more dream in the slow night watches, One more sleep when the world is dumb, And his soul leans out to the sweet wild snatches Of song that up from dreamland come.
Pale, pale face with a golden setting, Deep, deep glow of stedfast eyes; Form of one there is no forgetting, Wandering out of Paradise.
Breath of balm, and a languor falling Out of the gleam of a sunset sky; Peace, deep peace and a seraph's calling, Folded hands and a pleading cry.
One more dream for the patient singer, Weary with songs he loved so well; Sleeping now—will the vision bring her? Hark, 'tis the sound of the passing bell!
WAITING
When shall I see thee again? Weary the years and so long; When shall be buried the wrong, Phantom-like rising between? Seeking for surcease of pain, Pilgrim to Lethe I came; Drank not, for pride was too keen— Stung by the sound of a name.
Soft, ardent skies of my youth Come to me over the sea, Come in a vision to me, Come with your shimmer and song; Ye have known all of the truth, Witness to both shall ye bear; Read me the riddle of wrong, Solve me the cords of the snare.
Love is not won in a breath, Idle, impassioned and sure; Why should not love then endure, Challenging doubt to the last? True love is true till the death, Though it bear aloes and myrrh; Try me and judge me, O Past, Have I been true unto her?
What should I say if we met, Knowing not which should forbear? E'en if I plead would she care?— Sweet is the refuge of scorn. Close by my side, O Regret Long we have watched for the light! Watchman, what of the morn? Well do we know of the night.
IN MAYTIME
The apple blossoms glisten Within the crowned trees; The meadow grasses listen The din of busy bees; The wayward, woodland singer Carols along the leas, Not loth to be the bringer Of summer fantasies.
But you and I who never Meet now but for regret, Forever and forever, Though flower-bonds were set In Maytime, if you wonder That falling leaves are ours, Yours was it cast asunder, Mine are the faded flowers.
The fluted wren is sobbing Beneath the mossy eaves; The throstle's chord is throbbing In coronal of leaves; The home of love is lilies, And rose-hearts, flaming red, Red roses and white lilies— Lo, thus the gods were wed!
But we weep on, unheeding The earth's joys spread for us; And ever, far receding, Our fair land fades from us: One waited, patient, broken, High-hearted but opprest, One lightly took the token— The mad Fates took the rest.
High mountains and low valleys, And shreds of silver seas, The lone brook's sudden sallies, And all the joys of these,— These were, but now the fire Volcanic seeks the sea, And dark wave walls retire Tyrannic seeking me.
Spirit of dreams, a vision Well hast thou wrought for us; Fold high the veil Elysian, The past held naught for us; Years, what are they but spaces Set in a day for me? Lo, here are lilied places— My love comes back to me!
INSIDE THE BAR
I knows a town, an' it's a fine town, And many a brig goes sailin' to its quay; I knows an inn, an' it's a fine inn, An' a lass that's fair to see. I knows a town, an' it's a fine town; I knows an inn, an' it's a fine inn— But Oh my lass, an' Oh the gay gown, Which I have seen my pretty in!
I knows a port, an' it's a good port, An' many a brig is ridin' easy there; I knows a home, an' it's a good home, An' a lass that's sweet an' fair. I knows a port, an' it's a good port, I knows a home, an' it's a good home— But Oh the pretty that is my sort, What's wearyin' till I come!
I knows a day, an' it's a fine day, The day a sailor man comes back to town; I knows a tide, an' it's a good tide, The tide that gets you quick to anchors down. I knows a day, an' it's a fine day, I knows a tide, an' it's a good tide— And God help the lubber, I say, What's stole the sailor man's bride!
THE CHILDREN
Mark the faces of the children Flooded with sweet innocence! God's smile on their foreheads glisten Ere their heart-strings have grown tense.
And they know not of the sadness, Of the palpitating pain Drawn through arid veins of manhood, Or the lusts that life disdain.
Little reek they of the shadows Fallen through the steep world's space God hath touched them with His chrism And their sunlight is His grace.
And the green grooves of the meadows They are fair to look upon; And the silver thrush and robin Sing most sweetly on and on.
But the faces of the children- They are fairer far than these; And the songs they sing are sweeter Than the thrushes' in the trees.
Little hands, our God has given All the flower-bloom for you; Gather violets in the meadows, Trailing your sweet fingers through.
The swift tears that sometimes glisten On their faces dashed with pain Weave a rosy bow of promise, Like the afterglow of rain.
The soft, verdant fields of childhood, Certes, are the softer for The dissolving dew of morning, Noon's elate ambassador.
Looking skyward, do they wonder— They, the children palm to palm- What is out beyond the azure In the infinite of calm?
Though they murmur soft "Our Father," Angel wings to speed it on Past the bright wheels of the Pleiads, Have they thought of benison?
Nay! the undefiled children Say it bound by ignorance; But the saying is the merit, And the loving bans mischance.
Oh the mountain heights of childhood, And the waterfalls of dreams, And the sleeping in the shadows Of the willows by the streams!
Toss your gleaming hair, O children, Back in waving of the wind! Flash the starlight 'heath your eyelids From the sunlight of the mind!
See, we strain you to our bosoms, And we kiss your lip and brow; Human hearts must have some idols, And we shrine you idols now.
Time, the ruthless idol-breaker, Smileless, cold iconoclast, Though he rob us of our altars, Cannot rob us of the past.
Dull and dead the gods' bright nectar, Disencrowned of its foam; Duller, deader far the empty, Barren hearthstone of a home.
Smile out to our age and give us, Children, of the dawn's desire; We have passed morn's gold and opal, We have lost life's early fire.
LITTLE GARAINE
"Where do the stars grow, little Garaine? The garden of moons, is it far away? The orchard of suns, my little Garaine, Will you take us there some day?"
"If you shut your eyes," quoth little Garaine, "I will show you the way to go To the orchard of suns and the garden of moons And the field where the stars do grow.
"But you must speak soft," quoth little Garaine, "And still must your footsteps be, For a great bear prowls in the field of the stars, And the moons they have men to see.
"And the suns have the Children of Signs to guard, And they have no pity at all— You must not stumble, you must not speak, When you come to the orchard wall.
"The gates are locked," quoth little Garaine, "But the way I am going to tell— The key of your heart it will open them all: And there's where the darlings dwell!"
TO A LITTLE CHILD
(M. H.)
When you were born, my dear, when you were born, A glorious Voice came singing from the sun, An Ariel with roses of the morn, And through the vales of Arcady danced one All golden as the corn.
These were the happy couriers of God, Bearing your gifts: a magic all your own, And Beauty with her tall divining rod; While tiny star-smiths, bending to your throne, Your feet with summer shod.
Into my heart, my dear, you flashed your way, Your rosy, golden way: a fairy horn Proclaimed you dancing light and roundelay;— I thank my generous Fates that you were born One lofty joyous day.
L'EMPEREUR, MORT
(M. H., AGED FIVE)
My dear, I was thy lover, A man of spring-time years; I sang thee songs, gave gifts and songs most poor, But they were signs; and now, for evermore, Thou farest forth! My heart is full of tears, My dear, my very dear.
My dear, I was thy lover, I wrote thee on my shield, I cried thy name in goodly fealty, Thy champion I. And now, no more for me Thy face, thy smile: thou goest far afield, My dear, my very dear.
My dear, I am thy lover: Afield thy spirit goes, And thou shalt find that Inn of God's delight, Where thou wilt wait for us who say good night, To thy sweet soul. The rest—the rest, God knows, My dear, my dear!
PHYLLIS
Phyllis, I knew you once when I was young, And travelled to your land of Arcady. Do you, of all the songs, wild songs, before you flung, Remember mine—its buoyant melody, Its hope, its pride; do you remember it? It was the song that makes the world go round; I bought it of a Boy: in scars I paid for it, Phyllis, to you who jested at my wound.
BAIRNIE
Did ye see the white cloud in the glint o' the sun? That's the brow and the eye o' my bairnie. Did ye ken the red bloom at the bend o' the crag? That's the rose in the cheek o' my bairnie. Did ye hear the gay lilt o' the lark by the burn? That's the voice of my bairnie, my dearie. Did ye smell the wild scent in the green o' the wood? That's the breath o' my ain, o' my bairnie. Sae I'll gang awa' hame, to the shine o' the fire, To the cot where I lie wi' my bairnie.
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