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diff --git a/2863-0.txt b/2863-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b52d6c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/2863-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5633 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Satires of Circumstance, by Thomas Hardy + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Satires of Circumstance + Lyrics and Reveries with Miscellaneous Pieces + + +Author: Thomas Hardy + + + +Release Date: January 23, 2015 [eBook #2863] +[This file was first posted on August 29, 2000] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE*** + + +Transcribed from the 1919 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + SATIRES + OF CIRCUMSTANCE + LYRICS AND REVERIES + WITH MISCELLANEOUS PIECES + + + * * * * * + + BY + THOMAS HARDY + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED + ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON + 1919 + + * * * * * + + COPYRIGHT + + _First Edition_ 1914 + _Reprinted_ 1915, 1919 + _Pocket Edition_ 1919 + + * * * * * + + + + +CONTENTS + +LYRICS AND REVERIES— PAGE + In Front of the Landscape 3 + Channel Firing 7 + The Convergence of the Twain 9 + The Ghost of the Past 12 + After the Visit 14 + To Meet, or Otherwise 16 + The Difference 18 + The Sun on the Bookcase 19 + “When I set out for Lyonnesse” 20 + A Thunderstorm in Town 21 + The Torn Letter 22 + Beyond the Last Lamp 25 + The Face at the Casement 27 + Lost Love 30 + “My spirit will not haunt the mound” 31 + Wessex Heights 32 + In Death divided 35 + The Place on the Map 37 + Where the Picnic was 39 + The Schreckhorn 41 + A Singer asleep 42 + A Plaint to Man 45 + God’s Funeral 47 + Spectres that grieve 52 + “Ah, are you digging on my grave?” 54 +SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE— + I. At Tea 59 + II. In Church 60 + III. By her Aunt’s Grave 61 + IV. In the Room of the Bride-elect 62 + V. At the Watering-place 63 + VI. In the Cemetery 64 + VII. Outside the Window 65 + VIII. In the Study 66 + IX. At the Altar-rail 67 + X. In the Nuptial Chamber 68 + XI. In the Restaurant 69 + XII. At the Draper’s 70 + XIII. On the Death-bed 71 + XIV. Over the Coffin 72 + XV. In the Moonlight 73 +LYRICS AND REVERIES (_continued_)— + Self-unconscious 77 + The Discovery 80 + Tolerance 81 + Before and after Summer 82 + At Day-close in November 83 + The Year’s Awakening 84 + Under the Waterfall 85 + The Spell of the Rose 88 + St. Launce’s revisited 90 +POEMS OF 1912–13– + The Going 95 + Your Last Drive 97 + The Walk 99 + Rain on a Grace 100 + “I found her out there” 102 + Without Ceremony 104 + Lament 105 + The Haunter 107 + The Voice 109 + His Visitor 110 + A Circular 112 + A Dream or No 113 + After a Journey 115 + A Death-ray recalled 117 + Beeny Cliff 119 + At Castle Boterel 121 + Places 123 + The Phantom Horsewoman 125 +MISCELLANEOUS PIECES— + The Wistful Lady 129 + The Woman in the Rye 131 + The Cheval-Glass 132 + The Re-enactment 134 + Her Secret 140 + “She charged me” 141 + The Newcomer’s Wife 142 + A Conversation at Dawn 143 + A King’s Soliloquy 152 + The Coronation 154 + Aquae Sulis 157 + Seventy-four and Twenty 160 + The Elopement 161 + “I rose up as my custom is” 163 + A Week 165 + Had you wept 167 + Bereft, she thinks she dreams 169 + In the British Museum 170 + In the Servants’ Quarters 172 + The Obliterate Tomb 175 + “Regret not me” 183 + The Recalcitrants 185 + Starlings on the Roof 186 + The Moon looks in 187 + The Sweet Hussy 188 + The Telegram 189 + The Moth-signal 191 + Seen by the Waits 193 + The Two Soldiers 194 + The Death of Regret 195 + In the Days of Crinoline 197 + The Roman Gravemounds 199 + The Workbox 201 + The Sacrilege 203 + The Abbey Mason 210 + The Jubilee of a Magazine 222 + The Satin Shoes 224 + Exeunt Omnes 227 + A Poet 228 +POSTSCRIPT— + “Men who march away” 229 + + + + +LYRICS AND REVERIES + + +IN FRONT OF THE LANDSCAPE + + + PLUNGING and labouring on in a tide of visions, + Dolorous and dear, + Forward I pushed my way as amid waste waters + Stretching around, + Through whose eddies there glimmered the customed landscape + Yonder and near, + + Blotted to feeble mist. And the coomb and the upland + Foliage-crowned, + Ancient chalk-pit, milestone, rills in the grass-flat + Stroked by the light, + Seemed but a ghost-like gauze, and no substantial + Meadow or mound. + + What were the infinite spectacles bulking foremost + Under my sight, + Hindering me to discern my paced advancement + Lengthening to miles; + What were the re-creations killing the daytime + As by the night? + + O they were speechful faces, gazing insistent, + Some as with smiles, + Some as with slow-born tears that brinily trundled + Over the wrecked + Cheeks that were fair in their flush-time, ash now with anguish, + Harrowed by wiles. + + Yes, I could see them, feel them, hear them, address them— + Halo-bedecked— + And, alas, onwards, shaken by fierce unreason, + Rigid in hate, + Smitten by years-long wryness born of misprision, + Dreaded, suspect. + + Then there would breast me shining sights, sweet seasons + Further in date; + Instruments of strings with the tenderest passion + Vibrant, beside + Lamps long extinguished, robes, cheeks, eyes with the earth’s crust + Now corporate. + + Also there rose a headland of hoary aspect + Gnawed by the tide, + Frilled by the nimb of the morning as two friends stood there + Guilelessly glad— + Wherefore they knew not—touched by the fringe of an ecstasy + Scantly descried. + + Later images too did the day unfurl me, + Shadowed and sad, + Clay cadavers of those who had shared in the dramas, + Laid now at ease, + Passions all spent, chiefest the one of the broad brow + Sepulture-clad. + + So did beset me scenes miscalled of the bygone, + Over the leaze, + Past the clump, and down to where lay the beheld ones; + —Yea, as the rhyme + Sung by the sea-swell, so in their pleading dumbness + Captured me these. + + For, their lost revisiting manifestations + In their own time + Much had I slighted, caring not for their purport, + Seeing behind + Things more coveted, reckoned the better worth calling + Sweet, sad, sublime. + + Thus do they now show hourly before the intenser + Stare of the mind + As they were ghosts avenging their slights by my bypast + Body-borne eyes, + Show, too, with fuller translation than rested upon them + As living kind. + + Hence wag the tongues of the passing people, saying + In their surmise, + “Ah—whose is this dull form that perambulates, seeing nought + Round him that looms + Whithersoever his footsteps turn in his farings, + Save a few tombs?” + + + +CHANNEL FIRING + + + THAT night your great guns, unawares, + Shook all our coffins as we lay, + And broke the chancel window-squares, + We thought it was the Judgment-day + + And sat upright. While drearisome + Arose the howl of wakened hounds: + The mouse let fall the altar-crumb, + The worms drew back into the mounds, + + The glebe cow drooled. Till God called, “No; + It’s gunnery practice out at sea + Just as before you went below; + The world is as it used to be: + + “All nations striving strong to make + Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters + They do no more for Christés sake + Than you who are helpless in such matters. + + “That this is not the judgment-hour + For some of them’s a blessed thing, + For if it were they’d have to scour + Hell’s floor for so much threatening . . . + + “Ha, ha. It will be warmer when + I blow the trumpet (if indeed + I ever do; for you are men, + And rest eternal sorely need).” + + So down we lay again. “I wonder, + Will the world ever saner be,” + Said one, “than when He sent us under + In our indifferent century!” + + And many a skeleton shook his head. + “Instead of preaching forty year,” + My neighbour Parson Thirdly said, + “I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer.” + + Again the guns disturbed the hour, + Roaring their readiness to avenge, + As far inland as Stourton Tower, + And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge. + +_April_ 1914. + + + +THE CONVERGENCE OF THE TWAIN + + + (_Lines on the loss of the_ “_Titanic_”) + + I + + IN a solitude of the sea + Deep from human vanity, + And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she. + + II + + Steel chambers, late the pyres + Of her salamandrine fires, + Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres. + + III + + Over the mirrors meant + To glass the opulent + The sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent. + + IV + + Jewels in joy designed + To ravish the sensuous mind + Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind. + + V + + Dim moon-eyed fishes near + Gaze at the gilded gear + And query: “What does this vaingloriousness down here?” . . . + + VI + + Well: while was fashioning + This creature of cleaving wing, + The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything + + VII + + Prepared a sinister mate + For her—so gaily great— + A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate. + + VIII + + And as the smart ship grew + In stature, grace, and hue, + In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too. + + IX + + Alien they seemed to be: + No mortal eye could see + The intimate welding of their later history, + + X + + Or sign that they were bent + By paths coincident + On being anon twin halves of one august event, + + XI + + Till the Spinner of the Years + Said “Now!” And each one hears, + And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres. + + + +THE GHOST OF THE PAST + + + WE two kept house, the Past and I, + The Past and I; + I tended while it hovered nigh, + Leaving me never alone. + It was a spectral housekeeping + Where fell no jarring tone, + As strange, as still a housekeeping + As ever has been known. + + As daily I went up the stair + And down the stair, + I did not mind the Bygone there— + The Present once to me; + Its moving meek companionship + I wished might ever be, + There was in that companionship + Something of ecstasy. + + It dwelt with me just as it was, + Just as it was + When first its prospects gave me pause + In wayward wanderings, + Before the years had torn old troths + As they tear all sweet things, + Before gaunt griefs had torn old troths + And dulled old rapturings. + + And then its form began to fade, + Began to fade, + Its gentle echoes faintlier played + At eves upon my ear + Than when the autumn’s look embrowned + The lonely chambers here, + The autumn’s settling shades embrowned + Nooks that it haunted near. + + And so with time my vision less, + Yea, less and less + Makes of that Past my housemistress, + It dwindles in my eye; + It looms a far-off skeleton + And not a comrade nigh, + A fitful far-off skeleton + Dimming as days draw by. + + + +AFTER THE VISIT +(_To F. E. D._) + + + COME again to the place + Where your presence was as a leaf that skims + Down a drouthy way whose ascent bedims + The bloom on the farer’s face. + + Come again, with the feet + That were light on the green as a thistledown ball, + And those mute ministrations to one and to all + Beyond a man’s saying sweet. + + Until then the faint scent + Of the bordering flowers swam unheeded away, + And I marked not the charm in the changes of day + As the cloud-colours came and went. + + Through the dark corridors + Your walk was so soundless I did not know + Your form from a phantom’s of long ago + Said to pass on the ancient floors, + + Till you drew from the shade, + And I saw the large luminous living eyes + Regard me in fixed inquiring-wise + As those of a soul that weighed, + + Scarce consciously, + The eternal question of what Life was, + And why we were there, and by whose strange laws + That which mattered most could not be. + + + +TO MEET, OR OTHERWISE + + + WHETHER to sally and see thee, girl of my dreams, + Or whether to stay + And see thee not! How vast the difference seems + Of Yea from Nay + Just now. Yet this same sun will slant its beams + At no far day + On our two mounds, and then what will the difference weigh! + + Yet I will see thee, maiden dear, and make + The most I can + Of what remains to us amid this brake Cimmerian + Through which we grope, and from whose thorns we ache, + While still we scan + Round our frail faltering progress for some path or plan. + + By briefest meeting something sure is won; + It will have been: + Nor God nor Daemon can undo the done, + Unsight the seen, + Make muted music be as unbegun, + Though things terrene + Groan in their bondage till oblivion supervene. + + So, to the one long-sweeping symphony + From times remote + Till now, of human tenderness, shall we + Supply one note, + Small and untraced, yet that will ever be + Somewhere afloat + Amid the spheres, as part of sick Life’s antidote. + + + +THE DIFFERENCE + + + I + + SINKING down by the gate I discern the thin moon, + And a blackbird tries over old airs in the pine, + But the moon is a sorry one, sad the bird’s tune, + For this spot is unknown to that Heartmate of mine. + + II + + Did my Heartmate but haunt here at times such as now, + The song would be joyous and cheerful the moon; + But she will see never this gate, path, or bough, + Nor I find a joy in the scene or the tune. + + + +THE SUN ON THE BOOKCASE +(_Student’s Love-song_) + + + ONCE more the cauldron of the sun + Smears the bookcase with winy red, + And here my page is, and there my bed, + And the apple-tree shadows travel along. + Soon their intangible track will be run, + And dusk grow strong + And they be fled. + + Yes: now the boiling ball is gone, + And I have wasted another day . . . + But wasted—_wasted_, do I say? + Is it a waste to have imaged one + Beyond the hills there, who, anon, + My great deeds done + Will be mine alway? + + + +“WHEN I SET OUT FOR LYONNESSE” + + + WHEN I set out for Lyonnesse, + A hundred miles away, + The rime was on the spray, + And starlight lit my lonesomeness + When I set out for Lyonnesse + A hundred miles away. + + What would bechance at Lyonnesse + While I should sojourn there + No prophet durst declare, + Nor did the wisest wizard guess + What would bechance at Lyonnesse + While I should sojourn there. + + When I came back from Lyonnesse + With magic in my eyes, + None managed to surmise + What meant my godlike gloriousness, + When I came back from Lyonnesse + With magic in my eyes. + + + +A THUNDERSTORM IN TOWN +(_A Reminiscence_) + + + SHE wore a new “terra-cotta” dress, + And we stayed, because of the pelting storm, + Within the hansom’s dry recess, + Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless + We sat on, snug and warm. + + Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain, + And the glass that had screened our forms before + Flew up, and out she sprang to her door: + I should have kissed her if the rain + Had lasted a minute more. + + + +THE TORN LETTER + + + I + + I tore your letter into strips + No bigger than the airy feathers + That ducks preen out in changing weathers + Upon the shifting ripple-tips. + + II + + In darkness on my bed alone + I seemed to see you in a vision, + And hear you say: “Why this derision + Of one drawn to you, though unknown?” + + III + + Yes, eve’s quick mood had run its course, + The night had cooled my hasty madness; + I suffered a regretful sadness + Which deepened into real remorse. + + IV + + I thought what pensive patient days + A soul must know of grain so tender, + How much of good must grace the sender + Of such sweet words in such bright phrase. + + V + + Uprising then, as things unpriced + I sought each fragment, patched and mended; + The midnight whitened ere I had ended + And gathered words I had sacrificed. + + VI + + But some, alas, of those I threw + Were past my search, destroyed for ever: + They were your name and place; and never + Did I regain those clues to you. + + VII + + I learnt I had missed, by rash unheed, + My track; that, so the Will decided, + In life, death, we should be divided, + And at the sense I ached indeed. + + VIII + + That ache for you, born long ago, + Throbs on; I never could outgrow it. + What a revenge, did you but know it! + But that, thank God, you do not know. + + + +BEYOND THE LAST LAMP +(Near Tooting Common) + + + I + + WHILE rain, with eve in partnership, + Descended darkly, drip, drip, drip, + Beyond the last lone lamp I passed + Walking slowly, whispering sadly, + Two linked loiterers, wan, downcast: + Some heavy thought constrained each face, + And blinded them to time and place. + + II + + The pair seemed lovers, yet absorbed + In mental scenes no longer orbed + By love’s young rays. Each countenance + As it slowly, as it sadly + Caught the lamplight’s yellow glance + Held in suspense a misery + At things which had been or might be. + + III + + When I retrod that watery way + Some hours beyond the droop of day, + Still I found pacing there the twain + Just as slowly, just as sadly, + Heedless of the night and rain. + One could but wonder who they were + And what wild woe detained them there. + + IV + + Though thirty years of blur and blot + Have slid since I beheld that spot, + And saw in curious converse there + Moving slowly, moving sadly + That mysterious tragic pair, + Its olden look may linger on— + All but the couple; they have gone. + + V + + Whither? Who knows, indeed . . . And yet + To me, when nights are weird and wet, + Without those comrades there at tryst + Creeping slowly, creeping sadly, + That lone lane does not exist. + There they seem brooding on their pain, + And will, while such a lane remain. + + + +THE FACE AT THE CASEMENT + + + IF ever joy leave + An abiding sting of sorrow, + So befell it on the morrow + Of that May eve . . . + + The travelled sun dropped + To the north-west, low and lower, + The pony’s trot grew slower, + And then we stopped. + + “This cosy house just by + I must call at for a minute, + A sick man lies within it + Who soon will die. + + “He wished to marry me, + So I am bound, when I drive near him, + To inquire, if but to cheer him, + How he may be.” + + A message was sent in, + And wordlessly we waited, + Till some one came and stated + The bulletin. + + And that the sufferer said, + For her call no words could thank her; + As his angel he must rank her + Till life’s spark fled. + + Slowly we drove away, + When I turned my head, although not + Called; why so I turned I know not + Even to this day. + + And lo, there in my view + Pressed against an upper lattice + Was a white face, gazing at us + As we withdrew. + + And well did I divine + It to be the man’s there dying, + Who but lately had been sighing + For her pledged mine. + + Then I deigned a deed of hell; + It was done before I knew it; + What devil made me do it + I cannot tell! + + Yes, while he gazed above, + I put my arm about her + That he might see, nor doubt her + My plighted Love. + + The pale face vanished quick, + As if blasted, from the casement, + And my shame and self-abasement + Began their prick. + + And they prick on, ceaselessly, + For that stab in Love’s fierce fashion + Which, unfired by lover’s passion, + Was foreign to me. + + She smiled at my caress, + But why came the soft embowment + Of her shoulder at that moment + She did not guess. + + Long long years has he lain + In thy garth, O sad Saint Cleather: + What tears there, bared to weather, + Will cleanse that stain! + + Love is long-suffering, brave, + Sweet, prompt, precious as a jewel; + But O, too, Love is cruel, + Cruel as the grave. + + + +LOST LOVE + + + I PLAY my sweet old airs— + The airs he knew + When our love was true— + But he does not balk + His determined walk, + And passes up the stairs. + + I sing my songs once more, + And presently hear + His footstep near + As if it would stay; + But he goes his way, + And shuts a distant door. + + So I wait for another morn + And another night + In this soul-sick blight; + And I wonder much + As I sit, why such + A woman as I was born! + + + +“MY SPIRIT WILL NOT HAUNT THE MOUND” + + + MY spirit will not haunt the mound + Above my breast, + But travel, memory-possessed, + To where my tremulous being found + Life largest, best. + + My phantom-footed shape will go + When nightfall grays + Hither and thither along the ways + I and another used to know + In backward days. + + And there you’ll find me, if a jot + You still should care + For me, and for my curious air; + If otherwise, then I shall not, + For you, be there. + + + + +WESSEX HEIGHTS (1896) + + + THERE are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand + For thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand, + Say, on Ingpen Beacon eastward, or on Wylls-Neck westwardly, + I seem where I was before my birth, and after death may be. + + In the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man’s friend— + Her who suffereth long and is kind; accepts what he is too weak to + mend: + Down there they are dubious and askance; there nobody thinks as I, + But mind-chains do not clank where one’s next neighbour is the sky. + + In the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective ways— + Shadows of beings who fellowed with myself of earlier days: + They hang about at places, and they say harsh heavy things— + Men with a frigid sneer, and women with tart disparagings. + + Down there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that was, + And is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what crass cause + Can have merged him into such a strange continuator as this, + Who yet has something in common with himself, my chrysalis. + + I cannot go to the great grey Plain; there’s a figure against the + moon, + Nobody sees it but I, and it makes my breast beat out of tune; + I cannot go to the tall-spired town, being barred by the forms now + passed + For everybody but me, in whose long vision they stand there fast. + + There’s a ghost at Yell’ham Bottom chiding loud at the fall of the + night, + There’s a ghost in Froom-side Vale, thin lipped and vague, in a shroud + of white, + There is one in the railway-train whenever I do not want it near, + I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear. + + As for one rare fair woman, I am now but a thought of hers, + I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers; + Yet my love for her in its fulness she herself even did not know; + Well, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go. + + So I am found on Ingpen Beacon, or on Wylls-Neck to the west, + Or else on homely Bulbarrow, or little Pilsdon Crest, + Where men have never cared to haunt, nor women have walked with me, + And ghosts then keep their distance; and I know some liberty. + + + +IN DEATH DIVIDED + + + I + + I SHALL rot here, with those whom in their day + You never knew, + And alien ones who, ere they chilled to clay, + Met not my view, + Will in your distant grave-place ever neighbour you. + + II + + No shade of pinnacle or tree or tower, + While earth endures, + Will fall on my mound and within the hour + Steal on to yours; + One robin never haunt our two green covertures. + + III + + Some organ may resound on Sunday noons + By where you lie, + Some other thrill the panes with other tunes + Where moulder I; + No selfsame chords compose our common lullaby. + + IV + + The simply-cut memorial at my head + Perhaps may take + A Gothic form, and that above your bed + Be Greek in make; + No linking symbol show thereon for our tale’s sake. + + V + + And in the monotonous moils of strained, hard-run + Humanity, + The eternal tie which binds us twain in one + No eye will see + Stretching across the miles that sever you from me. + + + +THE PLACE ON THE MAP + + + I + + I LOOK upon the map that hangs by me— + Its shires and towns and rivers lined in varnished artistry— + And I mark a jutting height + Coloured purple, with a margin of blue sea. + + II + + —’Twas a day of latter summer, hot and dry; + Ay, even the waves seemed drying as we walked on, she and I, + By this spot where, calmly quite, + She informed me what would happen by and by. + + III + + This hanging map depicts the coast and place, + And resuscitates therewith our unexpected troublous case + All distinctly to my sight, + And her tension, and the aspect of her face. + + IV + + Weeks and weeks we had loved beneath that blazing blue, + Which had lost the art of raining, as her eyes to-day had too, + While she told what, as by sleight, + Shot our firmament with rays of ruddy hue. + + V + + For the wonder and the wormwood of the whole + Was that what in realms of reason would have joyed our double soul + Wore a torrid tragic light + Under order-keeping’s rigorous control. + + VI + + So, the map revives her words, the spot, the time, + And the thing we found we had to face before the next year’s prime; + The charted coast stares bright, + And its episode comes back in pantomime. + + + +WHERE THE PICNIC WAS + + + WHERE we made the fire, + In the summer time, + Of branch and briar + On the hill to the sea + I slowly climb + Through winter mire, + And scan and trace + The forsaken place + Quite readily. + + Now a cold wind blows, + And the grass is gray, + But the spot still shows + As a burnt circle—aye, + And stick-ends, charred, + Still strew the sward + Whereon I stand, + Last relic of the band + Who came that day! + + Yes, I am here + Just as last year, + And the sea breathes brine + From its strange straight line + Up hither, the same + As when we four came. + —But two have wandered far + From this grassy rise + Into urban roar + Where no picnics are, + And one—has shut her eyes + For evermore. + + + +THE SCHRECKHORN +(_With thoughts of Leslie Stephen_) +(June 1897) + + + ALOOF, as if a thing of mood and whim; + Now that its spare and desolate figure gleams + Upon my nearing vision, less it seems + A looming Alp-height than a guise of him + Who scaled its horn with ventured life and limb, + Drawn on by vague imaginings, maybe, + Of semblance to his personality + In its quaint glooms, keen lights, and rugged trim. + + At his last change, when Life’s dull coils unwind, + Will he, in old love, hitherward escape, + And the eternal essence of his mind + Enter this silent adamantine shape, + And his low voicing haunt its slipping snows + When dawn that calls the climber dyes them rose? + + + +A SINGER ASLEEP +(_Algernon Charles Swinburne_, 1837–1909) + + + I + + In this fair niche above the unslumbering sea, + That sentrys up and down all night, all day, + From cove to promontory, from ness to bay, + The Fates have fitly bidden that he should be Pillowed eternally. + + II + + —It was as though a garland of red roses + Had fallen about the hood of some smug nun + When irresponsibly dropped as from the sun, + In fulth of numbers freaked with musical closes, + Upon Victoria’s formal middle time + His leaves of rhythm and rhyme. + + III + + O that far morning of a summer day + When, down a terraced street whose pavements lay + Glassing the sunshine into my bent eyes, + I walked and read with a quick glad surprise + New words, in classic guise,— + + IV + + The passionate pages of his earlier years, + Fraught with hot sighs, sad laughters, kisses, tears; + Fresh-fluted notes, yet from a minstrel who + Blew them not naïvely, but as one who knew + Full well why thus he blew. + + V + + I still can hear the brabble and the roar + At those thy tunes, O still one, now passed through + That fitful fire of tongues then entered new! + Their power is spent like spindrift on this shore; + Thine swells yet more and more. + + VI + + —His singing-mistress verily was no other + Than she the Lesbian, she the music-mother + Of all the tribe that feel in melodies; + Who leapt, love-anguished, from the Leucadian steep + Into the rambling world-encircling deep + Which hides her where none sees. + + VII + + And one can hold in thought that nightly here + His phantom may draw down to the water’s brim, + And hers come up to meet it, as a dim + Lone shine upon the heaving hydrosphere, + And mariners wonder as they traverse near, + Unknowing of her and him. + + VIII + + One dreams him sighing to her spectral form: + “O teacher, where lies hid thy burning line; + Where are those songs, O poetess divine + Whose very arts are love incarnadine?” + And her smile back: “Disciple true and warm, + Sufficient now are thine.” . . . + + IX + + So here, beneath the waking constellations, + Where the waves peal their everlasting strains, + And their dull subterrene reverberations + Shake him when storms make mountains of their plains— + Him once their peer in sad improvisations, + And deft as wind to cleave their frothy manes— + I leave him, while the daylight gleam declines + Upon the capes and chines. + +BONCHURCH, 1910. + + + +A PLAINT TO MAN + + + WHEN you slowly emerged from the den of Time, + And gained percipience as you grew, + And fleshed you fair out of shapeless slime, + + Wherefore, O Man, did there come to you + The unhappy need of creating me— + A form like your own—for praying to? + + My virtue, power, utility, + Within my maker must all abide, + Since none in myself can ever be, + + One thin as a shape on a lantern-slide + Shown forth in the dark upon some dim sheet, + And by none but its showman vivified. + + “Such a forced device,” you may say, “is meet + For easing a loaded heart at whiles: + Man needs to conceive of a mercy-seat + + Somewhere above the gloomy aisles + Of this wailful world, or he could not bear + The irk no local hope beguiles.” + + —But since I was framed in your first despair + The doing without me has had no play + In the minds of men when shadows scare; + + And now that I dwindle day by day + Beneath the deicide eyes of seers + In a light that will not let me stay, + + And to-morrow the whole of me disappears, + The truth should be told, and the fact be faced + That had best been faced in earlier years: + + The fact of life with dependence placed + On the human heart’s resource alone, + In brotherhood bonded close and graced + + With loving-kindness fully blown, + And visioned help unsought, unknown. + +1909–10. + + + +GOD’S FUNERAL + + + I + + I saw a slowly-stepping train— + Lined on the brows, scoop-eyed and bent and hoar— + Following in files across a twilit plain + A strange and mystic form the foremost bore. + + II + + And by contagious throbs of thought + Or latent knowledge that within me lay + And had already stirred me, I was wrought + To consciousness of sorrow even as they. + + III + + The fore-borne shape, to my blurred eyes, + At first seemed man-like, and anon to change + To an amorphous cloud of marvellous size, + At times endowed with wings of glorious range. + + IV + + And this phantasmal variousness + Ever possessed it as they drew along: + Yet throughout all it symboled none the less + Potency vast and loving-kindness strong. + + V + + Almost before I knew I bent + Towards the moving columns without a word; + They, growing in bulk and numbers as they went, + Struck out sick thoughts that could be overheard:— + + VI + + “O man-projected Figure, of late + Imaged as we, thy knell who shall survive? + Whence came it we were tempted to create + One whom we can no longer keep alive? + + VII + + “Framing him jealous, fierce, at first, + We gave him justice as the ages rolled, + Will to bless those by circumstance accurst, + And longsuffering, and mercies manifold. + + VIII + + “And, tricked by our own early dream + And need of solace, we grew self-deceived, + Our making soon our maker did we deem, + And what we had imagined we believed. + + IX + + “Till, in Time’s stayless stealthy swing, + Uncompromising rude reality + Mangled the Monarch of our fashioning, + Who quavered, sank; and now has ceased to be. + + X + + “So, toward our myth’s oblivion, + Darkling, and languid-lipped, we creep and grope + Sadlier than those who wept in Babylon, + Whose Zion was a still abiding hope. + + XI + + “How sweet it was in years far hied + To start the wheels of day with trustful prayer, + To lie down liegely at the eventide + And feel a blest assurance he was there! + + XII + + “And who or what shall fill his place? + Whither will wanderers turn distracted eyes + For some fixed star to stimulate their pace + Towards the goal of their enterprise?” . . . + + XIII + + Some in the background then I saw, + Sweet women, youths, men, all incredulous, + Who chimed as one: “This figure is of straw, + This requiem mockery! Still he lives to us!” + + XIV + + I could not prop their faith: and yet + Many I had known: with all I sympathized; + And though struck speechless, I did not forget + That what was mourned for, I, too, once had prized. + + XV + + Still, how to bear such loss I deemed + The insistent question for each animate mind, + And gazing, to my growing sight there seemed + A pale yet positive gleam low down behind, + + XVI + + Whereof to lift the general night, + A certain few who stood aloof had said, + “See you upon the horizon that small light— + Swelling somewhat?” Each mourner shook his head. + + XVII + + And they composed a crowd of whom + Some were right good, and many nigh the best . . . + Thus dazed and puzzled ’twixt the gleam and gloom + Mechanically I followed with the rest. + +1908–10. + + + +SPECTRES THAT GRIEVE + + + “IT is not death that harrows us,” they lipped, + “The soundless cell is in itself relief, + For life is an unfenced flower, benumbed and nipped + At unawares, and at its best but brief.” + + The speakers, sundry phantoms of the gone, + Had risen like filmy flames of phosphor dye, + As if the palest of sheet lightnings shone + From the sward near me, as from a nether sky. + + And much surprised was I that, spent and dead, + They should not, like the many, be at rest, + But stray as apparitions; hence I said, + “Why, having slipped life, hark you back distressed? + + “We are among the few death sets not free, + The hurt, misrepresented names, who come + At each year’s brink, and cry to History + To do them justice, or go past them dumb. + + “We are stript of rights; our shames lie unredressed, + Our deeds in full anatomy are not shown, + Our words in morsels merely are expressed + On the scriptured page, our motives blurred, unknown.” + + Then all these shaken slighted visitants sped + Into the vague, and left me musing there + On fames that well might instance what they had said, + Until the New-Year’s dawn strode up the air. + + + +“AH, ARE YOU DIGGING ON MY GRAVE?” + + + “AH, are you digging on my grave + My loved one?—planting rue?” + —“No: yesterday he went to wed + One of the brightest wealth has bred. + ‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said, + ‘That I should not be true.’” + + “Then who is digging on my grave? + My nearest dearest kin?” + —“Ah, no; they sit and think, ‘What use! + What good will planting flowers produce? + No tendance of her mound can loose + Her spirit from Death’s gin.’” + + “But some one digs upon my grave? + My enemy?—prodding sly?” + —“Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate + That shuts on all flesh soon or late, + She thought you no more worth her hate, + And cares not where you lie.” + + “Then, who is digging on my grave? + Say—since I have not guessed!” + —“O it is I, my mistress dear, + Your little dog, who still lives near, + And much I hope my movements here + Have not disturbed your rest?” + + “Ah, yes! _You_ dig upon my grave . . . + Why flashed it not on me + That one true heart was left behind! + What feeling do we ever find + To equal among human kind + A dog’s fidelity!” + + “Mistress, I dug upon your grave + To bury a bone, in case + I should be hungry near this spot + When passing on my daily trot. + I am sorry, but I quite forgot + It was your resting-place.” + + + + +SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCES +IN FIFTEEN GLIMPSES + + +I +AT TEA + + + THE kettle descants in a cozy drone, + And the young wife looks in her husband’s face, + And then at her guest’s, and shows in her own + Her sense that she fills an envied place; + And the visiting lady is all abloom, + And says there was never so sweet a room. + + And the happy young housewife does not know + That the woman beside her was first his choice, + Till the fates ordained it could not be so . . . + Betraying nothing in look or voice + The guest sits smiling and sips her tea, + And he throws her a stray glance yearningly. + + + +II +IN CHURCH + + + “AND now to God the Father,” he ends, + And his voice thrills up to the topmost tiles: + Each listener chokes as he bows and bends, + And emotion pervades the crowded aisles. + Then the preacher glides to the vestry-door, + And shuts it, and thinks he is seen no more. + + The door swings softly ajar meanwhile, + And a pupil of his in the Bible class, + Who adores him as one without gloss or guile, + Sees her idol stand with a satisfied smile + And re-enact at the vestry-glass + Each pulpit gesture in deft dumb-show + That had moved the congregation so. + + + +III +BY HER AUNT’S GRAVE + + + “SIXPENCE a week,” says the girl to her lover, + “Aunt used to bring me, for she could confide + In me alone, she vowed. ’Twas to cover + The cost of her headstone when she died. + And that was a year ago last June; + I’ve not yet fixed it. But I must soon.” + + “And where is the money now, my dear?” + “O, snug in my purse . . . Aunt was _so_ slow + In saving it—eighty weeks, or near.” . . . + “Let’s spend it,” he hints. “For she won’t know. + There’s a dance to-night at the Load of Hay.” + She passively nods. And they go that way. + + + +IV +IN THE ROOM OF THE BRIDE-ELECT + + + “WOULD it had been the man of our wish!” + Sighs her mother. To whom with vehemence she + In the wedding-dress—the wife to be— + “Then why were you so mollyish + As not to insist on him for me!” + The mother, amazed: “Why, dearest one, + Because you pleaded for this or none!” + + “But Father and you should have stood out strong! + Since then, to my cost, I have lived to find + That you were right and that I was wrong; + This man is a dolt to the one declined . . . + Ah!—here he comes with his button-hole rose. + Good God—I must marry him I suppose!” + + + +V +AT A WATERING-PLACE + + + THEY sit and smoke on the esplanade, + The man and his friend, and regard the bay + Where the far chalk cliffs, to the left displayed, + Smile sallowly in the decline of day. + And saunterers pass with laugh and jest— + A handsome couple among the rest. + + “That smart proud pair,” says the man to his friend, + “Are to marry next week . . . How little he thinks + That dozens of days and nights on end + I have stroked her neck, unhooked the links + Of her sleeve to get at her upper arm . . . + Well, bliss is in ignorance: what’s the harm!” + + + +VI +IN THE CEMETERY + + + “YOU see those mothers squabbling there?” + Remarks the man of the cemetery. + One says in tears, ‘’_Tis mine lies here_!’ + Another, ‘_Nay_, _mine_, _you Pharisee_!’ + Another, ‘_How dare you move my flowers_ + _And put your own on this grave of ours_!’ + But all their children were laid therein + At different times, like sprats in a tin. + + “And then the main drain had to cross, + And we moved the lot some nights ago, + And packed them away in the general foss + With hundreds more. But their folks don’t know, + And as well cry over a new-laid drain + As anything else, to ease your pain!” + + + +VII +OUTSIDE THE WINDOW + + + “MY stick!” he says, and turns in the lane + To the house just left, whence a vixen voice + Comes out with the firelight through the pane, + And he sees within that the girl of his choice + Stands rating her mother with eyes aglare + For something said while he was there. + + “At last I behold her soul undraped!” + Thinks the man who had loved her more than himself; + “My God—’tis but narrowly I have escaped.— + My precious porcelain proves it delf.” + His face has reddened like one ashamed, + And he steals off, leaving his stick unclaimed. + + + +VIII +IN THE STUDY + + + HE enters, and mute on the edge of a chair + Sits a thin-faced lady, a stranger there, + A type of decayed gentility; + And by some small signs he well can guess + That she comes to him almost breakfastless. + + “I have called—I hope I do not err— + I am looking for a purchaser + Of some score volumes of the works + Of eminent divines I own,— + Left by my father—though it irks + My patience to offer them.” And she smiles + As if necessity were unknown; + “But the truth of it is that oftenwhiles + I have wished, as I am fond of art, + To make my rooms a little smart.” + And lightly still she laughs to him, + As if to sell were a mere gay whim, + And that, to be frank, Life were indeed + To her not vinegar and gall, + But fresh and honey-like; and Need + No household skeleton at all. + + + +IX +AT THE ALTAR-RAIL + + + “MY bride is not coming, alas!” says the groom, + And the telegram shakes in his hand. “I own + It was hurried! We met at a dancing-room + When I went to the Cattle-Show alone, + And then, next night, where the Fountain leaps, + And the Street of the Quarter-Circle sweeps. + + “Ay, she won me to ask her to be my wife— + ’Twas foolish perhaps!—to forsake the ways + Of the flaring town for a farmer’s life. + She agreed. And we fixed it. Now she says: + ‘_It’s sweet of you_, _dear_, _to prepare me a nest_, + _But a swift_, _short_, _gay life suits me best_. + _What I really am you have never gleaned_; + _I had eaten the apple ere you were weaned_.’” + + + +X +IN THE NUPTIAL CHAMBER + + + “O THAT mastering tune?” And up in the bed + Like a lace-robed phantom springs the bride; + “And why?” asks the man she had that day wed, + With a start, as the band plays on outside. + “It’s the townsfolks’ cheery compliment + Because of our marriage, my Innocent.” + + “O but you don’t know! ’Tis the passionate air + To which my old Love waltzed with me, + And I swore as we spun that none should share + My home, my kisses, till death, save he! + And he dominates me and thrills me through, + And it’s he I embrace while embracing you!” + + + +XI +IN THE RESTAURANT + + + “BUT hear. If you stay, and the child be born, + It will pass as your husband’s with the rest, + While, if we fly, the teeth of scorn + Will be gleaming at us from east to west; + And the child will come as a life despised; + I feel an elopement is ill-advised!” + + “O you realize not what it is, my dear, + To a woman! Daily and hourly alarms + Lest the truth should out. How can I stay here, + And nightly take him into my arms! + Come to the child no name or fame, + Let us go, and face it, and bear the shame.” + + + +XII +AT THE DRAPER’S + + + “I STOOD at the back of the shop, my dear, + But you did not perceive me. + Well, when they deliver what you were shown + _I_ shall know nothing of it, believe me!” + + And he coughed and coughed as she paled and said, + “O, I didn’t see you come in there— + Why couldn’t you speak?”—“Well, I didn’t. I left + That you should not notice I’d been there. + + “You were viewing some lovely things. ‘_Soon required_ + _For a widow_, _of latest fashion_’; + And I knew ’twould upset you to meet the man + Who had to be cold and ashen + + “And screwed in a box before they could dress you + ‘_In the last new note in mourning_,’ + As they defined it. So, not to distress you, + I left you to your adorning.” + + + +XIII +ON THE DEATH-BED + + + “I’LL tell—being past all praying for— + Then promptly die . . . He was out at the war, + And got some scent of the intimacy + That was under way between her and me; + And he stole back home, and appeared like a ghost + One night, at the very time almost + That I reached her house. Well, I shot him dead, + And secretly buried him. Nothing was said. + + “The news of the battle came next day; + He was scheduled missing. I hurried away, + Got out there, visited the field, + And sent home word that a search revealed + He was one of the slain; though, lying alone + And stript, his body had not been known. + + “But she suspected. I lost her love, + Yea, my hope of earth, and of Heaven above; + And my time’s now come, and I’ll pay the score, + Though it be burning for evermore.” + + + +XIV +OVER THE COFFIN + + + THEY stand confronting, the coffin between, + His wife of old, and his wife of late, + And the dead man whose they both had been + Seems listening aloof, as to things past date. + —“I have called,” says the first. “Do you marvel or not?” + “In truth,” says the second, “I do—somewhat.” + + “Well, there was a word to be said by me! . . . + I divorced that man because of you— + It seemed I must do it, boundenly; + But now I am older, and tell you true, + For life is little, and dead lies he; + I would I had let alone you two! + And both of us, scorning parochial ways, + Had lived like the wives in the patriarchs’ days.” + + + +XV +IN THE MOONLIGHT + + + “O LONELY workman, standing there + In a dream, why do you stare and stare + At her grave, as no other grave there were? + + “If your great gaunt eyes so importune + Her soul by the shine of this corpse-cold moon, + Maybe you’ll raise her phantom soon!” + + “Why, fool, it is what I would rather see + Than all the living folk there be; + But alas, there is no such joy for me!” + + “Ah—she was one you loved, no doubt, + Through good and evil, through rain and drought, + And when she passed, all your sun went out?” + + “Nay: she was the woman I did not love, + Whom all the others were ranked above, + Whom during her life I thought nothing of.” + + + + +LYRICS AND REVERIES +(_continued_) + + +SELF-UNCONSCIOUS + + + ALONG the way + He walked that day, + Watching shapes that reveries limn, + And seldom he + Had eyes to see + The moment that encompassed him. + + Bright yellowhammers + Made mirthful clamours, + And billed long straws with a bustling air, + And bearing their load + Flew up the road + That he followed, alone, without interest there. + + From bank to ground + And over and round + They sidled along the adjoining hedge; + Sometimes to the gutter + Their yellow flutter + Would dip from the nearest slatestone ledge. + + The smooth sea-line + With a metal shine, + And flashes of white, and a sail thereon, + He would also descry + With a half-wrapt eye + Between the projects he mused upon. + + Yes, round him were these + Earth’s artistries, + But specious plans that came to his call + Did most engage + His pilgrimage, + While himself he did not see at all. + + Dead now as sherds + Are the yellow birds, + And all that mattered has passed away; + Yet God, the Elf, + Now shows him that self + As he was, and should have been shown, that day. + + O it would have been good + Could he then have stood + At a focussed distance, and conned the whole, + But now such vision + Is mere derision, + Nor soothes his body nor saves his soul. + + Not much, some may + Incline to say, + To see therein, had it all been seen. + Nay! he is aware + A thing was there + That loomed with an immortal mien. + + + +THE DISCOVERY + + + I WANDERED to a crude coast + Like a ghost; + Upon the hills I saw fires— + Funeral pyres + Seemingly—and heard breaking + Waves like distant cannonades that set the land shaking. + + And so I never once guessed + A Love-nest, + Bowered and candle-lit, lay + In my way, + Till I found a hid hollow, + Where I burst on her my heart could not but follow. + + + +TOLERANCE + + + “IT is a foolish thing,” said I, + “To bear with such, and pass it by; + Yet so I do, I know not why!” + + And at each clash I would surmise + That if I had acted otherwise + I might have saved me many sighs. + + But now the only happiness + In looking back that I possess— + Whose lack would leave me comfortless— + + Is to remember I refrained + From masteries I might have gained, + And for my tolerance was disdained; + + For see, a tomb. And if it were + I had bent and broke, I should not dare + To linger in the shadows there. + + + +BEFORE AND AFTER SUMMER + + + I + + LOOKING forward to the spring + One puts up with anything. + On this February day, + Though the winds leap down the street, + Wintry scourgings seem but play, + And these later shafts of sleet + —Sharper pointed than the first— + And these later snows—the worst— + Are as a half-transparent blind + Riddled by rays from sun behind. + + II + + Shadows of the October pine + Reach into this room of mine: + On the pine there stands a bird; + He is shadowed with the tree. + Mutely perched he bills no word; + Blank as I am even is he. + For those happy suns are past, + Fore-discerned in winter last. + When went by their pleasure, then? + I, alas, perceived not when. + + + +AT DAY-CLOSE IN NOVEMBER + + + THE ten hours’ light is abating, + And a late bird flies across, + Where the pines, like waltzers waiting, + Give their black heads a toss. + + Beech leaves, that yellow the noon-time, + Float past like specks in the eye; + I set every tree in my June time, + And now they obscure the sky. + + And the children who ramble through here + Conceive that there never has been + A time when no tall trees grew here, + A time when none will be seen. + + + +THE YEAR’S AWAKENING + + + HOW do you know that the pilgrim track + Along the belting zodiac + Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds + Is traced by now to the Fishes’ bounds + And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud + Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud, + And never as yet a tinct of spring + Has shown in the Earth’s apparelling; + O vespering bird, how do you know, + How do you know? + + How do you know, deep underground, + Hid in your bed from sight and sound, + Without a turn in temperature, + With weather life can scarce endure, + That light has won a fraction’s strength, + And day put on some moments’ length, + Whereof in merest rote will come, + Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb; + O crocus root, how do you know, + How do you know? + +_February_ 1910. + + + +UNDER THE WATERFALL + + + “WHENEVER I plunge my arm, like this, + In a basin of water, I never miss + The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day + Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray. + Hence the only prime + And real love-rhyme + That I know by heart, + And that leaves no smart, + Is the purl of a little valley fall + About three spans wide and two spans tall + Over a table of solid rock, + And into a scoop of the self-same block; + The purl of a runlet that never ceases + In stir of kingdoms, in wars, in peaces; + With a hollow boiling voice it speaks + And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks.” + + “And why gives this the only prime + Idea to you of a real love-rhyme? + And why does plunging your arm in a bowl + Full of spring water, bring throbs to your soul?” + + “Well, under the fall, in a crease of the stone, + Though where precisely none ever has known, + Jammed darkly, nothing to show how prized, + And by now with its smoothness opalized, + Is a drinking-glass: + For, down that pass + My lover and I + Walked under a sky + Of blue with a leaf-woven awning of green, + In the burn of August, to paint the scene, + And we placed our basket of fruit and wine + By the runlet’s rim, where we sat to dine; + And when we had drunk from the glass together, + Arched by the oak-copse from the weather, + I held the vessel to rinse in the fall, + Where it slipped, and sank, and was past recall, + Though we stooped and plumbed the little abyss + With long bared arms. There the glass still is. + And, as said, if I thrust my arm below + Cold water in basin or bowl, a throe + From the past awakens a sense of that time, + And the glass both used, and the cascade’s rhyme. + The basin seems the pool, and its edge + The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge, + And the leafy pattern of china-ware + The hanging plants that were bathing there. + By night, by day, when it shines or lours, + There lies intact that chalice of ours, + And its presence adds to the rhyme of love + Persistently sung by the fall above. + No lip has touched it since his and mine + In turns therefrom sipped lovers’ wine.” + + + +THE SPELL OF THE ROSE + + + “I MEAN to build a hall anon, + And shape two turrets there, + And a broad newelled stair, + And a cool well for crystal water; + Yes; I will build a hall anon, + Plant roses love shall feed upon, + And apple trees and pear.” + + He set to build the manor-hall, + And shaped the turrets there, + And the broad newelled stair, + And the cool well for crystal water; + He built for me that manor-hall, + And planted many trees withal, + But no rose anywhere. + + And as he planted never a rose + That bears the flower of love, + Though other flowers throve + A frost-wind moved our souls to sever + Since he had planted never a rose; + And misconceits raised horrid shows, + And agonies came thereof. + + “I’ll mend these miseries,” then said I, + And so, at dead of night, + I went and, screened from sight, + That nought should keep our souls in severance, + I set a rose-bush. “This,” said I, + “May end divisions dire and wry, + And long-drawn days of blight.” + + But I was called from earth—yea, called + Before my rose-bush grew; + And would that now I knew + What feels he of the tree I planted, + And whether, after I was called + To be a ghost, he, as of old, + Gave me his heart anew! + + Perhaps now blooms that queen of trees + I set but saw not grow, + And he, beside its glow— + Eyes couched of the mis-vision that blurred me— + Ay, there beside that queen of trees + He sees me as I was, though sees + Too late to tell me so! + + + +ST. LAUNCE’S REVISITED + + + SLIP back, Time! + Yet again I am nearing + Castle and keep, uprearing + Gray, as in my prime. + + At the inn + Smiling close, why is it + Not as on my visit + When hope and I were twin? + + Groom and jade + Whom I found here, moulder; + Strange the tavern-holder, + Strange the tap-maid. + + Here I hired + Horse and man for bearing + Me on my wayfaring + To the door desired. + + Evening gloomed + As I journeyed forward + To the faces shoreward, + Till their dwelling loomed. + + If again + Towards the Atlantic sea there + I should speed, they’d be there + Surely now as then? . . . + + Why waste thought, + When I know them vanished + Under earth; yea, banished + Ever into nought. + + + + +POEMS OF 1912–13 + + + _Veteris vestigia flammae_ + + + +THE GOING + + + WHY did you give no hint that night + That quickly after the morrow’s dawn, + And calmly, as if indifferent quite, + You would close your term here, up and be gone + Where I could not follow + With wing of swallow + To gain one glimpse of you ever anon! + + Never to bid good-bye, + Or give me the softest call, + Or utter a wish for a word, while I + Saw morning harden upon the wall, + Unmoved, unknowing + That your great going + Had place that moment, and altered all. + + Why do you make me leave the house + And think for a breath it is you I see + At the end of the alley of bending boughs + Where so often at dusk you used to be; + Till in darkening dankness + The yawning blankness + Of the perspective sickens me! + + You were she who abode + By those red-veined rocks far West, + You were the swan-necked one who rode + Along the beetling Beeny Crest, + And, reining nigh me, + Would muse and eye me, + While Life unrolled us its very best. + + Why, then, latterly did we not speak, + Did we not think of those days long dead, + And ere your vanishing strive to seek + That time’s renewal? We might have said, + “In this bright spring weather + We’ll visit together + Those places that once we visited.” + + Well, well! All’s past amend, + Unchangeable. It must go. + I seem but a dead man held on end + To sink down soon . . . O you could not know + That such swift fleeing + No soul foreseeing— + Not even I—would undo me so! + +_December_ 1912. + + + +YOUR LAST DRIVE + + + HERE by the moorway you returned, + And saw the borough lights ahead + That lit your face—all undiscerned + To be in a week the face of the dead, + And you told of the charm of that haloed view + That never again would beam on you. + + And on your left you passed the spot + Where eight days later you were to lie, + And be spoken of as one who was not; + Beholding it with a cursory eye + As alien from you, though under its tree + You soon would halt everlastingly. + + I drove not with you . . . Yet had I sat + At your side that eve I should not have seen + That the countenance I was glancing at + Had a last-time look in the flickering sheen, + Nor have read the writing upon your face, + “I go hence soon to my resting-place; + + “You may miss me then. But I shall not know + How many times you visit me there, + Or what your thoughts are, or if you go + There never at all. And I shall not care. + Should you censure me I shall take no heed + And even your praises I shall not need.” + + True: never you’ll know. And you will not mind. + But shall I then slight you because of such? + Dear ghost, in the past did you ever find + The thought “What profit?” move me much + Yet the fact indeed remains the same, + You are past love, praise, indifference, blame. + +_December_ 1912. + + + +THE WALK + + + YOU did not walk with me + Of late to the hill-top tree + By the gated ways, + As in earlier days; + You were weak and lame, + So you never came, + And I went alone, and I did not mind, + Not thinking of you as left behind. + + I walked up there to-day + Just in the former way: + Surveyed around + The familiar ground + By myself again: + What difference, then? + Only that underlying sense + Of the look of a room on returning thence. + + + +RAIN ON A GRAVE + + + CLOUDS spout upon her + Their waters amain + In ruthless disdain,— + Her who but lately + Had shivered with pain + As at touch of dishonour + If there had lit on her + So coldly, so straightly + Such arrows of rain. + + She who to shelter + Her delicate head + Would quicken and quicken + Each tentative tread + If drops chanced to pelt her + That summertime spills + In dust-paven rills + When thunder-clouds thicken + And birds close their bills. + + Would that I lay there + And she were housed here! + Or better, together + Were folded away there + Exposed to one weather + We both,—who would stray there + When sunny the day there, + Or evening was clear + At the prime of the year. + + Soon will be growing + Green blades from her mound, + And daises be showing + Like stars on the ground, + Till she form part of them— + Ay—the sweet heart of them, + Loved beyond measure + With a child’s pleasure + All her life’s round. + +_Jan._ 31, 1913. + + + +“I FOUND HER OUT THERE” + + + I FOUND her out there + On a slope few see, + That falls westwardly + To the salt-edged air, + Where the ocean breaks + On the purple strand, + And the hurricane shakes + The solid land. + + I brought her here, + And have laid her to rest + In a noiseless nest + No sea beats near. + She will never be stirred + In her loamy cell + By the waves long heard + And loved so well. + + So she does not sleep + By those haunted heights + The Atlantic smites + And the blind gales sweep, + Whence she often would gaze + At Dundagel’s far head, + While the dipping blaze + Dyed her face fire-red; + + And would sigh at the tale + Of sunk Lyonnesse, + As a wind-tugged tress + Flapped her cheek like a flail; + Or listen at whiles + With a thought-bound brow + To the murmuring miles + She is far from now. + + Yet her shade, maybe, + Will creep underground + Till it catch the sound + Of that western sea + As it swells and sobs + Where she once domiciled, + And joy in its throbs + With the heart of a child. + + + +WITHOUT CEREMONY + + + IT was your way, my dear, + To be gone without a word + When callers, friends, or kin + Had left, and I hastened in + To rejoin you, as I inferred. + + And when you’d a mind to career + Off anywhere—say to town— + You were all on a sudden gone + Before I had thought thereon, + Or noticed your trunks were down. + + So, now that you disappear + For ever in that swift style, + Your meaning seems to me + Just as it used to be: + “Good-bye is not worth while!” + + + +LAMENT + + + HOW she would have loved + A party to-day!— + Bright-hatted and gloved, + With table and tray + And chairs on the lawn + Her smiles would have shone + With welcomings . . . But + She is shut, she is shut + From friendship’s spell + In the jailing shell + Of her tiny cell. + + Or she would have reigned + At a dinner to-night + With ardours unfeigned, + And a generous delight; + All in her abode + She’d have freely bestowed + On her guests . . . But alas, + She is shut under grass + Where no cups flow, + Powerless to know + That it might be so. + + And she would have sought + With a child’s eager glance + The shy snowdrops brought + By the new year’s advance, + And peered in the rime + Of Candlemas-time + For crocuses . . . chanced + It that she were not tranced + From sights she loved best; + Wholly possessed + By an infinite rest! + + And we are here staying + Amid these stale things + Who care not for gaying, + And those junketings + That used so to joy her, + And never to cloy her + As us they cloy! . . . But + She is shut, she is shut + From the cheer of them, dead + To all done and said + In a yew-arched bed. + + + +THE HAUNTER + + + HE does not think that I haunt here nightly: + How shall I let him know + That whither his fancy sets him wandering + I, too, alertly go?— + Hover and hover a few feet from him + Just as I used to do, + But cannot answer his words addressed me— + Only listen thereto! + + When I could answer he did not say them: + When I could let him know + How I would like to join in his journeys + Seldom he wished to go. + Now that he goes and wants me with him + More than he used to do, + Never he sees my faithful phantom + Though he speaks thereto. + + Yes, I accompany him to places + Only dreamers know, + Where the shy hares limp long paces, + Where the night rooks go; + Into old aisles where the past is all to him, + Close as his shade can do, + Always lacking the power to call to him, + Near as I reach thereto! + + What a good haunter I am, O tell him, + Quickly make him know + If he but sigh since my loss befell him + Straight to his side I go. + Tell him a faithful one is doing + All that love can do + Still that his path may be worth pursuing, + And to bring peace thereto. + + + +THE VOICE + + + WOMAN much missed, how you call to me, call to me, + Saying that now you are not as you were + When you had changed from the one who was all to me, + But as at first, when our day was fair. + + Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then, + Standing as when I drew near to the town + Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then, + Even to the original air-blue gown! + + Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness + Travelling across the wet mead to me here, + You being ever consigned to existlessness, + Heard no more again far or near? + + Thus I; faltering forward, + Leaves around me falling, + Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward + And the woman calling. + +_December_ 1912. + + + +HIS VISITOR + + + I COME across from Mellstock while the moon wastes weaker + To behold where I lived with you for twenty years and more: + I shall go in the gray, at the passing of the mail-train, + And need no setting open of the long familiar door + As before. + + The change I notice in my once own quarters! + A brilliant budded border where the daisies used to be, + The rooms new painted, and the pictures altered, + And other cups and saucers, and no cozy nook for tea + As with me. + + I discern the dim faces of the sleep-wrapt servants; + They are not those who tended me through feeble hours and strong, + But strangers quite, who never knew my rule here, + Who never saw me painting, never heard my softling song + Float along. + + So I don’t want to linger in this re-decked dwelling, + I feel too uneasy at the contrasts I behold, + And I make again for Mellstock to return here never, + And rejoin the roomy silence, and the mute and manifold + Souls of old. + +1913. + + + +A CIRCULAR + + + AS “legal representative” + I read a missive not my own, + On new designs the senders give + For clothes, in tints as shown. + + Here figure blouses, gowns for tea, + And presentation-trains of state, + Charming ball-dresses, millinery, + Warranted up to date. + + And this gay-pictured, spring-time shout + Of Fashion, hails what lady proud? + Her who before last year was out + Was costumed in a shroud. + + + +A DREAM OR NO + + + WHY go to Saint-Juliot? What’s Juliot to me? + I was but made fancy + By some necromancy + That much of my life claims the spot as its key. + + Yes. I have had dreams of that place in the West, + And a maiden abiding + Thereat as in hiding; + Fair-eyed and white-shouldered, broad-browed and brown-tressed. + + And of how, coastward bound on a night long ago, + There lonely I found her, + The sea-birds around her, + And other than nigh things uncaring to know. + + So sweet her life there (in my thought has it seemed) + That quickly she drew me + To take her unto me, + And lodge her long years with me. Such have I dreamed. + + But nought of that maid from Saint-Juliot I see; + Can she ever have been here, + And shed her life’s sheen here, + The woman I thought a long housemate with me? + + Does there even a place like Saint-Juliot exist? + Or a Vallency Valley + With stream and leafed alley, + Or Beeny, or Bos with its flounce flinging mist? + +_February_ 1913. + + + +AFTER A JOURNEY + + + HERETO I come to interview a ghost; + Whither, O whither will its whim now draw me? + Up the cliff, down, till I’m lonely, lost, + And the unseen waters’ ejaculations awe me. + Where you will next be there’s no knowing, + Facing round about me everywhere, + With your nut-coloured hair, + And gray eyes, and rose-flush coming and going. + + Yes: I have re-entered your olden haunts at last; + Through the years, through the dead scenes I have tracked you; + What have you now found to say of our past— + Viewed across the dark space wherein I have lacked you? + Summer gave us sweets, but autumn wrought division? + Things were not lastly as firstly well + With us twain, you tell? + But all’s closed now, despite Time’s derision. + + I see what you are doing: you are leading me on + To the spots we knew when we haunted here together, + The waterfall, above which the mist-bow shone + At the then fair hour in the then fair weather, + And the cave just under, with a voice still so hollow + That it seems to call out to me from forty years ago, + When you were all aglow, + And not the thin ghost that I now frailly follow! + + Ignorant of what there is flitting here to see, + The waked birds preen and the seals flop lazily, + Soon you will have, Dear, to vanish from me, + For the stars close their shutters and the dawn whitens hazily. + Trust me, I mind not, though Life lours, + The bringing me here; nay, bring me here again! + I am just the same as when + Our days were a joy, and our paths through flowers. + +PENTARGAN BAY. + + + +A DEATH-DAY RECALLED + + + BEENY did not quiver, + Juliot grew not gray, + Thin Valency’s river + Held its wonted way. + Bos seemed not to utter + Dimmest note of dirge, + Targan mouth a mutter + To its creamy surge. + + Yet though these, unheeding, + Listless, passed the hour + Of her spirit’s speeding, + She had, in her flower, + Sought and loved the places— + Much and often pined + For their lonely faces + When in towns confined. + + Why did not Valency + In his purl deplore + One whose haunts were whence he + Drew his limpid store? + Why did Bos not thunder, + Targan apprehend + Body and breath were sunder + Of their former friend? + + + +BEENY CLIFF +_March_ 1870—_March_ 1913 + + + I + + O THE opal and the sapphire of that wandering western sea, + And the woman riding high above with bright hair flapping free— + The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved me. + + II + + The pale mews plained below us, and the waves seemed far away + In a nether sky, engrossed in saying their ceaseless babbling say, + As we laughed light-heartedly aloft on that clear-sunned March day. + + III + + A little cloud then cloaked us, and there flew an irised rain, + And the Atlantic dyed its levels with a dull misfeatured stain, + And then the sun burst out again, and purples prinked the main. + + IV + + —Still in all its chasmal beauty bulks old Beeny to the sky, + And shall she and I not go there once again now March is nigh, + And the sweet things said in that March say anew there by and by? + + V + + What if still in chasmal beauty looms that wild weird western shore, + The woman now is—elsewhere—whom the ambling pony bore, + And nor knows nor cares for Beeny, and will see it nevermore. + + + +AT CASTLE BOTEREL + + + As I drive to the junction of lane and highway, + And the drizzle bedrenches the waggonette, + I look behind at the fading byway, + And see on its slope, now glistening wet, + Distinctly yet + + Myself and a girlish form benighted + In dry March weather. We climb the road + Beside a chaise. We had just alighted + To ease the sturdy pony’s load + When he sighed and slowed. + + What we did as we climbed, and what we talked of + Matters not much, nor to what it led,— + Something that life will not be balked of + Without rude reason till hope is dead, + And feeling fled. + + It filled but a minute. But was there ever + A time of such quality, since or before, + In that hill’s story? To one mind never, + Though it has been climbed, foot-swift, foot-sore, + By thousands more. + + Primaeval rocks form the road’s steep border, + And much have they faced there, first and last, + Of the transitory in Earth’s long order; + But what they record in colour and cast + Is—that we two passed. + + And to me, though Time’s unflinching rigour, + In mindless rote, has ruled from sight + The substance now, one phantom figure + Remains on the slope, as when that night + Saw us alight. + + I look and see it there, shrinking, shrinking, + I look back at it amid the rain + For the very last time; for my sand is sinking, + And I shall traverse old love’s domain + Never again. + +_March_ 1913. + + + +PLACES + + + NOBODY says: Ah, that is the place + Where chanced, in the hollow of years ago, + What none of the Three Towns cared to know— + The birth of a little girl of grace— + The sweetest the house saw, first or last; + Yet it was so + On that day long past. + + Nobody thinks: There, there she lay + In a room by the Hoe, like the bud of a flower, + And listened, just after the bedtime hour, + To the stammering chimes that used to play + The quaint Old Hundred-and-Thirteenth tune + In Saint Andrew’s tower + Night, morn, and noon. + + Nobody calls to mind that here + Upon Boterel Hill, where the carters skid, + With cheeks whose airy flush outbid + Fresh fruit in bloom, and free of fear, + She cantered down, as if she must fall + (Though she never did), + To the charm of all. + + Nay: one there is to whom these things, + That nobody else’s mind calls back, + Have a savour that scenes in being lack, + And a presence more than the actual brings; + To whom to-day is beneaped and stale, + And its urgent clack + But a vapid tale. + +PLYMOUTH, _March_ 1913. + + + +THE PHANTOM HORSEWOMAN + + + I + + QUEER are the ways of a man I know: + He comes and stands + In a careworn craze, + And looks at the sands + And the seaward haze, + With moveless hands + And face and gaze, + Then turns to go . . . + And what does he see when he gazes so? + + II + + They say he sees as an instant thing + More clear than to-day, + A sweet soft scene + That once was in play + By that briny green; + Yes, notes alway + Warm, real, and keen, + What his back years bring— + A phantom of his own figuring. + + III + + Of this vision of his they might say more: + Not only there + Does he see this sight, + But everywhere + In his brain—day, night, + As if on the air + It were drawn rose bright— + Yea, far from that shore + Does he carry this vision of heretofore: + + IV + + A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried, + He withers daily, + Time touches her not, + But she still rides gaily + In his rapt thought + On that shagged and shaly + Atlantic spot, + And as when first eyed + Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS PIECES + + +THE WISTFUL LADY + + + “LOVE, while you were away there came to me— + From whence I cannot tell— + A plaintive lady pale and passionless, + Who bent her eyes upon me critically, + And weighed me with a wearing wistfulness, + As if she knew me well.” + + “I saw no lady of that wistful sort + As I came riding home. + Perhaps she was some dame the Fates constrain + By memories sadder than she can support, + Or by unhappy vacancy of brain, + To leave her roof and roam?” + + “Ah, but she knew me. And before this time + I have seen her, lending ear + To my light outdoor words, and pondering each, + Her frail white finger swayed in pantomime, + As if she fain would close with me in speech, + And yet would not come near. + + “And once I saw her beckoning with her hand + As I came into sight + At an upper window. And I at last went out; + But when I reached where she had seemed to stand, + And wandered up and down and searched about, + I found she had vanished quite.” + + Then thought I how my dead Love used to say, + With a small smile, when she + Was waning wan, that she would hover round + And show herself after her passing day + To any newer Love I might have found, + But show her not to me. + + + +THE WOMAN IN THE RYE + + + “WHY do you stand in the dripping rye, + Cold-lipped, unconscious, wet to the knee, + When there are firesides near?” said I. + “I told him I wished him dead,” said she. + + “Yea, cried it in my haste to one + Whom I had loved, whom I well loved still; + And die he did. And I hate the sun, + And stand here lonely, aching, chill; + + “Stand waiting, waiting under skies + That blow reproach, the while I see + The rooks sheer off to where he lies + Wrapt in a peace withheld from me.” + + + +THE CHEVAL-GLASS + + + WHY do you harbour that great cheval-glass + Filling up your narrow room? + You never preen or plume, + Or look in a week at your full-length figure— + Picture of bachelor gloom! + + “Well, when I dwelt in ancient England, + Renting the valley farm, + Thoughtless of all heart-harm, + I used to gaze at the parson’s daughter, + A creature of nameless charm. + + “Thither there came a lover and won her, + Carried her off from my view. + O it was then I knew + Misery of a cast undreamt of— + More than, indeed, my due! + + “Then far rumours of her ill-usage + Came, like a chilling breath + When a man languisheth; + Followed by news that her mind lost balance, + And, in a space, of her death. + + “Soon sank her father; and next was the auction— + Everything to be sold: + Mid things new and old + Stood this glass in her former chamber, + Long in her use, I was told. + + “Well, I awaited the sale and bought it . . . + There by my bed it stands, + And as the dawn expands + Often I see her pale-faced form there + Brushing her hair’s bright bands. + + “There, too, at pallid midnight moments + Quick she will come to my call, + Smile from the frame withal + Ponderingly, as she used to regard me + Passing her father’s wall. + + “So that it was for its revelations + I brought it oversea, + And drag it about with me . . . + Anon I shall break it and bury its fragments + Where my grave is to be.” + + + +THE RE-ENACTMENT + + + BETWEEN the folding sea-downs, + In the gloom + Of a wailful wintry nightfall, + When the boom + Of the ocean, like a hammering in a hollow tomb, + + Throbbed up the copse-clothed valley + From the shore + To the chamber where I darkled, + Sunk and sore + With gray ponderings why my Loved one had not come before + + To salute me in the dwelling + That of late + I had hired to waste a while in— + Vague of date, + Quaint, and remote—wherein I now expectant sate; + + On the solitude, unsignalled, + Broke a man + Who, in air as if at home there, + Seemed to scan + Every fire-flecked nook of the apartment span by span. + + A stranger’s and no lover’s + Eyes were these, + Eyes of a man who measures + What he sees + But vaguely, as if wrapt in filmy phantasies. + + Yea, his bearing was so absent + As he stood, + It bespoke a chord so plaintive + In his mood, + That soon I judged he would not wrong my quietude. + + “Ah—the supper is just ready,” + Then he said, + “And the years’-long binned Madeira + Flashes red!” + (There was no wine, no food, no supper-table spread.) + + “You will forgive my coming, + Lady fair? + I see you as at that time + Rising there, + The self-same curious querying in your eyes and air. + + “Yet no. How so? You wear not + The same gown, + Your locks show woful difference, + Are not brown: + What, is it not as when I hither came from town? + + “And the place . . . But you seem other— + Can it be? + What’s this that Time is doing + Unto me? + _You_ dwell here, unknown woman? . . . Whereabouts, then, is she? + + “And the house—things are much shifted.— + Put them where + They stood on this night’s fellow; + Shift her chair: + Here was the couch: and the piano should be there.” + + I indulged him, verily nerve-strained + Being alone, + And I moved the things as bidden, + One by one, + And feigned to push the old piano where he had shown. + + “Aha—now I can see her! + Stand aside: + Don’t thrust her from the table + Where, meek-eyed, + She makes attempt with matron-manners to preside. + + “She serves me: now she rises, + Goes to play . . . + But you obstruct her, fill her + With dismay, + And embarrassed, scared, she vanishes away!” + + And, as ’twere useless longer + To persist, + He sighed, and sought the entry + Ere I wist, + And retreated, disappearing soundless in the mist. + + That here some mighty passion + Once had burned, + Which still the walls enghosted, + I discerned, + And that by its strong spell mine might be overturned. + + I sat depressed; till, later, + My Love came; + But something in the chamber + Dimmed our flame,— + An emanation, making our due words fall tame, + + As if the intenser drama + Shown me there + Of what the walls had witnessed + Filled the air, + And left no room for later passion anywhere. + + So came it that our fervours + Did quite fail + Of future consummation— + Being made quail + By the weird witchery of the parlour’s hidden tale, + + Which I, as years passed, faintly + Learnt to trace,— + One of sad love, born full-winged + In that place + Where the predestined sorrowers first stood face to face. + + And as that month of winter + Circles round, + And the evening of the date-day + Grows embrowned, + I am conscious of those presences, and sit spellbound. + + There, often—lone, forsaken— + Queries breed + Within me; whether a phantom + Had my heed + On that strange night, or was it some wrecked heart indeed? + + + +HER SECRET + + + THAT love’s dull smart distressed my heart + He shrewdly learnt to see, + But that I was in love with a dead man + Never suspected he. + + He searched for the trace of a pictured face, + He watched each missive come, + And a note that seemed like a love-line + Made him look frozen and glum. + + He dogged my feet to the city street, + He followed me to the sea, + But not to the neighbouring churchyard + Did he dream of following me. + + + +“SHE CHARGED ME” + + + SHE charged me with having said this and that + To another woman long years before, + In the very parlour where we sat,— + + Sat on a night when the endless pour + Of rain on the roof and the road below + Bent the spring of the spirit more and more . . . + + —So charged she me; and the Cupid’s bow + Of her mouth was hard, and her eyes, and her face, + And her white forefinger lifted slow. + + Had she done it gently, or shown a trace + That not too curiously would she view + A folly passed ere her reign had place, + + A kiss might have ended it. But I knew + From the fall of each word, and the pause between, + That the curtain would drop upon us two + Ere long, in our play of slave and queen. + + + +THE NEWCOMER’S WIFE + + + HE paused on the sill of a door ajar + That screened a lively liquor-bar, + For the name had reached him through the door + Of her he had married the week before. + + “We called her the Hack of the Parade; + But she was discreet in the games she played; + If slightly worn, she’s pretty yet, + And gossips, after all, forget. + + “And he knows nothing of her past; + I am glad the girl’s in luck at last; + Such ones, though stale to native eyes, + Newcomers snatch at as a prize.” + + “Yes, being a stranger he sees her blent + Of all that’s fresh and innocent, + Nor dreams how many a love-campaign + She had enjoyed before his reign!” + + That night there was the splash of a fall + Over the slimy harbour-wall: + They searched, and at the deepest place + Found him with crabs upon his face. + + + +A CONVERSATION AT DAWN + + + HE lay awake, with a harassed air, + And she, in her cloud of loose lank hair, + Seemed trouble-tried + As the dawn drew in on their faces there. + + The chamber looked far over the sea + From a white hotel on a white-stoned quay, + And stepping a stride + He parted the window-drapery. + + Above the level horizon spread + The sunrise, firing them foot to head + From its smouldering lair, + And painting their pillows with dyes of red. + + “What strange disquiets have stirred you, dear, + This dragging night, with starts in fear + Of me, as it were, + Or of something evil hovering near?” + + “My husband, can I have fear of you? + What should one fear from a man whom few, + Or none, had matched + In that late long spell of delays undue!” + + He watched her eyes in the heaving sun: + “Then what has kept, O reticent one, + Those lids unlatched— + Anything promised I’ve not yet done?” + + “O it’s not a broken promise of yours + (For what quite lightly your lip assures + The due time brings) + That has troubled my sleep, and no waking cures!” . . . + + “I have shaped my will; ’tis at hand,” said he; + “I subscribe it to-day, that no risk there be + In the hap of things + Of my leaving you menaced by poverty.” + + “That a boon provision I’m safe to get, + Signed, sealed by my lord as it were a debt, + I cannot doubt, + Or ever this peering sun be set.” + + “But you flung my arms away from your side, + And faced the wall. No month-old bride + Ere the tour be out + In an air so loth can be justified? + + “Ah—had you a male friend once loved well, + Upon whose suit disaster fell + And frustrance swift? + Honest you are, and may care to tell.” + + She lay impassive, and nothing broke + The stillness other than, stroke by stroke, + The lazy lift + Of the tide below them; till she spoke: + + “I once had a friend—a Love, if you will— + Whose wife forsook him, and sank until + She was made a thrall + In a prison-cell for a deed of ill . . . + + “He remained alone; and we met—to love, + But barring legitimate joy thereof + Stood a doorless wall, + Though we prized each other all else above. + + “And this was why, though I’d touched my prime, + I put off suitors from time to time— + Yourself with the rest— + Till friends, who approved you, called it crime, + + “And when misgivings weighed on me + In my lover’s absence, hurriedly, + And much distrest, + I took you . . . Ah, that such could be! . . . + + “Now, saw you when crossing from yonder shore + At yesternoon, that the packet bore + On a white-wreathed bier + A coffined body towards the fore? + + “Well, while you stood at the other end, + The loungers talked, and I could but lend + A listening ear, + For they named the dead. ’Twas the wife of my friend. + + “He was there, but did not note me, veiled, + Yet I saw that a joy, as of one unjailed, + Now shone in his gaze; + He knew not his hope of me just had failed! + + “They had brought her home: she was born in this isle; + And he will return to his domicile, + And pass his days + Alone, and not as he dreamt erstwhile!” + + “—So you’ve lost a sprucer spouse than I!” + She held her peace, as if fain deny + She would indeed + For his pleasure’s sake, but could lip no lie. + + “One far less formal and plain and slow!” + She let the laconic assertion go + As if of need + She held the conviction that it was so. + + “Regard me as his he always should, + He had said, and wed me he vowed he would + In his prime or sere + Most verily do, if ever he could. + + “And this fulfilment is now his aim, + For a letter, addressed in my maiden name, + Has dogged me here, + Reminding me faithfully of his claim. + + “And it started a hope like a lightning-streak + That I might go to him—say for a week— + And afford you right + To put me away, and your vows unspeak. + + “To be sure you have said, as of dim intent, + That marriage is a plain event + Of black and white, + Without any ghost of sentiment, + + “And my heart has quailed.—But deny it true + That you will never this lock undo! + No God intends + To thwart the yearning He’s father to!” + + The husband hemmed, then blandly bowed + In the light of the angry morning cloud. + “So my idyll ends, + And a drama opens!” he mused aloud; + + And his features froze. “You may take it as true + That I will never this lock undo + For so depraved + A passion as that which kindles you.” + + Said she: “I am sorry you see it so; + I had hoped you might have let me go, + And thus been saved + The pain of learning there’s more to know.” + + “More? What may that be? Gad, I think + You have told me enough to make me blink! + Yet if more remain + Then own it to me. I will not shrink!” + + “Well, it is this. As we could not see + That a legal marriage could ever be, + To end our pain + We united ourselves informally; + + “And vowed at a chancel-altar nigh, + With book and ring, a lifelong tie; + A contract vain + To the world, but real to Him on High.” + + “And you became as his wife?”—“I did.”— + He stood as stiff as a caryatid, + And said, “Indeed! . . . + No matter. You’re mine, whatever you ye hid!” + + “But is it right! When I only gave + My hand to you in a sweat to save, + Through desperate need + (As I thought), my fame, for I was not brave!” + + “To save your fame? Your meaning is dim, + For nobody knew of your altar-whim?” + “I mean—I feared + There might be fruit of my tie with him; + + “And to cloak it by marriage I’m not the first, + Though, maybe, morally most accurst + Through your unpeered + And strict uprightness. That’s the worst! + + “While yesterday his worn contours + Convinced me that love like his endures, + And that my troth-plight + Had been his, in fact, and not truly yours.” + + “So, my lady, you raise the veil by degrees . . . + I own this last is enough to freeze + The warmest wight! + Now hear the other side, if you please: + + “I did say once, though without intent, + That marriage is a plain event + Of black and white, + Whatever may be its sentiment. + + “I’ll act accordingly, none the less + That you soiled the contract in time of stress, + Thereto induced + By the feared results of your wantonness. + + “But the thing is over, and no one knows, + And it’s nought to the future what you disclose. + That you’ll be loosed + For such an episode, don’t suppose! + + “No: I’ll not free you. And if it appear + There was too good ground for your first fear + From your amorous tricks, + I’ll father the child. Yes, by God, my dear. + + “Even should you fly to his arms, I’ll damn + Opinion, and fetch you; treat as sham + Your mutinous kicks, + And whip you home. That’s the sort I am!” + + She whitened. “Enough . . . Since you disapprove + I’ll yield in silence, and never move + Till my last pulse ticks + A footstep from the domestic groove.” + + “Then swear it,” he said, “and your king uncrown.” + He drew her forth in her long white gown, + And she knelt and swore. + “Good. Now you may go and again lie down + + “Since you’ve played these pranks and given no sign, + You shall crave this man of yours; pine and pine + With sighings sore, + ’Till I’ve starved your love for him; nailed you mine. + + “I’m a practical man, and want no tears; + You’ve made a fool of me, it appears; + That you don’t again + Is a lesson I’ll teach you in future years.” + + She answered not, but lay listlessly + With her dark dry eyes on the coppery sea, + That now and then + Flung its lazy flounce at the neighbouring quay. + +1910. + + + +A KING’S SOLILOQUY +ON THE NIGHT OF HIS FUNERAL + + + FROM the slow march and muffled drum + And crowds distrest, + And book and bell, at length I have come + To my full rest. + + A ten years’ rule beneath the sun + Is wound up here, + And what I have done, what left undone, + Figures out clear. + + Yet in the estimate of such + It grieves me more + That I by some was loved so much + Than that I bore, + + From others, judgment of that hue + Which over-hope + Breeds from a theoretic view + Of regal scope. + + For kingly opportunities + Right many have sighed; + How best to bear its devilries + Those learn who have tried! + + I have eaten the fat and drunk the sweet, + Lived the life out + From the first greeting glad drum-beat + To the last shout. + + What pleasure earth affords to kings + I have enjoyed + Through its long vivid pulse-stirrings + Even till it cloyed. + + What days of drudgery, nights of stress + Can cark a throne, + Even one maintained in peacefulness, + I too have known. + + And so, I think, could I step back + To life again, + I should prefer the average track + Of average men, + + Since, as with them, what kingship would + It cannot do, + Nor to first thoughts however good + Hold itself true. + + Something binds hard the royal hand, + As all that be, + And it is That has shaped, has planned + My acts and me. + +_May_ 1910. + + + +THE CORONATION + + + AT Westminster, hid from the light of day, + Many who once had shone as monarchs lay. + + Edward the Pious, and two Edwards more, + The second Richard, Henrys three or four; + + That is to say, those who were called the Third, + Fifth, Seventh, and Eighth (the much self-widowered), + + And James the Scot, and near him Charles the Second, + And, too, the second George could there be reckoned. + + Of women, Mary and Queen Elizabeth, + And Anne, all silent in a musing death; + + And William’s Mary, and Mary, Queen of Scots, + And consort-queens whose names oblivion blots; + + And several more whose chronicle one sees + Adorning ancient royal pedigrees. + + —Now, as they drowsed on, freed from Life’s old thrall, + And heedless, save of things exceptional, + + Said one: “What means this throbbing thudding sound + That reaches to us here from overground; + + “A sound of chisels, augers, planes, and saws, + Infringing all ecclesiastic laws? + + “And these tons-weight of timber on us pressed, + Unfelt here since we entered into rest? + + “Surely, at least to us, being corpses royal, + A meet repose is owing by the loyal?” + + “—Perhaps a scaffold!” Mary Stuart sighed, + “If such still be. It was that way I died.” + + “—Ods! Far more like,” said he the many-wived, + “That for a wedding ’tis this work’s contrived. + + “Ha-ha! I never would bow down to Rimmon, + But I had a rare time with those six women!” + + “Not all at once?” gasped he who loved confession. + “Nay, nay!” said Hal. “That would have been transgression.” + + “—They build a catafalque here, black and tall, + Perhaps,” mused Richard, “for some funeral?” + + And Anne chimed in: “Ah, yes: it maybe so!” + “Nay!” squeaked Eliza. “Little you seem to know— + + “Clearly ’tis for some crowning here in state, + As they crowned us at our long bygone date; + + “Though we’d no such a power of carpentry, + But let the ancient architecture be; + + “If I were up there where the parsons sit, + In one of my gold robes, I’d see to it!” + + “But you are not,” Charles chuckled. “You are here, + And never will know the sun again, my dear!” + + “Yea,” whispered those whom no one had addressed; + “With slow, sad march, amid a folk distressed, + We were brought here, to take our dusty rest. + + “And here, alas, in darkness laid below, + We’ll wait and listen, and endure the show . . . + Clamour dogs kingship; afterwards not so!” + +1911. + + + +AQUAE SULIS + + + THE chimes called midnight, just at interlune, + And the daytime talk of the Roman investigations + Was checked by silence, save for the husky tune + The bubbling waters played near the excavations. + + And a warm air came up from underground, + And a flutter, as of a filmy shape unsepulchred, + That collected itself, and waited, and looked around: + Nothing was seen, but utterances could be heard: + + Those of the goddess whose shrine was beneath the pile + Of the God with the baldachined altar overhead: + “And what did you get by raising this nave and aisle + Close on the site of the temple I tenanted? + + “The notes of your organ have thrilled down out of view + To the earth-clogged wrecks of my edifice many a year, + Though stately and shining once—ay, long ere you + Had set up crucifix and candle here. + + “Your priests have trampled the dust of mine without rueing, + Despising the joys of man whom I so much loved, + Though my springs boil on by your Gothic arcades and pewing, + And sculptures crude . . . Would Jove they could be removed!” + + “—Repress, O lady proud, your traditional ires; + You know not by what a frail thread we equally hang; + It is said we are images both—twitched by people’s desires; + And that I, like you, fail as a song men yesterday sang!” + + * * * * * + + And the olden dark hid the cavities late laid bare, + And all was suspended and soundless as before, + Except for a gossamery noise fading off in the air, + And the boiling voice of the waters’ medicinal pour. + +BATH. + + + +SEVENTY-FOUR AND TWENTY + + + HERE goes a man of seventy-four, + Who sees not what life means for him, + And here another in years a score + Who reads its very figure and trim. + + The one who shall walk to-day with me + Is not the youth who gazes far, + But the breezy wight who cannot see + What Earth’s ingrained conditions are. + + + +THE ELOPEMENT + + + “A WOMAN never agreed to it!” said my knowing friend to me. + “That one thing she’d refuse to do for Solomon’s mines in fee: + No woman ever will make herself look older than she is.” + I did not answer; but I thought, “you err there, ancient Quiz.” + + It took a rare one, true, to do it; for she was surely rare— + As rare a soul at that sweet time of her life as she was fair. + And urging motives, too, were strong, for ours was a passionate case, + Yea, passionate enough to lead to freaking with that young face. + + I have told no one about it, should perhaps make few believe, + But I think it over now that life looms dull and years bereave, + How blank we stood at our bright wits’ end, two frail barks in + distress, + How self-regard in her was slain by her large tenderness. + + I said: “The only chance for us in a crisis of this kind + Is going it thorough!”—“Yes,” she calmly breathed. “Well, I don’t + mind.” + And we blanched her dark locks ruthlessly: set wrinkles on her brow; + Ay—she was a right rare woman then, whatever she may be now. + + That night we heard a coach drive up, and questions asked below. + “A gent with an elderly wife, sir,” was returned from the bureau. + And the wheels went rattling on, and free at last from public ken + We washed all off in her chamber and restored her youth again. + + How many years ago it was! Some fifty can it be + Since that adventure held us, and she played old wife to me? + But in time convention won her, as it wins all women at last, + And now she is rich and respectable, and time has buried the past. + + + +“I ROSE UP AS MY CUSTOM IS” + + + I ROSE up as my custom is + On the eve of All-Souls’ day, + And left my grave for an hour or so + To call on those I used to know + Before I passed away. + + I visited my former Love + As she lay by her husband’s side; + I asked her if life pleased her, now + She was rid of a poet wrung in brow, + And crazed with the ills he eyed; + + Who used to drag her here and there + Wherever his fancies led, + And point out pale phantasmal things, + And talk of vain vague purposings + That she discredited. + + She was quite civil, and replied, + “Old comrade, is that you? + Well, on the whole, I like my life.— + I know I swore I’d be no wife, + But what was I to do? + + “You see, of all men for my sex + A poet is the worst; + Women are practical, and they + Crave the wherewith to pay their way, + And slake their social thirst. + + “You were a poet—quite the ideal + That we all love awhile: + But look at this man snoring here— + He’s no romantic chanticleer, + Yet keeps me in good style. + + “He makes no quest into my thoughts, + But a poet wants to know + What one has felt from earliest days, + Why one thought not in other ways, + And one’s Loves of long ago.” + + Her words benumbed my fond frail ghost; + The nightmares neighed from their stalls + The vampires screeched, the harpies flew, + And under the dim dawn I withdrew + To Death’s inviolate halls. + + + +A WEEK + + + ON Monday night I closed my door, + And thought you were not as heretofore, + And little cared if we met no more. + + I seemed on Tuesday night to trace + Something beyond mere commonplace + In your ideas, and heart, and face. + + On Wednesday I did not opine + Your life would ever be one with mine, + Though if it were we should well combine. + + On Thursday noon I liked you well, + And fondly felt that we must dwell + Not far apart, whatever befell. + + On Friday it was with a thrill + In gazing towards your distant vill + I owned you were my dear one still. + + I saw you wholly to my mind + On Saturday—even one who shrined + All that was best of womankind. + + As wing-clipt sea-gull for the sea + On Sunday night I longed for thee, + Without whom life were waste to me! + + + +HAD YOU WEPT + + + HAD you wept; had you but neared me with a frail uncertain ray, + Dewy as the face of the dawn, in your large and luminous eye, + Then would have come back all the joys the tidings had slain that day, + And a new beginning, a fresh fair heaven, have smoothed the things + awry. + But you were less feebly human, and no passionate need for clinging + Possessed your soul to overthrow reserve when I came near; + Ay, though you suffer as much as I from storms the hours are bringing + Upon your heart and mine, I never see you shed a tear. + + The deep strong woman is weakest, the weak one is the strong; + The weapon of all weapons best for winning, you have not used; + Have you never been able, or would you not, through the evil times and + long? + Has not the gift been given you, or such gift have you refused? + When I bade me not absolve you on that evening or the morrow, + Why did you not make war on me with those who weep like rain? + You felt too much, so gained no balm for all your torrid sorrow, + And hence our deep division, and our dark undying pain. + + + +BEREFT, SHE THINKS SHE DREAMS + + + I DREAM that the dearest I ever knew + Has died and been entombed. + I am sure it’s a dream that cannot be true, + But I am so overgloomed + By its persistence, that I would gladly + Have quick death take me, + Rather than longer think thus sadly; + So wake me, wake me! + + It has lasted days, but minute and hour + I expect to get aroused + And find him as usual in the bower + Where we so happily housed. + Yet stays this nightmare too appalling, + And like a web shakes me, + And piteously I keep on calling, + And no one wakes me! + + + +IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM + + + “WHAT do you see in that time-touched stone, + When nothing is there + But ashen blankness, although you give it + A rigid stare? + + “You look not quite as if you saw, + But as if you heard, + Parting your lips, and treading softly + As mouse or bird. + + “It is only the base of a pillar, they’ll tell you, + That came to us + From a far old hill men used to name + Areopagus.” + + —“I know no art, and I only view + A stone from a wall, + But I am thinking that stone has echoed + The voice of Paul, + + “Paul as he stood and preached beside it + Facing the crowd, + A small gaunt figure with wasted features, + Calling out loud + + “Words that in all their intimate accents + Pattered upon + That marble front, and were far reflected, + And then were gone. + + “I’m a labouring man, and know but little, + Or nothing at all; + But I can’t help thinking that stone once echoed + The voice of Paul.” + + + +IN THE SERVANTS’ QUARTERS + + + “MAN, you too, aren’t you, one of these rough followers of the + criminal? + All hanging hereabout to gather how he’s going to bear + Examination in the hall.” She flung disdainful glances on + The shabby figure standing at the fire with others there, + Who warmed them by its flare. + + “No indeed, my skipping maiden: I know nothing of the trial here, + Or criminal, if so he be.—I chanced to come this way, + And the fire shone out into the dawn, and morning airs are cold now; + I, too, was drawn in part by charms I see before me play, + That I see not every day.” + + “Ha, ha!” then laughed the constables who also stood to warm + themselves, + The while another maiden scrutinized his features hard, + As the blaze threw into contrast every line and knot that wrinkled + them, + Exclaiming, “Why, last night when he was brought in by the guard, + You were with him in the yard!” + + “Nay, nay, you teasing wench, I say! You know you speak mistakenly. + Cannot a tired pedestrian who has footed it afar + Here on his way from northern parts, engrossed in humble marketings, + Come in and rest awhile, although judicial doings are + Afoot by morning star?” + + “O, come, come!” laughed the constables. “Why, man, you speak the + dialect + He uses in his answers; you can hear him up the stairs. + So own it. We sha’n’t hurt ye. There he’s speaking now! His + syllables + Are those you sound yourself when you are talking unawares, + As this pretty girl declares.” + + “And you shudder when his chain clinks!” she rejoined. “O yes, I + noticed it. + And you winced, too, when those cuffs they gave him echoed to us here. + They’ll soon be coming down, and you may then have to defend yourself + Unless you hold your tongue, or go away and keep you clear + When he’s led to judgment near!” + + “No! I’ll be damned in hell if I know anything about the man! + No single thing about him more than everybody knows! + Must not I even warm my hands but I am charged with blasphemies?” . . . + —His face convulses as the morning cock that moment crows, + And he stops, and turns, and goes. + + + +THE OBLITERATE TOMB + + + “MORE than half my life long + Did they weigh me falsely, to my bitter wrong, + But they all have shrunk away into the silence + Like a lost song. + + “And the day has dawned and come + For forgiveness, when the past may hold it dumb + On the once reverberate words of hatred uttered + Half in delirium . . . + + “With folded lips and hands + They lie and wait what next the Will commands, + And doubtless think, if think they can: ‘Let discord + Sink with Life’s sands!’ + + “By these late years their names, + Their virtues, their hereditary claims, + May be as near defacement at their grave-place + As are their fames.” + + —Such thoughts bechanced to seize + A traveller’s mind—a man of memories— + As he set foot within the western city + Where had died these + + Who in their lifetime deemed + Him their chief enemy—one whose brain had schemed + To get their dingy greatness deeplier dingied + And disesteemed. + + So, sojourning in their town, + He mused on them and on their once renown, + And said, “I’ll seek their resting-place to-morrow + Ere I lie down, + + “And end, lest I forget, + Those ires of many years that I regret, + Renew their names, that men may see some liegeness + Is left them yet.” + + Duly next day he went + And sought the church he had known them to frequent, + And wandered in the precincts, set on eyeing + Where they lay pent, + + Till by remembrance led + He stood at length beside their slighted bed, + Above which, truly, scarce a line or letter + Could now be read. + + “Thus years obliterate + Their graven worth, their chronicle, their date! + At once I’ll garnish and revive the record + Of their past state, + + “That still the sage may say + In pensive progress here where they decay, + ‘This stone records a luminous line whose talents + Told in their day.’” + + While speaking thus he turned, + For a form shadowed where they lay inurned, + And he beheld a stranger in foreign vesture, + And tropic-burned. + + “Sir, I am right pleased to view + That ancestors of mine should interest you, + For I have come of purpose here to trace them . . . + They are time-worn, true, + + “But that’s a fault, at most, + Sculptors can cure. On the Pacific coast + I have vowed for long that relics of my forbears + I’d trace ere lost, + + “And hitherward I come, + Before this same old Time shall strike me numb, + To carry it out.”—“Strange, this is!” said the other; + “What mind shall plumb + + “Coincident design! + Though these my father’s enemies were and mine, + I nourished a like purpose—to restore them + Each letter and line.” + + “Such magnanimity + Is now not needed, sir; for you will see + That since I am here, a thing like this is, plainly, + Best done by me.” + + The other bowed, and left, + Crestfallen in sentiment, as one bereft + Of some fair object he had been moved to cherish, + By hands more deft. + + And as he slept that night + The phantoms of the ensepulchred stood up-right + Before him, trembling that he had set him seeking + Their charnel-site. + + And, as unknowing his ruth, + Asked as with terrors founded not on truth + Why he should want them. “Ha,” they hollowly hackered, + “You come, forsooth, + + “By stealth to obliterate + Our graven worth, our chronicle, our date, + That our descendant may not gild the record + Of our past state, + + “And that no sage may say + In pensive progress near where we decay: + ‘This stone records a luminous line whose talents + Told in their day.’” + + Upon the morrow he went + And to that town and churchyard never bent + His ageing footsteps till, some twelvemonths onward, + An accident + + Once more detained him there; + And, stirred by hauntings, he must needs repair + To where the tomb was. Lo, it stood still wasting + In no man’s care. + + “The travelled man you met + The last time,” said the sexton, “has not yet + Appeared again, though wealth he had in plenty. + —Can he forget? + + “The architect was hired + And came here on smart summons as desired, + But never the descendant came to tell him + What he required.” + + And so the tomb remained + Untouched, untended, crumbling, weather-stained, + And though the one-time foe was fain to right it + He still refrained. + + “I’ll set about it when + I am sure he’ll come no more. Best wait till then.” + But so it was that never the stranger entered + That city again. + + And the well-meaner died + While waiting tremulously unsatisfied + That no return of the family’s foreign scion + Would still betide. + + And many years slid by, + And active church-restorers cast their eye + Upon the ancient garth and hoary building + The tomb stood nigh. + + And when they had scraped each wall, + Pulled out the stately pews, and smartened all, + “It will be well,” declared the spruce church-warden, + “To overhaul + + “And broaden this path where shown; + Nothing prevents it but an old tombstone + Pertaining to a family forgotten, + Of deeds unknown. + + “Their names can scarce be read, + Depend on’t, all who care for them are dead.” + So went the tomb, whose shards were as path-paving + Distributed. + + Over it and about + Men’s footsteps beat, and wind and water-spout, + Until the names, aforetime gnawed by weathers, + Were quite worn out. + + So that no sage can say + In pensive progress near where they decay, + “This stone records a luminous line whose talents + Told in their day.” + + + +“REGRET NOT ME” + + + REGRET not me; + Beneath the sunny tree + I lie uncaring, slumbering peacefully. + + Swift as the light + I flew my faery flight; + Ecstatically I moved, and feared no night. + + I did not know + That heydays fade and go, + But deemed that what was would be always so. + + I skipped at morn + Between the yellowing corn, + Thinking it good and glorious to be born. + + I ran at eves + Among the piled-up sheaves, + Dreaming, “I grieve not, therefore nothing grieves.” + + Now soon will come + The apple, pear, and plum + And hinds will sing, and autumn insects hum. + + Again you will fare + To cider-makings rare, + And junketings; but I shall not be there. + + Yet gaily sing + Until the pewter ring + Those songs we sang when we went gipsying. + + And lightly dance + Some triple-timed romance + In coupled figures, and forget mischance; + + And mourn not me + Beneath the yellowing tree; + For I shall mind not, slumbering peacefully. + + + +THE RECALCITRANTS + + + LET us off and search, and find a place + Where yours and mine can be natural lives, + Where no one comes who dissects and dives + And proclaims that ours is a curious case, + That its touch of romance can scarcely grace. + + You would think it strange at first, but then + Everything has been strange in its time. + When some one said on a day of the prime + He would bow to no brazen god again + He doubtless dazed the mass of men. + + None will recognize us as a pair whose claims + To righteous judgment we care not making; + Who have doubted if breath be worth the taking, + And have no respect for the current fames + Whence the savour has flown while abide the names. + + We have found us already shunned, disdained, + And for re-acceptance have not once striven; + Whatever offence our course has given + The brunt thereof we have long sustained. + Well, let us away, scorned unexplained. + + + +STARLINGS ON THE ROOF + + + “NO smoke spreads out of this chimney-pot, + The people who lived here have left the spot, + And others are coming who knew them not. + + “If you listen anon, with an ear intent, + The voices, you’ll find, will be different + From the well-known ones of those who went.” + + “Why did they go? Their tones so bland + Were quite familiar to our band; + The comers we shall not understand.” + + “They look for a new life, rich and strange; + They do not know that, let them range + Wherever they may, they will get no change. + + “They will drag their house-gear ever so far + In their search for a home no miseries mar; + They will find that as they were they are, + + “That every hearth has a ghost, alack, + And can be but the scene of a bivouac + Till they move perforce—no time to pack!” + + + +THE MOON LOOKS IN + + + I + + I have risen again, + And awhile survey + By my chilly ray + Through your window-pane + Your upturned face, + As you think, “Ah-she + Now dreams of me + In her distant place!” + + II + + I pierce her blind + In her far-off home: + She fixes a comb, + And says in her mind, + “I start in an hour; + Whom shall I meet? + Won’t the men be sweet, + And the women sour!” + + + +THE SWEET HUSSY + + + IN his early days he was quite surprised + When she told him she was compromised + By meetings and lingerings at his whim, + And thinking not of herself but him; + While she lifted orbs aggrieved and round + That scandal should so soon abound, + (As she had raised them to nine or ten + Of antecedent nice young men) + And in remorse he thought with a sigh, + How good she is, and how bad am I!— + It was years before he understood + That she was the wicked one—he the good. + + + +THE TELEGRAM + + + “O HE’S suffering—maybe dying—and I not there to aid, + And smooth his bed and whisper to him! Can I nohow go? + Only the nurse’s brief twelve words thus hurriedly conveyed, + As by stealth, to let me know. + + “He was the best and brightest!—candour shone upon his brow, + And I shall never meet again a soldier such as he, + And I loved him ere I knew it, and perhaps he’s sinking now, + Far, far removed from me!” + + —The yachts ride mute at anchor and the fulling moon is fair, + And the giddy folk are strutting up and down the smooth parade, + And in her wild distraction she seems not to be aware + That she lives no more a maid, + + But has vowed and wived herself to one who blessed the ground she trod + To and from his scene of ministry, and thought her history known + In its last particular to him—aye, almost as to God, + And believed her quite his own. + + So great her absentmindedness she droops as in a swoon, + And a movement of aversion mars her recent spousal grace, + And in silence we two sit here in our waning honeymoon + At this idle watering-place . . . + + What now I see before me is a long lane overhung + With lovelessness, and stretching from the present to the grave. + And I would I were away from this, with friends I knew when young, + Ere a woman held me slave. + + + +THE MOTH-SIGNAL +(_On Egdon Heath_) + + + “WHAT are you still, still thinking,” + He asked in vague surmise, + “That stare at the wick unblinking + With those great lost luminous eyes?” + + “O, I see a poor moth burning + In the candle-flame,” said she, + “Its wings and legs are turning + To a cinder rapidly.” + + “Moths fly in from the heather,” + He said, “now the days decline.” + “I know,” said she. “The weather, + I hope, will at last be fine. + + “I think,” she added lightly, + “I’ll look out at the door. + The ring the moon wears nightly + May be visible now no more.” + + She rose, and, little heeding, + Her husband then went on + With his attentive reading + In the annals of ages gone. + + Outside the house a figure + Came from the tumulus near, + And speedily waxed bigger, + And clasped and called her Dear. + + “I saw the pale-winged token + You sent through the crack,” sighed she. + “That moth is burnt and broken + With which you lured out me. + + “And were I as the moth is + It might be better far + For one whose marriage troth is + Shattered as potsherds are!” + + Then grinned the Ancient Briton + From the tumulus treed with pine: + “So, hearts are thwartly smitten + In these days as in mine!” + + + +SEEN BY THE WAITS + + + THROUGH snowy woods and shady + We went to play a tune + To the lonely manor-lady + By the light of the Christmas moon. + + We violed till, upward glancing + To where a mirror leaned, + We saw her airily dancing, + Deeming her movements screened; + + Dancing alone in the room there, + Thin-draped in her robe of night; + Her postures, glassed in the gloom there, + Were a strange phantasmal sight. + + She had learnt (we heard when homing) + That her roving spouse was dead; + Why she had danced in the gloaming + We thought, but never said. + + + +THE TWO SOLDIERS + + + JUST at the corner of the wall + We met—yes, he and I— + Who had not faced in camp or hall + Since we bade home good-bye, + And what once happened came back—all— + Out of those years gone by. + + And that strange woman whom we knew + And loved—long dead and gone, + Whose poor half-perished residue, + Tombless and trod, lay yon! + But at this moment to our view + Rose like a phantom wan. + + And in his fixed face I could see, + Lit by a lurid shine, + The drama re-enact which she + Had dyed incarnadine + For us, and more. And doubtless he + Beheld it too in mine. + + A start, as at one slightly known, + And with an indifferent air + We passed, without a sign being shown + That, as it real were, + A memory-acted scene had thrown + Its tragic shadow there. + + + +THE DEATH OF REGRET + + + I OPENED my shutter at sunrise, + And looked at the hill hard by, + And I heartily grieved for the comrade + Who wandered up there to die. + + I let in the morn on the morrow, + And failed not to think of him then, + As he trod up that rise in the twilight, + And never came down again. + + I undid the shutter a week thence, + But not until after I’d turned + Did I call back his last departure + By the upland there discerned. + + Uncovering the casement long later, + I bent to my toil till the gray, + When I said to myself, “Ah—what ails me, + To forget him all the day!” + + As daily I flung back the shutter + In the same blank bald routine, + He scarcely once rose to remembrance + Through a month of my facing the scene. + + And ah, seldom now do I ponder + At the window as heretofore + On the long valued one who died yonder, + And wastes by the sycamore. + + + +IN THE DAYS OF CRINOLINE + + + A PLAIN tilt-bonnet on her head + She took the path across the leaze. + —Her spouse the vicar, gardening, said, + “Too dowdy that, for coquetries, + So I can hoe at ease.” + + But when she had passed into the heath, + And gained the wood beyond the flat, + She raised her skirts, and from beneath + Unpinned and drew as from a sheath + An ostrich-feathered hat. + + And where the hat had hung she now + Concealed and pinned the dowdy hood, + And set the hat upon her brow, + And thus emerging from the wood + Tripped on in jaunty mood. + + The sun was low and crimson-faced + As two came that way from the town, + And plunged into the wood untraced . . . + When separately therefrom they paced + The sun had quite gone down. + + The hat and feather disappeared, + The dowdy hood again was donned, + And in the gloom the fair one neared + Her home and husband dour, who conned + Calmly his blue-eyed blonde. + + “To-day,” he said, “you have shown good sense, + A dress so modest and so meek + Should always deck your goings hence + Alone.” And as a recompense + He kissed her on the cheek. + + + +THE ROMAN GRAVEMOUNDS + + + BY Rome’s dim relics there walks a man, + Eyes bent; and he carries a basket and spade; + I guess what impels him to scrape and scan; + Yea, his dreams of that Empire long decayed. + + “Vast was Rome,” he must muse, “in the world’s regard, + Vast it looms there still, vast it ever will be;” + And he stoops as to dig and unmine some shard + Left by those who are held in such memory. + + But no; in his basket, see, he has brought + A little white furred thing, stiff of limb, + Whose life never won from the world a thought; + It is this, and not Rome, that is moving him. + + And to make it a grave he has come to the spot, + And he delves in the ancient dead’s long home; + Their fames, their achievements, the man knows not; + The furred thing is all to him—nothing Rome! + + “Here say you that Cæsar’s warriors lie?— + But my little white cat was my only friend! + Could she but live, might the record die + Of Cæsar, his legions, his aims, his end!” + + Well, Rome’s long rule here is oft and again + A theme for the sages of history, + And the small furred life was worth no one’s pen; + Yet its mourner’s mood has a charm for me. + +_November_ 1910. + + + +THE WORKBOX + + + “SEE, here’s the workbox, little wife, + That I made of polished oak.” + He was a joiner, of village life; + She came of borough folk. + + He holds the present up to her + As with a smile she nears + And answers to the profferer, + “’Twill last all my sewing years!” + + “I warrant it will. And longer too. + ’Tis a scantling that I got + Off poor John Wayward’s coffin, who + Died of they knew not what. + + “The shingled pattern that seems to cease + Against your box’s rim + Continues right on in the piece + That’s underground with him. + + “And while I worked it made me think + Of timber’s varied doom; + One inch where people eat and drink, + The next inch in a tomb. + + “But why do you look so white, my dear, + And turn aside your face? + You knew not that good lad, I fear, + Though he came from your native place?” + + “How could I know that good young man, + Though he came from my native town, + When he must have left there earlier than + I was a woman grown?” + + “Ah no. I should have understood! + It shocked you that I gave + To you one end of a piece of wood + Whose other is in a grave?” + + “Don’t, dear, despise my intellect, + Mere accidental things + Of that sort never have effect + On my imaginings.” + + Yet still her lips were limp and wan, + Her face still held aside, + As if she had known not only John, + But known of what he died. + + + +THE SACRILEGE +A BALLAD-TRAGEDY +(_Circa_ 182-) + + +PART I + + + “I HAVE a Love I love too well + Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor; + I have a Love I love too well, + To whom, ere she was mine, + ‘Such is my love for you,’ I said, + ‘That you shall have to hood your head + A silken kerchief crimson-red, + Wove finest of the fine.’ + + “And since this Love, for one mad moon, + On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor, + Since this my Love for one mad moon + Did clasp me as her king, + I snatched a silk-piece red and rare + From off a stall at Priddy Fair, + For handkerchief to hood her hair + When we went gallanting. + + “Full soon the four weeks neared their end + Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor; + And when the four weeks neared their end, + And their swift sweets outwore, + I said, ‘What shall I do to own + Those beauties bright as tulips blown, + And keep you here with me alone + As mine for evermore?’ + + “And as she drowsed within my van + On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor— + And as she drowsed within my van, + And dawning turned to day, + She heavily raised her sloe-black eyes + And murmured back in softest wise, + ‘One more thing, and the charms you prize + Are yours henceforth for aye. + + “‘And swear I will I’ll never go + While Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor + To meet the Cornish Wrestler Joe + For dance and dallyings. + If you’ll to yon cathedral shrine, + And finger from the chest divine + Treasure to buy me ear-drops fine, + And richly jewelled rings.’ + + “I said: ‘I am one who has gathered gear + From Marlbury Downs to Dunkery Tor, + Who has gathered gear for many a year + From mansion, mart and fair; + But at God’s house I’ve stayed my hand, + Hearing within me some command— + Curbed by a law not of the land + From doing damage there.’ + + “Whereat she pouts, this Love of mine, + As Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor, + And still she pouts, this Love of mine, + So cityward I go. + But ere I start to do the thing, + And speed my soul’s imperilling + For one who is my ravishing + And all the joy I know, + + “I come to lay this charge on thee— + On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor— + I come to lay this charge on thee + With solemn speech and sign: + Should things go ill, and my life pay + For botchery in this rash assay, + You are to take hers likewise—yea, + The month the law takes mine. + + “For should my rival, Wrestler Joe, + Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor— + My reckless rival, Wrestler Joe, + My Love’s possessor be, + My tortured spirit would not rest, + But wander weary and distrest + Throughout the world in wild protest: + The thought nigh maddens me!” + + +PART II + + + Thus did he speak—this brother of mine— + On Exon Wild by Dunkery Tor, + Born at my birth of mother of mine, + And forthwith went his way + To dare the deed some coming night . . . + I kept the watch with shaking sight, + The moon at moments breaking bright, + At others glooming gray. + + For three full days I heard no sound + Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor, + I heard no sound at all around + Whether his fay prevailed, + Or one malign the master were, + Till some afoot did tidings bear + How that, for all his practised care, + He had been caught and jailed. + + They had heard a crash when twelve had chimed + By Mendip east of Dunkery Tor, + When twelve had chimed and moonlight climbed; + They watched, and he was tracked + By arch and aisle and saint and knight + Of sculptured stonework sheeted white + In the cathedral’s ghostly light, + And captured in the act. + + Yes; for this Love he loved too well + Where Dunkery sights the Severn shore, + All for this Love he loved too well + He burst the holy bars, + Seized golden vessels from the chest + To buy her ornaments of the best, + At her ill-witchery’s request + And lure of eyes like stars . . . + + When blustering March confused the sky + In Toneborough Town by Exon Moor, + When blustering March confused the sky + They stretched him; and he died. + Down in the crowd where I, to see + The end of him, stood silently, + With a set face he lipped to me— + “Remember.” “Ay!” I cried. + + By night and day I shadowed her + From Toneborough Deane to Dunkery Tor, + I shadowed her asleep, astir, + And yet I could not bear— + Till Wrestler Joe anon began + To figure as her chosen man, + And took her to his shining van— + To doom a form so fair! + + He made it handsome for her sake— + And Dunkery smiled to Exon Moor— + He made it handsome for her sake, + Painting it out and in; + And on the door of apple-green + A bright brass knocker soon was seen, + And window-curtains white and clean + For her to sit within. + + And all could see she clave to him + As cleaves a cloud to Dunkery Tor, + Yea, all could see she clave to him, + And every day I said, + “A pity it seems to part those two + That hourly grow to love more true: + Yet she’s the wanton woman who + Sent one to swing till dead!” + + That blew to blazing all my hate, + While Dunkery frowned on Exon Moor, + And when the river swelled, her fate + Came to her pitilessly . . . + I dogged her, crying: “Across that plank + They use as bridge to reach yon bank + A coat and hat lie limp and dank; + Your goodman’s, can they be?” + + She paled, and went, I close behind— + And Exon frowned to Dunkery Tor, + She went, and I came up behind + And tipped the plank that bore + Her, fleetly flitting across to eye + What such might bode. She slid awry; + And from the current came a cry, + A gurgle; and no more. + + How that befell no mortal knew + From Marlbury Downs to Exon Moor; + No mortal knew that deed undue + But he who schemed the crime, + Which night still covers . . . But in dream + Those ropes of hair upon the stream + He sees, and he will hear that scream + Until his judgment-time. + + + +THE ABBEY MASON +(_Inventor of the_ “_Perpendicular_” _Style of Gothic Architecture_) + + + THE new-vamped Abbey shaped apace + In the fourteenth century of grace; + + (The church which, at an after date, + Acquired cathedral rank and state.) + + Panel and circumscribing wall + Of latest feature, trim and tall, + + Rose roundabout the Norman core + In prouder pose than theretofore, + + Encasing magically the old + With parpend ashlars manifold. + + The trowels rang out, and tracery + Appeared where blanks had used to be. + + Men toiled for pleasure more than pay, + And all went smoothly day by day, + + Till, in due course, the transept part + Engrossed the master-mason’s art. + + —Home-coming thence he tossed and turned + Throughout the night till the new sun burned. + + “What fearful visions have inspired + These gaingivings?” his wife inquired; + + “As if your tools were in your hand + You have hammered, fitted, muttered, planned; + + “You have thumped as you were working hard: + I might have found me bruised and scarred. + + “What then’s amiss. What eating care + Looms nigh, whereof I am unaware?” + + He answered not, but churchward went, + Viewing his draughts with discontent; + + And fumbled there the livelong day + Till, hollow-eyed, he came away. + + —’Twas said, “The master-mason’s ill!” + And all the abbey works stood still. + + Quoth Abbot Wygmore: “Why, O why + Distress yourself? You’ll surely die!” + + The mason answered, trouble-torn, + “This long-vogued style is quite outworn! + + “The upper archmould nohow serves + To meet the lower tracery curves: + + “The ogees bend too far away + To give the flexures interplay. + + “This it is causes my distress . . . + So it will ever be unless + + “New forms be found to supersede + The circle when occasions need. + + “To carry it out I have tried and toiled, + And now perforce must own me foiled! + + “Jeerers will say: ‘Here was a man + Who could not end what he began!’” + + —So passed that day, the next, the next; + The abbot scanned the task, perplexed; + + The townsmen mustered all their wit + To fathom how to compass it, + + But no raw artistries availed + Where practice in the craft had failed . . . + + —One night he tossed, all open-eyed, + And early left his helpmeet’s side. + + Scattering the rushes of the floor + He wandered from the chamber door + + And sought the sizing pile, whereon + Struck dimly a cadaverous dawn + + Through freezing rain, that drenched the board + Of diagram-lines he last had scored— + + Chalked phantasies in vain begot + To knife the architectural knot— + + In front of which he dully stood, + Regarding them in hopeless mood. + + He closelier looked; then looked again: + The chalk-scratched draught-board faced the rain, + + Whose icicled drops deformed the lines + Innumerous of his lame designs, + + So that they streamed in small white threads + From the upper segments to the heads + + Of arcs below, uniting them + Each by a stalactitic stem. + + —At once, with eyes that struck out sparks, + He adds accessory cusping-marks, + + Then laughs aloud. The thing was done + So long assayed from sun to sun . . . + + —Now in his joy he grew aware + Of one behind him standing there, + + And, turning, saw the abbot, who + The weather’s whim was watching too. + + Onward to Prime the abbot went, + Tacit upon the incident. + + —Men now discerned as days revolved + The ogive riddle had been solved; + + Templates were cut, fresh lines were chalked + Where lines had been defaced and balked, + + And the work swelled and mounted higher, + Achievement distancing desire; + + Here jambs with transoms fixed between, + Where never the like before had been— + + There little mullions thinly sawn + Where meeting circles once were drawn. + + “We knew,” men said, “the thing would go + After his craft-wit got aglow, + + “And, once fulfilled what he has designed, + We’ll honour him and his great mind!” + + When matters stood thus poised awhile, + And all surroundings shed a smile, + + The master-mason on an eve + Homed to his wife and seemed to grieve . . . + + —“The abbot spoke to me to-day: + He hangs about the works alway. + + “He knows the source as well as I + Of the new style men magnify. + + “He said: ‘You pride yourself too much + On your creation. Is it such? + + “‘Surely the hand of God it is + That conjured so, and only His!— + + “‘Disclosing by the frost and rain + Forms your invention chased in vain; + + “‘Hence the devices deemed so great + You copied, and did not create.’ + + “I feel the abbot’s words are just, + And that all thanks renounce I must. + + “Can a man welcome praise and pelf + For hatching art that hatched itself? . . . + + “So, I shall own the deft design + Is Heaven’s outshaping, and not mine.” + + “What!” said she. “Praise your works ensure + To throw away, and quite obscure + + “Your beaming and beneficent star? + Better you leave things as they are! + + “Why, think awhile. Had not your zest + In your loved craft curtailed your rest— + + “Had you not gone there ere the day + The sun had melted all away!” + + —But, though his good wife argued so, + The mason let the people know + + That not unaided sprang the thought + Whereby the glorious fane was wrought, + + But that by frost when dawn was dim + The method was disclosed to him. + + “Yet,” said the townspeople thereat, + “’Tis your own doing, even with that!” + + But he—chafed, childlike, in extremes— + The temperament of men of dreams— + + Aloofly scrupled to admit + That he did aught but borrow it, + + And diffidently made request + That with the abbot all should rest. + + —As none could doubt the abbot’s word, + Or question what the church averred, + + The mason was at length believed + Of no more count than he conceived, + + And soon began to lose the fame + That late had gathered round his name . . . + + —Time passed, and like a living thing + The pile went on embodying, + + And workmen died, and young ones grew, + And the old mason sank from view + + And Abbots Wygmore and Staunton went + And Horton sped the embellishment. + + But not till years had far progressed + Chanced it that, one day, much impressed, + + Standing within the well-graced aisle, + He asked who first conceived the style; + + And some decrepit sage detailed + How, when invention nought availed, + + The cloud-cast waters in their whim + Came down, and gave the hint to him + + Who struck each arc, and made each mould; + And how the abbot would not hold + + As sole begetter him who applied + Forms the Almighty sent as guide; + + And how the master lost renown, + And wore in death no artist’s crown. + + —Then Horton, who in inner thought + Had more perceptions than he taught, + + Replied: “Nay; art can but transmute; + Invention is not absolute; + + “Things fail to spring from nought at call, + And art-beginnings most of all. + + “He did but what all artists do, + Wait upon Nature for his cue.” + + —“Had you been here to tell them so + Lord Abbot, sixty years ago, + + “The mason, now long underground, + Doubtless a different fate had found. + + “He passed into oblivion dim, + And none knew what became of him! + + “His name? ’Twas of some common kind + And now has faded out of mind.” + + The Abbot: “It shall not be hid! + I’ll trace it.” . . . But he never did. + + —When longer yet dank death had wormed + The brain wherein the style had germed + + From Gloucester church it flew afar— + The style called Perpendicular.— + + To Winton and to Westminster + It ranged, and grew still beautifuller: + + From Solway Frith to Dover Strand + Its fascinations starred the land, + + Not only on cathedral walls + But upon courts and castle halls, + + Till every edifice in the isle + Was patterned to no other style, + + And till, long having played its part, + The curtain fell on Gothic art. + + —Well: when in Wessex on your rounds, + Take a brief step beyond its bounds, + + And enter Gloucester: seek the quoin + Where choir and transept interjoin, + + And, gazing at the forms there flung + Against the sky by one unsung— + + The ogee arches transom-topped, + The tracery-stalks by spandrels stopped, + + Petrified lacework—lightly lined + On ancient massiveness behind— + + Muse that some minds so modest be + As to renounce fame’s fairest fee, + + (Like him who crystallized on this spot + His visionings, but lies forgot, + + And many a mediaeval one + Whose symmetries salute the sun) + + While others boom a baseless claim, + And upon nothing rear a name. + + + +THE JUBILEE OF A MAGAZINE +(_To the Editor_) + + + YES; your up-dated modern page— + All flower-fresh, as it appears— + Can claim a time-tried lineage, + + That reaches backward fifty years + (Which, if but short for sleepy squires, + Is much in magazines’ careers). + + —Here, on your cover, never tires + The sower, reaper, thresher, while + As through the seasons of our sires + + Each wills to work in ancient style + With seedlip, sickle, share and flail, + Though modes have since moved many a mile! + + The steel-roped plough now rips the vale, + With cog and tooth the sheaves are won, + Wired wheels drum out the wheat like hail; + + But if we ask, what has been done + To unify the mortal lot + Since your bright leaves first saw the sun, + + Beyond mechanic furtherance—what + Advance can rightness, candour, claim? + Truth bends abashed, and answers not. + + Despite your volumes’ gentle aim + To straighten visions wry and wrong, + Events jar onward much the same! + + —Had custom tended to prolong, + As on your golden page engrained, + Old processes of blade and prong, + + And best invention been retained + For high crusades to lessen tears + Throughout the race, the world had gained! . . . + But too much, this, for fifty years. + + + +THE SATIN SHOES + + + “IF ever I walk to church to wed, + As other maidens use, + And face the gathered eyes,” she said, + “I’ll go in satin shoes!” + + She was as fair as early day + Shining on meads unmown, + And her sweet syllables seemed to play + Like flute-notes softly blown. + + The time arrived when it was meet + That she should be a bride; + The satin shoes were on her feet, + Her father was at her side. + + They stood within the dairy door, + And gazed across the green; + The church loomed on the distant moor, + But rain was thick between. + + “The grass-path hardly can be stepped, + The lane is like a pool!”— + Her dream is shown to be inept, + Her wish they overrule. + + “To go forth shod in satin soft + A coach would be required!” + For thickest boots the shoes were doffed— + Those shoes her soul desired . . . + + All day the bride, as overborne, + Was seen to brood apart, + And that the shoes had not been worn + Sat heavy on her heart. + + From her wrecked dream, as months flew on, + Her thought seemed not to range. + “What ails the wife?” they said anon, + “That she should be so strange?” . . . + + Ah—what coach comes with furtive glide— + A coach of closed-up kind? + It comes to fetch the last year’s bride, + Who wanders in her mind. + + She strove with them, and fearfully ran + Stairward with one low scream: + “Nay—coax her,” said the madhouse man, + “With some old household theme.” + + “If you will go, dear, you must fain + Put on those shoes—the pair + Meant for your marriage, which the rain + Forbade you then to wear.” + + She clapped her hands, flushed joyous hues; + “O yes—I’ll up and ride + If I am to wear my satin shoes + And be a proper bride!” + + Out then her little foot held she, + As to depart with speed; + The madhouse man smiled pleasantly + To see the wile succeed. + + She turned to him when all was done, + And gave him her thin hand, + Exclaiming like an enraptured one, + “This time it will be grand!” + + She mounted with a face elate, + Shut was the carriage door; + They drove her to the madhouse gate, + And she was seen no more . . . + + Yet she was fair as early day + Shining on meads unmown, + And her sweet syllables seemed to play + Like flute-notes softly blown. + + + +EXEUNT OMNES + + + I + + EVERYBODY else, then, going, + And I still left where the fair was? . . . + Much have I seen of neighbour loungers + Making a lusty showing, + Each now past all knowing. + + II + + There is an air of blankness + In the street and the littered spaces; + Thoroughfare, steeple, bridge and highway + Wizen themselves to lankness; + Kennels dribble dankness. + + III + + Folk all fade. And whither, + As I wait alone where the fair was? + Into the clammy and numbing night-fog + Whence they entered hither. + Soon do I follow thither! + +_June_ 2, 1913. + + + +A POET + + + ATTENTIVE eyes, fantastic heed, + Assessing minds, he does not need, + Nor urgent writs to sup or dine, + Nor pledges in the roseate wine. + + For loud acclaim he does not care + By the august or rich or fair, + Nor for smart pilgrims from afar, + Curious on where his hauntings are. + + But soon or later, when you hear + That he has doffed this wrinkled gear, + Some evening, at the first star-ray, + Come to his graveside, pause and say: + + “Whatever the message his to tell, + Two bright-souled women loved him well.” + Stand and say that amid the dim: + It will be praise enough for him. + +_July_ 1914. + + + +POSTSCRIPT +“MEN WHO MARCH AWAY” +(SONG OF THE SOLDIERS) + + + WHAT of the faith and fire within us + Men who march away + Ere the barn-cocks say + Night is growing gray, + To hazards whence no tears can win us; + What of the faith and fire within us + Men who march away? + + Is it a purblind prank, O think you, + Friend with the musing eye, + Who watch us stepping by + With doubt and dolorous sigh? + Can much pondering so hoodwink you! + Is it a purblind prank, O think you, + Friend with the musing eye? + + Nay. We well see what we are doing, + Though some may not see— + Dalliers as they be— + England’s need are we; + Her distress would leave us rueing: + Nay. We well see what we are doing, + Though some may not see! + + In our heart of hearts believing + Victory crowns the just, + And that braggarts must + Surely bite the dust, + Press we to the field ungrieving, + In our heart of hearts believing + Victory crowns the just. + + Hence the faith and fire within us + Men who march away + Ere the barn-cocks say + Night is growing gray, + To hazards whence no tears can win us: + Hence the faith and fire within us + Men who march away. + +_September_ 5, 1914. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE*** + + +******* This file should be named 2863-0.txt or 2863-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/8/6/2863 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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