Francis Sherman

Produced by Al Haines.

MATINS

Francis Sherman

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BOSTON
COPELAND AND DAY
MDCCCXCVI

COPYRIGHT 1896 BY COPELAND AND DAY

TO
MY FATHER

CONTENTS

At the Gate
A Life
At Matins
Ave
The Foreigner
Cadences
Easter-Song
The Rain
A Memory
Among the Hills
To Summer
The Path
The Last Flower
After Harvest
Heat in September
On the Hillside
Summer Dying
A November Vigil
Nunc Dimittis
Between the Battles
The Quiet Valley
The Kingfisher
The Conqueror
The King's Hostel
Between the Winter and the Spring
The Mother
The Window of Dreams
The Relief of Wet Willows
The Builder
Te Deum Laudamus

AT THE GATE

Swing open wide, O Gate,

That I may enter in

And see what lies in wait

For me who have been born!

Her word I only scorn

Who spake of death and sin.

I know what is behind

Your heavy brazen bars;

I heard it of the wind

Where I dwelt yesterday:

The wind that blows alway

Among the ancient stars.

Life is the chiefest thing

The wind brought knowledge of,

As it passed, murmuring:

Life, with its infinite strength,

And undiminished length

Of years fulfilled with love.

The wind spake not of sin

That blows among the stars;

And so I enter in

(Swing open wide, O Gate!)

Fearless of what may wait

Behind your heavy bars.

A LIFE

I.

Let us rise up and live! Behold, each thing

Is ready for the moulding of our hand.

Long have they all awaited our command;

None other will they ever own for king.

Until we come no bird dare try to sing,

Nor any sea its power may understand;

No buds are on the trees; in every land

Year asketh year some tidings of some Spring.

Yea, it is time,—high time we were awake!

Simple indeed shall life be unto us.

What part is ours?—To take what all things give;

To feel the whole world growing for our sake;

To have sure knowledge of the marvellous;

To laugh and love.—Let us rise up and live!

II.

Let us rule well and long. We will build here

Our city in the pathway of the sun.

On this side shall this mighty river run;

Along its course well-laden ships shall steer.

Beyond, great mountains shall their crests uprear,

That from their sides our jewels may be won.

Let all you toil! Behold, it is well done;

Under our sway all far things fall and near!

All time is ours! Let us rule long and well!

So we have reigned for many a long, long day.

No change can come.... What hath that slave to tell,

Who dares to stop us on our royal way?

"O King, last night within thy garden fell,

From thine own tree, a rose whose leaves were gray."

III.

Let us lie down and sleep! All things are still,

And everywhere doth rest alone seem sweet.

No more is heard the sound of hurrying feet

Athrough the land their echoes once did fill.

Even the wind knows not its ancient will,

For each ship floats with undisturbÉd sheet:

Naught stirs except the Sun, who hastes to greet

His handmaiden, the utmost western hill.

Ah, there the glory is! O west of gold!

Once seemed our life to us as glad and fair;

We knew nor pain nor sorrow anywhere!

O crimson clouds! O mountains autumn-stoled!

Across even you long shadows soon must sweep.

We too have lived. Let us lie down and sleep!

IV.

Nay, let us kneel and pray! The fault was ours,

O Lord! No other ones have sinned as we.

The Spring was with us and we praised not thee;

We gave no thanks for Summer's strangest flowers.

We built us many ships, and mighty towers,

And held awhile the whole broad world in fee:

Yea, and it sometime writhed at our decree!

The stars, the winds,—all they were subject-powers.

All things we had for slave. We knew no God;

We saw no place on earth where His feet trod—

This earth, where now the Winter hath full sway,

Well shrouded under cold white snows and deep.

We rose and lived; we ruled; yet, ere we sleep,

O Unknown God,—Let us kneel down and pray!

AT MATINS

Because I ever have gone down Thy ways

With joyous heart and undivided praise,

I pray Thee, Lord, of Thy great loving-kindness,

Thou'lt make to-day even as my yesterdays!"

(At the edge of the yellow dawn I saw them stand,

Body and Soul; and they were hand-in-hand:

The Soul looked backward where the last night's blindness

Lay still upon the unawakened land;

But the Body, in the sun's light well arrayed,

Fronted the east, grandly and unafraid:

I knew that it was one might never falter

Although the Soul seemed shaken as it prayed.)

"O Lord" (the Soul said), "I would ask one thing:

Send out Thy rapid messengers to bring

Me to the shadows which about Thine altar

Are ever born and always gathering.

"For I am weary now, and would lie dead

Where I may not behold my old days shed

Like withered leaves around me and above me;

Hear me, O Lord, and I am comforted!"

"O Lord, because I ever deemed Thee kind"

(The Body's words were borne in on the wind);

"Because I knew that Thou wouldst ever love me

Although I sin, and lead me who am blind;

Because of all these things, hear me who pray!

Lord, grant me of Thy bounty one more day

To worship Thee, and thank Thee I am living.

Yet if Thou callest now, I will obey."

(The Body's hand tightly the Soul did hold;

And over them both was shed the sun's red gold;

And though I knew this day had in its giving

Unnumbered wrongs and sorrows manifold,

I counted it a sad and bitter thing

That this weak, drifting Soul must alway cling

Unto this Body—wrought in such a fashion

It must have set the gods, even, marvelling.

And, thinking so, I heard the Soul's loud cries,

As it turned round and saw the eastern skies)

"O Lord, destroy in me this new-born passion

For this that has grown perfect in mine eyes!

"O Lord, let me not see this thing is fair,

This Body Thou hast given me to wear,—

Lest I fall out of love with death and dying,

And deem the old, strange life not hard to bear!

"Yea, now, even now, I love this Body so—

O Lord, on me Thy longest days bestow!

O Lord, forget the words I have been crying,

And lead me where Thou thinkest I should go!"

(At the edge of the open dawn I saw them stand,

Body and Soul, together, hand-in-hand,

Fulfilled, as I, with strong desire and wonder

As they beheld the glorious eastern land;

I saw them, in the strong light of the sun,

Go down into the day that had begun;

I knew, as they, that night might never sunder

This Body from the Soul that it had won.)

AVE!

To-morrow, and a year is born again!

(To-day the first bud wakened 'neath the snow.)

Will it bring joys the old year did not know,

Or will it burthen us with the old pain?

Shall we seek out the Spring—to see it slain?

Summer,—and learn all flowers have ceased to grow?

Autumn,—and find it overswift to go?

(The memories of the old year yet remain.)

To-morrow, and another year is born!

(Love liveth yet, O Love, we deemed was dead!)

Let us go forth and welcome in the morn,

Following bravely on where Hope hath led.

(O Time, how great a thing thou art to scorn!)

O Love, we shall not be uncomforted!

THE FOREIGNER

He walked by me with open eyes,

And wondered that I loved it so;

Above us stretched the gray, gray skies;

Behind us, foot-prints on the snow.

Before us slept a dark, dark wood.

Hemlocks were there, and little pines

Also; and solemn cedars stood

In even and uneven lines.

The branches of each silent tree

Bent downward, for the snow's hard weight

Was pressing on them heavily;

They had not known the sun of late.

(Except when it was afternoon,

And then a sickly sun peered in

A little while; it vanished soon

And then they were as they had been.)

There was no sound (I thought I heard

The axe of some man far away)

There was no sound of bee, or bird,

Or chattering squirrel at its play.

And so he wondered I was glad.

—There was one thing he could not see;

Beneath the look these dead things had

I saw Spring eyes agaze at me.

CADENCES

(Mid-Lent)

The low, gray sky curveth from hill to hill,

Silent and all untenanted;

From the trees also all glad sound hath fled,

Save for the little wind that moaneth still

Because it deemeth Earth is surely dead.

For many days no woman hath gone by,

Her gold hair knowing, as of old,

The wind's caresses and the sun's kind gold;

—Perchance even she hath thought it best to die

Because all things are sad things to behold.

(Easter Morning)

She cometh now, with the sun's splendid shine

On face and limbs and hair!

Ye who are watching, have ye seen so fair

A Lady ever as this one is of mine?

Have ye beheld her likeness anywhere?

See, as she cometh unrestrained and fleet

Past the thrush-haunted trees,

How glad the lilies are that touch her knees!

How glad the grasses underneath her feet!

And how even I am yet more glad than these!

EASTER-SONG

Maiden, awake! For Christ is born again!

And let your feet disdain

The paths whereby of late they have been led.

Now Death itself is dead,

And Love hath birth,

And all things mournful find no place on earth.

This morn ye all must go another way

Than ye went yesterday.

Not with sad faces shall ye silent go

Where He hath suffered so;

But where there be

Full many flowers shall ye wend joyfully.

Moreover, too, ye must be clad in white,

As if the ended night

Were but your bridal-morn's foreshadowing.

And ye must also sing

In angel-wise:

So shall ye be most worthy in His eyes.

Maidens, arise! I know where many flowers

Have grown these many hours

To make more perfect this glad Easter-day;

Where tall white lilies sway

On slender stem,

Waiting for you to come and garner them;

Where banks of mayflowers are, all pink and white,

Which will Him well delight;

And yellow buttercups, and growing grass

Through which the Spring winds pass;

And mosses wet,

Well strown with many a new-born violet.

All these and every other flower are here.

Will ye not draw anear

And gather them for Him, and in His name,

Whom all men now proclaim

Their living King?

Behold how all these wait your harvesting!

Moreover, see the darkness of His house!

Think ye that He allows

Such glory of glad color and perfume,

But to destroy the gloom

That hath held fast

His altar-place these many days gone past?

For this alone these blossoms had their birth,—

To show His perfect worth!

Therefore, O Maidens, ye must go apace

To that strange garden-place

And gather all

These living flowers for His high festival.

For now hath come the long-desired day,

Wherein Love hath full sway!

Open the gates, O ye who guard His home,

His handmaidens are come!

Open them wide,

That all may enter in this Easter-tide!

Then, maidens, come, with song and lute-playing,

And all your wild flowers bring

And strew them on His altar; while the sun—

Seeing what hath been done—

Shines strong once more,

Knowing that Death hath Christ for conqueror.

THE RAIN

O ye who so unceasing praise the Sun;

Ye who find nothing worthy of your love

But the Sun's face and the strong light thereof;

Who, when the day is done,

Are all uncomforted

Unless the night be crowned with many a star,

Or mellow light be shed

From the ancient moon that gazeth from afar,

With pitiless calm, upon the old, tired Earth;

O ye to whom the skies

Must be forever fair to free your eyes

From mortal pain;—

Have ye not known the great exceeding worth

Of that soft peace which cometh with the Rain?

Behold! the wisest of you knows no thing

That hath such title to man's worshipping

As the first sudden day

The slumbrous Earth is wakened into Spring;

When heavy clouds and gray

Come up the southern way,

And their bold challenge throw

In the face of the frightened snow

That covereth the ground.

What need they now the armies of the Sun

Whose trumpets now do sound?

Alas, the powerless Sun!

Hath he not waged his wars for days gone past,

Each morning drawing up his cohorts vast

And leading them with slow and even paces

To assault once more the impenetrable places,

Where, crystal-bound,

The river moveth on with silent sound?

O puny, powerless Sun!

On the pure white snow where are the lightest traces

Of what thy forces' ordered ways have done?

On these large spaces

No footsteps are imprinted anywhere;

Still the white glare

Is perfect; yea, the snows are drifted still

On plain and hill;

And still the river knows the Winter's iron will.

Thou wert most wise, O Sun, to hide thy face

This day beneath the cloud's gray covering;

Thou wert most wise to know the deep disgrace

In which thy name is holden of the Spring.

She deems thee now an impotent, useless thing,

And hath dethroned thee from thy mighty place;

Knowing that with the clouds will come apace

The Rain, and that the rain will be a royal king.

A king?—Nay, queen!

For in soft girlish-wise she takes her throne

When first she cometh in the young Spring-season;

Gentle and mild,

Yet with no dread of any revolution,

And fearing not a land unreconciled,

And unafraid of treason.

In her dark hair

Lieth the snow's most certain dissolution;

And in her glance is known

The freeing of the rivers from their chainings;

And in her bosom's strainings

Earth's teeming breast is tokened and foreshown.

Behold her coming surely, calmly down,

Where late the clear skies were,

With gray clouds for a gown;

Her fragile draperies

Caught by the little breeze

Which loveth her!

She weareth yet no crown,

Nor is there any sceptre in her hands;

Yea, in all lands,

Whatever Spring she cometh, men know well

That it is right and good for her to come;

And that her least commands

Must be fulfilled, however wearisome;

And that they all must guard the citadel

Wherein she deigns to dwell!

And so, even now, her feet pass swiftly over

The impressionable snow

That vanisheth as woe

Doth vanish from the rapt face of a lover,

Who, after doubting nights, hath come to know

His lady loves him so!

(Yet not like him

Doth the snow bear the signs of her light touch!

It is all gray in places, and looks worn

With some most bitter pain;

As he shall look, perchance,

Some early morn

While yet the dawn is dim,

When he awakens from the enraptured trance

In which he, blind, hath lain,

And knows that also he hath loved in vain

The lady who, he deemed, had loved him much.

And though her utter worthlessness is plain

He hath no joy of his deliverance,

But only asketh God to let him die,—

And getteth no reply.)

Yea, the snows fade before the calm strength of the rain!

And while the rain is unabated,

Well-heads are born and streams created

On the hillsides, and set a-flowing

Across the fields. The river, knowing

That there hath surely come at last

Its freedom, and that frost is past,

Gathereth force to break its chains;

The river's faith is in the Spring's unceasing rains!

See where the shores even now were firmly bound

The slowly widening water showeth black,

As from the fields and meadows all around

Come rushing over the dark and snowless ground

The foaming streams!

Beneath the ice the shoulders of the tide

Lift, and from shore to shore a thin, blue crack

Starts, and the dark, long-hidden water gleams,

Glad to be free.

And now the uneven rift is growing wide;

The breaking ice is fast becoming gray;

It hears the loud beseeching of the sea,

And moveth on its way.

Surely at last the work of the rain is done!

Surely the Spring at last is well begun,

O unavailing Sun!

O ye who worship only at the noon,

When will ye learn the glory of the rain?

Have ye not seen the thirsty meadow-grass

Uplooking piteous at the burnished sky,

And all in vain?

Even in June

Have ye not seen the yellow flowers swoon

Along the roadside, where the dust, alas,

Is hard to pass?

Have ye not heard

The song cease in the throat of every bird

And know the thing all these were stricken by?

Ye have beheld these things, yet made no prayer,

O pitiless and uncompassionate!

Yet should the sweeping

Of Death's wide wings across your face unsleeping

Be felt of you to-night,

And all your hair

Know the soft stirring of an alien breath

From out the mouth of Death,

Would ye not then have memory of these

And how their pain was great?

Would ye not wish to hear among the trees

The wind in his great might,

And on the roof the rain's unending harmonies?

For when could death be more desired by us

(Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!)

Than when the night

Is heavy with the wet wind born of rain?

When flowers are yellow, and the growing grass

Is not yet tall,

Or when all living things are harvested

And with bright gold the hills are glorious,

Or when all colors have faded from our sight

And all is gray that late was gold and red?

Have ye not lain awake the long night through

And listened to the falling of the rain

On fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead?

Have none of you,

Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comforted

And made forgetful of the day's live pain?

Even Thou, who wept because the dark was great

Once, and didst pray that dawn might come again,

Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thing

And night a thing not wholly desolate

And Death thy soul's supremest sun-rising?

Did not thy hearing strain

To catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea,

Where great tides be,

And swift, white rain?

Did not its far exulting teach thy soul

That of all things the sea alone is free

And under no control?

Its liberty,—

Was it not most desired by thy soul?

I say,

The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the sea

Is glad alway

When the rain cometh; either tranquilly

As at the first dawn of a summer day

Or in late autumn wildly passionate,

Or when all things are all disconsolate

Because that Winter has been long their king,

Or in the Spring.

—Therefore let now your joyful thanksgiving

Be heard on Earth because the Rain hath come!

While land and sea give praise, shall ye be dumb?

Shall ye alone await the sun-shining?

Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring;

Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome;

Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home,

Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling,

When ye seek out your homes because the night—

The last, dark night—falls swift across your path,

And on Life's altar your last day lies slain,

Will ye not cry aloud with that new might

One dying with great things unfinished hath,

"O God! if Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain!"

A MEMORY

You are not with me though the Spring is here!

And yet it seemed to-day as if the Spring

Were the same one that in an ancient year

Came suddenly upon our wandering.

You must remember all that chanced that day.

Can you forget the shy awaking call

Of the first robin?—And the foolish way

The squirrel ran along the low stone wall?

The half-retreating sound of water breaking,

Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breeze

Told us the tumult many crows were making

Amid innumerable distant trees;

The certain presence of the birth of things

Around, above, beneath, us,—everywhere;

The soft return of immemorial Springs

Thrilling with life the fragrant forest air;

All these were with us then. Can you forget?

Or must you—even as I—remember well?

To-day, all these were with me, there,—and yet

They seemed to have some bitter thing to tell;

They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to wait

One's doubtful coming whom of old they knew;

Till, seeing me alone and desolate,

They learned how vain was strong desire of you.

AMONG THE HILLS

Far off, to eastward, I see the wide hill sloping

Up to the place where the pines and sky are one;

All the hill is gray with its young budding birches

And red with its maple-tips and yellow with the sun.

Sometimes, over it rolls a purple shadow

Of a ragged cloud that wanders in the large, open sky,

Born where the ploughed fields border on the river

And melting into space where the pines are black and high.

There all is quiet; but here where I am waiting,

Among the firs behind me the wind is ill at ease;

The crows, too, proclaim their old, incessant trouble,—

I think there is some battle raging in the surging trees.

And yet, should I go down beside the swollen river

Where the vagrant timber hurries to the wide untrammelled sea,

With the mind and the will to cross the new-born waters

And to let the yellow hillside share its peace with me,

—I know, then, that surely would come the old spring-fever

And touch my sluggish blood with its old eternal fire;

Till for me, too, the love of peace were over and forgotten,

And the freedom of the logs had become my soul's desire.

TO SUMMER

Summer! I praise thee, who art glorious!

For now the sudden promise of the Spring

Hath been fulfilled in many ways to us,

And all live things are thine.

Therefore, while all the earth

Is glad, and young, and strangely riotous

With love of thee, whose blood is even as wine,

I dare to sing,

Worshipping thee, and thy face welcoming;

I, also a lover of thy most wondrous worth.

Yet with no scorn of any passed days

Come I,—who even in April caught great pleasure,—

Making of ancient woes the stronger praise;

Nor build I this new crown

For my new love's fair head

Of flowers plucked in once oft-travelled ways,

And then forgot and utterly cast down;

But from the measure

Of a strange, undreamt-of, undivided treasure

I glean, and thus my love is garlanded.

Yea, with a crown such as no other queen

That ever ruled on earth wore round her hair,

And garments such as man hath never seen!

The beauty Heaven hath

For thee was magnified;

I think the least of thy bright gold and green

Once lived along God's best-beloved path,

And angels there

Passed by, and gathered those He called most fair,

And, at His bidding, dressed thee for Earth's bride.

How at thy coming we were glad again!

We who were nigh to death, awaiting thee;

And fain of death as one aweary of pain.

Life had grown burthensome,

Till suddenly we learned

The joy the old brown earth has, when the rain

Comes, and the earth is glad that it has come:

That ecstasy

The buds have, when the worn snow sets them free,

The sea's delight when storm-time has returned.

O season of the strong triumphant Sun!

Bringer of exultation unto all!

Behold thy work ere yet thy day be run.

Over thy growing grain

How the winds rise and cease!

Beheld these meadows where thick gold lies spun—

There, last night, surely, thy long hair must have lain!

Where trees are tall,

Hear where young birds hold their high festival;

And see where shallow waters know thy peace.

Will any of these things ever pain thine eyes,

Summer, that thou shouldst go another way

Than ours, or shouldst our offerings despise?

Come with me further still

Where, in sight of the sea,

This garden liveth under mellow skies;

Of its dear odors drink thine utmost fill,

And deign to stay

A moment mid its colors' glad array,—

Is not this place a pleasant one for thee?

Yea, thou wilt ever stay, I know full well!

Why do I fear that thou wilt pass from us?

Is not this earth thy home wherein to dwell?

The perfect ways thereof

Are thy desired ones;

Earth hath no voice but of thy worth to tell.

Therefore, as one who loves might praise his love,

So, even thus,

I hail thee, Summer, who art glorious,

And know thy reign eternal as the Sun's!

THE PATH

Is this the path that knew your tread,

Once, when the skies were just as blue

As they are now, far overhead?

Are these the trees that looked at you

And listened to the words you said?

Along this moss did your dress sweep?

And is this broken stem the one

That gave its flower to you to keep?

And here where the grasses knew the sun

Before a sickle came to reap

Did your dear shadow softly fall?

This place is very like, and yet

No shadow lieth here at all;

With dew the mosses still are wet

Although the grass no more is tall.

The small brown birds go rustling through

The low-branched hemlock as of old;

The tree-tops almost touch the blue;

The sunlight falleth down like gold

On one new flower that waiteth you.

THE LAST FLOWER

O golden-rod, well-worshipped of the sun!

Where else hath Summer tarried save in thee?

This meadow is a barren thing to see,

For here the reapers' toil is over and done.

Of all her many birds there is but one

Left to assail the last wild raspberry;

The buttercups and daisies withered be,

And yet thy reign hath only now begun.

O sign of power and sway imperial!

O sceptre thrust into the hands of Fall

By Summer ere Earth forget her soft foot's tread!

O woman-flower, for love of thee, alas,

Even the trees have let their glory pass,

And now with thy gold hair are garlanded!

AFTER HARVEST

O Earth, O Mother, thou hast earned our praise!

The long year through thou hast been good to us.

Forgive us were we ever mutinous

Or unbelieving in thy strange, sure ways.

Sometimes, alas, we watched with wild amaze

Thy passing, for thou wert imperious

Indeed; and our estate seemed perilous,

And we as grass the wind unseeing sways.

Then, we were blind: the least among us sees,

Now, in each well-stripped vine and barren field,

Each garden that is fast a-perishing,

The promise April surely had revealed

Had we had grace to bend our stubborn knees

Who seek thee now with humble thanksgiving.

HEAT IN SEPTEMBER

And why shouldst thou come back to us, July,

Who vanished while we prayed thee not to pass?

Where are thy sunflowers? Where thine uncut grass?

Thy still, blue waters and thy cloudless sky?

Surely, to-day thy very self is nigh;

Only the wind that bloweth in, alas,

Telleth of fire where many a green tree was;

And the crimson sun at noonday standeth high.

Must I, like him who, seeing once again

The long-awaited face of his lost love,

Hath little strength to thank the gods above

(Remembering most the ancient passion's pain),

Yet striveth to recall the joys thereof,—

Must I, like him, beseech thee to remain?

ON THE HILLSIDE

October's peace hath fallen on everything.

In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill,

With red and purple yet the heavens thrill—

The passing of the sun remembering.

A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing,

(In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will!)

Below, the little city lieth still;

And on the river's breast the mist-wreaths cling.

Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough,

The cattle wander homeward slowly now;

In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead.

Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born;

The maples will be desolate by morn.

The last word of the summer hath been said.

SUMMER DYING

Last night the heavy moaning wind

Bore unto me

Warning from Him who hath designed

That change shall be.

Beneath these mighty hills I lay,

At rest at last,

And thinking on the golden day

But now gone past;

When softly came a faint, far cry

That night made clear,

"Thy reign is over, thou must die;

Winter is near!"

"Winter is near!" Yea, all night long

ReËchoed far

The burden of that weary song

Of hopeless war.

I prayed unto the fixÉd King

Of changing Time

For longer life, till sun-rising

And morning's prime,

And while to-day I watched the sun

Rise, slant, and die;

And now is night the stronger one.

Again the cry

Comes, louder now,—"Thy reign is o'er!"

Yes, Lord, I know;

And here I kneel on Earth's cold floor

Once, ere I go,

And thank Thee for the long, long days

Thou gavest me,

And all the pleasant, laughing ways

I walked with Thee.

I have been happy since the first

Glad day I rose

And found the river here had burst

Through ice and snows

While I had slept. Blue places were

Amidst the gray,

Where water showed; and the water

Most quiet lay.

Upon the ice great flocks of crows

Were clamoring—

Lest my blue eyes again should close—

The eyes of Spring.

I stepped down to the frozen shore—

The snow was gone;

And lo, where ice had been before,

The river shone!

With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birds

To the tall pines;

These were the first of Spring's faint words

And Summer's signs.

And now I hear Thee—"Thou must die!"

Ah, might I stay,

That I might hear one robin's cry

Bringing the day;

That I might see the new grass come

Where cattle range;

The maples bud, wild roses bloom,

Old willows change;

That I might know one night in June

Two found most fair,

And see again the great half-moon

Shine through her hair;

Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie,

Where orchards are,

And hear some glad child's laughing cry

Ring loud and far;

Or even, Lord, though near my end

It surely be,

Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and send

One day to me,

One day—October's brown and red

Cover the hills,

And all the brakes and ferns are dead,

And quiet fills

One place where many birds once sang?

Then should I go

Where heavy fir-trees overhang

Their branches so,

And slim white birches, quivering,

Loose yellow leaves,

And aspens grow, and everything

For Summer grieves.

Ah, there once more, ere day be done,

To face the west,

And see the sure and scarlet sun

Sink to its rest

Beyond the ploughed field sloping sheer

Up to the sky;

To feel the last light disappear

And silent die;

To see faint stars.... Yea, Lord, I come;

I hear Thy call;

Reach me Thy hand and guide me home,

Lest I should fall....

Back, Winter! Back! ... Yea, Lord, I, dead,

Now come to Thee;

I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said

"Let Winter be!"

A NOVEMBER VIGIL

I wonder why my love for him

Should grow so much these last three days,

While he but stares as if some whim

Had been discovered to his gaze;

Some foolish whim that brings but shame

Whatever time he thinks thereof,—

To him my name is now the name

Of some old half-forgotten love.

And yet I starve for his least kiss

And faint because my love is great;

I, who am now no more than this,—

An unseen beggar at his gate....

She watched the moon and spake aloud.

The moon seemed not to rise, but hung

Just underneath the long straight cloud

That low across the heavens swung,

As if to press the old moon back

Into its place behind the trees.

The trees stood where the hill was black;

They were not vexed by any breeze.

The moon was not as it had been

Before, when she had watched it rise;

It was misshapen now, and thin,

As if some trouble in the skies

Had happened more than it could bear,

Its color, too, was no more red;

Nor was it like her yellow hair;—

It looked as if its soul were dead.

I, who was once well-loved of him,

Am as a beggar by his gate

Whereon black carvÉd things look grim

At one who thinks to penetrate.

I do not ask if I may stray

Once more in those desired lands;

Another night, yet one more day,

For these I do not make demands;

For when the ripened hour is past

Things such as these are asked in vain:

His first day's love,—were that the last

I were repaid for this new pain.

Out of his love great joy I had

For many days; and even now

I do not dare to be but glad

When I remember, often, how

He said he had great joy of me.

The while he loved, no man, I think,

Exceeded him in constancy;

My passion, even, seemed to shrink

Almost to nothing, when he came

And told me all of love's strange things:

The paths love trod, love's eyes of flame,

Its silent hours, its rapid wings....

The moon still waited, watching her

(The cloud still stretched there, close above;

The trees beneath); it could not stir,

And yet it seemed the shape thereof,

Since she looked first, some change had known.

In places it had burned away,

And one side had much thinner grown;

—What light that came from it was gray.

It was not curved from east to west.

But lay upon its back; like one

Wounded, or weary of some quest,

Or by strong enemies undone.

Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;

She knew they were burned out and dead

Because no clouds went, drifting by,

Across the light the strange moon shed.

Now, I can hope for naught but death.

I would not stay to give him pain,

Or say the words a woman saith

When love hath called aloud in vain

And got no answer anywhere.

It were far better I should die,

And have rough strangers come to bear

My body far away, where I

Shall know the quiet of the tomb;

That they should leave me, with no tears,

To think and think within the gloom

For many years, for many years.

The thought of that strange, narrow place

Is hard for me to bear, indeed;

I do not fear cold Death's embrace,

And where black worms draw nigh to feed

On my white body, then, I know

That I shall make no mournful cry:

But that I should be hidden so

Where I no more may see the sky,—

The wide sky filled with many a star,

Or all around the yellow sun,

Or even the sky where great clouds are

That wait until the rain be done,

—That is an evil thing for me....

Across the sky the cloud swung still

And pressed the moon down heavily

Where leafless trees grew on the hill.

The pale moon now was very thin.

There was no water near the place,

Else would the moon that slept therein

Have frightened her with its gray face.

How shall I wish to see the sky!

For that alone mine eyes shall weep;

I care not where they make me lie,

Nor if my grave be diggÉd deep,

So they leave loose my coffin's lid

And throw on me no mouldy clay,

That the white stars may not be hid:

This little thing is all I pray.

Then I shall move me wearily,

And clasp each bone that was my wrist,

Around each slender bony knee;

And wind my hair, that once he kissed,

Around my body wasted thin,

To keep me from the grave's cold breath;

And on my knees rest my poor chin,

And think of what I lose by death.

I shall be happy, being dead....

The moon, by now, had nearly gone,

As if it knew its time was sped

And feared the coming of the dawn.

It had not risen; one could see

The cloud was strong to keep it back;

It merely faded utterly,

And where it was the sky grew black.

Till suddenly the east turned gray,

Although no stars were overhead;

And though the moon had died away,

There came faint glimmerings of red;

Then larger waves of golden light

Heralded that the day was born,

And on the furthest eastern height

With swift feet came the waited morn.

With swift feet came the morn, but lo!

Just as its triumph was begun,

The first wild onset of the snow

Strangled the glad imperial sun!

NUNC DIMITTIS

Lord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray:

Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay,

Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way;

Because the memories of the things that were—

That little blessed while with Thee and her—

Make me a heavy-hearted traveller.

And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill,

I—knowing that Thy will was once our will—

Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still,

And only waitest—Thou and she alone—

Until I know again as I have known

The glory that abideth near our throne.

BETWEEN THE BATTLES

Let us bury him here,

Where the maples are red!

He is dead,

And he died thanking God that he fell with the

fall of the leaf and the year.

Where the hillside is sheer,

Let it echo our tread

Whom he led;

Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who

never knew fear.

Ere he died, they had fled;

Yet they heard his last cheer

Ringing clear,—

When we lifted him up, he would fain have

pursued, but grew dizzy instead.

Break his sword and his spear!

Let this last prayer be said

By the bed

We have made underneath the wet wind in the

maple trees moaning so drear:

"O Lord God, by the red

Sullen end of the year

That is here,

We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our

swords till his slayers be dead!"

THE QUIET VALLEY

They pity me who have grown old,—

So old, mine eyes may not behold

If any wolf chance near the fold.

They pity me, because, alas!

I lie and dream among the grass,

And let the herds unheeded pass.

They deem I must be sorrowing,

Because I note not when the Spring

Is over me and everything.

They know not why I am forlorn,—

How could they know?—They were not born

When he rode here that April morn.

They were not living when he came

Into this valley, swift like flame,—

Perchance they have not heard his name!

My men were very valiant men—

(Alas, that I had only ten!

These people were not living then.)

But when one is not yet awake

His banner is not hard to take,

His spears are easy things to break.

And dazed men are not hard to slay

When many foes, as strong as they,

With swords and spears come down their way.

This valley now has quiet grown;

And I lie here content, alone,

Dreaming of things that I have known;

And count the mounds of waving grass—

(Ten,—yea, and ten more, by the Mass!)

And let the restless cattle pass.

THE KINGFISHER

Under the sun, the Kingfisher

From his high place was watching her.

He knew she came from some far place;

For when she threw her body down,

She seemed quite tired; and her face

Had dust upon it; and her gown,

That had been yellow, now was brown.

She lay near where the shadows lie

At noontime when they meet the sun.

The water floated slowly by

Her feet. Her hair was all undone,

And with the grass its gold was spun.

The trees were tall and green behind,

And hid the house upon the hill.

This place was sheltered from the wind,

And all the little leaves were still,

And every fern and daffodil.

Her face was hidden in her hands;

And through the grass, and through her hair,

The sunlight found the golden bands

About her wrists. (It was aware,

Also, that her two arms were bare.)

From his high branch, the Kingfisher

Looked down on her and pitied her.

He wondered who that she could be,—

This dear, strange lady, who had come

To vex him with her misery;

And why her days were wearisome,

And what far country was her home.

Her home must be far off indeed,

Wherein such bitter grief could grow.

Had there been no one there to plead

For her when they had wronged her so?

Did none her perfect honor know?

Was there no sword or pennoned lance

Omnipotent in hall or field

For her complete deliverance?

To make them cry, "We yield! we yield

Were not her colors on some shield?

Had he been there? the Kingfisher,

How he had fought and died for her!

A little yellow bird flew by;

And where the water-weeds were still,

Hovered a great blue dragon-fly;

Small fishes set the streams a-thrill

The Kingfisher forgot to kill.

He only thought of her who lay

Upon the ground and was so fair,—

As fair as she who came one day

And sat long with her lover there.

The same gold sun was in her hair.

They had come down, because of love,

From the great house on the hillside:

This lady had no share thereof,

For now this place was sanctified!

Had this fair lady's lover died?

Was this dear lady's lover dead?

Had she come here to wait until

Her heart and soul were comforted?

Why was it not within her will

To seek the lady on the hill?

She, too, was lonely; for he had

Beheld her just this morning, when

Her last kiss made her lover glad

Who went to fight the heathen-men:

(He said he would return again!)

That lady would have charity

He knew, because her love was great;

And this one—fairer even than she—

Should enter in her open gate

And be no more disconsolate!

Under the sun, the Kingfisher

Knew no one else might comfort her.