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diff --git a/78110-0.txt b/78110-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..157e7de --- /dev/null +++ b/78110-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2292 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78110 *** + + + + +VERSES + + + + +=THE GARDEN OF KAMA=; and other Love Lyrics from India. Arranged in + Verse by +Laurence Hope+. Square 8vo, 5_s._ net. + +=STARS OF THE DESERT.= By +Laurence Hope+. Square 8vo, price 5_s._ net. + + +_Uniform with the above (shortly)_ + +=LAST POEMS.= By +Laurence Hope+. + + ++London+: WILLIAM HEINEMANN. + + + + +VERSES + + +BY + +VIOLET JACOB + +(MRS. ARTHUR JACOB) + +AUTHOR OF ‘THE SHEEP-STEALERS,’ ‘THE INTERLOPER’ + + +LONDON + +WILLIAM HEINEMANN + +1905 + + + + +_All rights reserved._ + + + + +TO + +THE IDEAL CRITIC + + + + +I have to thank the Editors of the +_Westminster Gazette_, _The English +Illustrated Magazine_, and _Country +Life_ for permission to reprint some +of the following poems.--V. J. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + To H. M. C. 1 + Half-way 2 + White Magic 4 + Serenade 5 + The Shadow 6 + The Mill-house 8 + ‘I sleep but my Heart waketh’ 13 + An Immortelle 14 + The Two Queens 15 + The Lost Track 16 + At a Brookside 18 + Revenant 18 + To Aurelia, with a Pearl Necklace 19 + Beyond the Walls 20 + ‘Come on, come up, ye rovers’ 22 + An Echo 24 + A Young Moon 26 + The Soul 27 + The Ballad of Hakon 29 + Ignis Fatuus 33 + The Little Nightjar 34 + Possession 36 + Airlie Kirk 38 + The Flute player 39 + In Lower Egypt 42 + Winter and Spring 44 + A Tryst 45 + The Call 47 + Time and Space 49 + A Translation 50 + Glamour 52 + Lenore in the Oliveyards 54 + New Year’s Eve 55 + Three Poems for Children-- + I. The Lilacs 57 + II. Dreams 58 + III. The Snow Witch 61 + The Valley of the Kings 62 + The Lowland Ploughman 65 + Late February 67 + From a Train-window 68 + Poems of India-- + I. In a Mango-tope 70 + II. Night in the Plains 73 + III. The Resting-place 75 + IV. Evening in the Opium Fields 77 + V. ‘God is great’ 78 + VI. A Mahommedan Graveyard 81 + VII. Cherry-Blossom at Dagshai 83 + VIII. ‘With Military Honours’ 85 + IX. The Distant Temple 87 + + + + +TO H. M. C. + + + A silence falls on us to-day, + Our lips are closed, we do not speak, + But, in each other’s eyes we seek + And find the thing that each would say. + + So deep it lies, a rock set fast, + Washed hard by life, by love, by tears, + Beneath the floods of time and years + Built up and rooted in the past. + + And sometimes, when the tide is low, + A voice comes up the Northern sea; + Across the sands to you and me + It calls from lands left long ago. + + By marshes lying dim and wide, + Through wet, grey sea-fogs, creeping on, + Back from that youth for ever gone + It comes to us across the tide. + + How shall we speak? What words can say + The thing for which no words are known, + That calls to us from places lone + Through past, through present, through to-day? + +❦ + + + + +HALF-WAY + + + The world is not the dream of living gold + We dreamed when we were young; + Then, all the glory that the west could hold + Burned, fold on fold, + A molten veil across its portals flung + Behind whose shade the years lay sleeping still, + Like tales untold; + But now, beyond the beeches bare and chill, + Beyond the woods set far upon the hill, + The clouds are cold. + + And life is not the journey that we planned + As we set out with morn; + We said, ‘We will rest here and view the land, + Or take our stand + Upon these hills and see the ripening corn, + Or step aside along the mere to mark + The wild-fowl band;’ + But now, we know we must tread swift and stark, + If we would cross the desert ere the dark + Creeps on the sand. + + And death is not the dim and distant shade + So far against the sky; + The half-seen trap for others waiting laid, + While we, arrayed + In pride and plume of youth, go sweeping by. + We thought to meet him with a spirit braced + By conquests made; + But now, we know, when half the road is traced, + Our hope is but to reach him undisgraced + And unafraid. + +❦ + + + + +WHITE MAGIC + + + I saw the moon come out and stand last night + Above the plains of cloud, + Like a lone chief, who, at his tented door, + Looks down upon the forest’s silent floor + From a far battlement upon the height, + And drops his mantle proud + Into the swimming vapours of the light. + + O watcher on the planet-woven steep + Whose shining feet are set + Above the haunted glamour of the skies! + Draw me, a slave, with thy compelling eyes, + While the slow hours in soundless circle creep, + Out through the world, while yet + The world’s heart heaves beneath the veil of sleep. + + O pale-faced chief! The earth and heaven are still + And thou and I awake; + I come, with outstretched arms and spirit bound, + Forth through the scattered graves where, lying sound, + The dead are sown by field and fold and hill + And mist-entangled brake; + O pale chief! Draw me up into the height, + Into the swimming light. + +❦ + + + + +SERENADE + + + O roses, clustering on the sunny wall + In fragrant groups of white and red together, + Bend down, bend down your branches, one and all, + Beneath the fair June sky and glowing weather; + And say to her, I send her + A message tender. + + And thou, convolvulus, upon the gate, + With pale white bells and trails of light leaves swinging, + Tell her my love for her is strong as fate, + For ever true and like thy tendrils clinging; + And kiss her, soft and shy, + As she goes by. + + O jessamine, in wreaths of scented stars + Across the balconies and stonework meeting, + Climb up and enter at her window-bars + And bear among your buds my loving greeting; + Then whisper, sweet and slow, + ‘He waits below.’ + +❦ + + + + +THE SHADOW + + + What soul has swept your branches, cypress-tree, + That you should point so high; + That you, whose root among the graves may be, + Look ever to the sky? + + Dark warden of the long-untended tomb + Seen o’er some mouldering wall, + Or set where fountained gardens are abloom + And roses blush and fall. + + Scarcely the wind is voiceful as it sways + Your column, dusk, austere; + Scarcely the evening breeze that round you plays + Brings music to the ear. + + Your earth-bound foot mortality retains + Imprisoned in the sod, + Your earth-freed spirit to that ether strains + Which is the breath of God. + + The light o’er southern vineyards dying down + Smiles on the landscape still, + And lays the lengthening shadow of your crown + On many a Tuscan hill. + + And, nearer home, where memory’s deathless sun + Enwraps some tear-sown mound, + Your shade, at day’s decline, O silent one, + Slants eastward on the ground. + + By tomb or pleasance, convent-girdled height, + In countries far or near, + You bear a message from eternal light + To us whose souls are here. + + O silent witness! dark where yonder sky + In saffron splendour burns, + ’Tis but the shadow that on earth must lie, + The substance heavenward turns. + +❦ + + + + +THE MILL-HOUSE + + + Beneath the drawbridge is the moat, + On broadened leaves the lilies float, + The white bud bursts its oozy coat. + + Up from the fields of ripened corn + There comes the sound of voices borne + From where the stooks stand newly shorn. + + Above her head the banner flies, + A dragon blue with banded eyes, + Grey in the sun the towers rise. + + Within, the knights sit in a row, + And ladies, with their hands of snow; + The golden cup goes to and fro. + + She heeds nor feast, nor song, nor wine, + She only sees the weapons shine + Upon the plains of Palestine. + + She only hears the trumpets bray + Their summons through the Eastern day, + The tramp of horses far away. + + Her heart sees all the far-off scene, + And, with her heart, she hears the green + Wild roll of waters in between. + + The light from the horizon’s rim + Strikes, like the wings of seraphim, + Upon the fountain’s circled brim. + + A shadow lies before her face, + Sir Hugh has risen and left his place: + “Elayne, the seasons march apace; + + Lo, patience is a good knight’s stay, + Yet comes the time when men may say + ‘Who waits too long will lose the day.’ + + The dial by the swinging vane + Marks how the long hours wax and wane-- + ’Tis time the priest were brought, Elayne. + + Yon knight who fights in Palestine, + What is his love compared with mine? + I will load your hair with jewels fine, + + You shall lie on silk, you shall sit, a queen, + In costly raiment blue and green + With golden roses wrought in between.” + + To where the crazy mill-house stands + He has borne her with his iron hands, + Her hair hangs down in russet bands; + + He has shorn a long tress of her hair + And bound her feet so slim and fair, + He has borne her out on the mill-house stair. + + “Elayne, Elayne, you are young to die, + There is none to hear should you call or cry, + Shall the water have you or shall I?” + + She makes no sound; beneath the ledge + An eddy swirls among the sedge, + He takes a step to the stairs’ edge. + + The mill-race, roaring far beneath, + Seems like the sound of gloating death, + She looks down and she holds her breath. + + “Elayne, what think you? Which is best?” + Against the black heart in his breast + She keeps her pale face closely prest. + + The mill-race, winding mile on mile, + Sounds like an angry voice the while; + He cannot see her drawn lips smile. + + Like some slim beast, some snake or stoat, + She meets her teeth upon his throat, + Her fingers grasp his leathern coat. + + On the top step they swing and sway, + His breath comes short, his face is grey, + The waters close with a splash of spray. + + The mill-race runs till it nears the moat, + What thing does the water raise and float? + --A drowned dead man with a mark on his throat. + +❦ + + + + +‘I SLEEP BUT MY HEART WAKETH’ + + + Here in the winding coil of waterways, + Apart among the trees, where no feet pass, + And little woodland rabbits on the grass + Sit lightly cropping through the Autumn days, + The troubling world, with all its weary moods, + Is far away outside the circling woods. + + A golden rain of leaf is on the beech + And red and gold the maze of branches glow + To drop their wealth upon the grass below, + As golden silence falls on golden speech; + In long, wet flats, wherein the heron feeds, + A golden sky is mirrored through the reeds. + + No voices come to still that other voice + Which breathes along the labyrinth of trees + To tell the tired soul to dwell at ease + Among the best-loved visions of its choice: + ‘Sleep in these groves,’ it says, ‘by spirits trod, + While thine heart waketh to the sound of God.’ + +❦ + + + + +AN IMMORTELLE + + + There is a secret garden where I dwell + Hedged round about with thorn and Judas-tree, + Barred in with iron like a prison cell + And known to none but me. + + Black rocks encircle it; the nightshade wreath + Twines in the bush its leaden-purple spray + And the rank hellebore, with poisoned breath, + Sighs on the air all day. + + I loved it not, yet I was wont to go + To gaze my fill and all my plants compare, + To taste the bitter herbs that thrive and grow, + Spreading a carpet there. + + * * * * * + + But now, ’tis years, since, in that sorry place, + I swung the wicket; for, all gloriously, + A wingèd figure came with radiant face + And bore away the key. + + And still--I have a little poison-flower + I gathered there; and, though I would forget, + I take it out in some friend-haunted hour + To find it living yet. + +❦ + + + + +THE TWO QUEENS + + + A man went down the path of life, + And, where the vines were thick and green + And grapes hung waiting for the knife, + There smiled to him a queen. + Love lit the eyes beneath her brow, + His lips met hers a moment’s span; + He said, ‘My heart is glad, for now + I know I am a man.’ + + And, further on, among the corn, + Another queen whose eyes made dim + The very glory of the morn, + Held out her hand to him. + There was no time for speech or vow, + He kissed it, kneeling on the sod, + He said, ‘My soul is high, for now + I feel I am a god.’ + +❦ + + + + +THE LOST TRACK + + + When you have passed, and earth, grown dim behind you, + Lies far upon the outworn verge of time, + When my hand, searching, shall no longer find you + In any clime; + + If I but dream your step, by hill or hollow, + Has left some echo falling on the wind, + I will arise and gird myself and follow + Though I be blind. + + Or if, clear-sighted, I may but discover + That, in the dew at dawn, your footsteps lie, + Where, through long fields, the whistling of the plover + Comes like a sigh; + + And, if they lead me down to Death’s black river, + And, by the rocks, I hear the whirlpools spin, + Though heart and soul may faint and body quiver + I will wade in. + + O heart! beyond the tumult of the crossing, + If there should be no sign, nor any trace, + Only strange winds upon the grasses tossing + And the wide space, + + Only eternity, with worlds to wander, + A soul among the unknown souls of men, + And, O my heart, no voice, no footstep yonder, + What then? What then? + +❦ + + + + +AT A BROOKSIDE + + + A running melody is in the noon + Of grass-bound rivulet and tangled showers, + Of sunlight, glancing through the cuckoo-flowers + To mingle golden ripples with the tune; + In the wide light my senses seem to swoon, + Drugged by the monotone of rhythmic hours + And voice of spring-fed watercourse that dowers + This winding meadow-land with music’s boon. + + Caught in a shimmering net of sight and sound, + And drawn, I know not whither, yet aware + Am I of some soft touch, and, blown around + My face, the plenitude of waving hair-- + Nay, let me lie and dream this wondrous thing; + My hand, one moment, held the hand of Spring! + +❦ + + + + +REVENANT + + + In the dark hours I woke and heard the trees + That tossed and buffeted before the blast, + Straining and sighing while the gale went past; + And, as a scourge whose wrath might none appease, + The raindrops smote the pane and ran in seas, + Gurgling against the frame; now thick and fast, + And now like pebbles at the window cast + By some lost spirit that could find no ease. + + And from the blackness of the dripping night + I turned me, weary of its sodden gloom, + Smiling to see the glow within the room + And the red embers on the hearth alight; + Then sudden ceased, and bowed my head again, + Thinking of that one gravestone in the rain. + +❦ + + + + +TO AURELIA, WITH A PEARL NECKLACE + + + Aurelia, think not to refuse + Or scorn my gift, although + These jewels must their lustre lose + Upon thy neck of snow. + + But, if thine eyes should glance aside + And deign to mark their shine, + Deem them as emblems of the pride + That fills this heart of mine. + + And if, for mine unworthy sake, + The pearls neglected be, + Still keep them; and the bauble make + Into a rosary. + + And when, perchance, desiring grace, + In prayer thy spirit pleads, + String thou thy kisses in their place + And I will tell the beads. + +❦ + + + + +BEYOND THE WALLS + + + The firelight plays since dusk began + To gather in the room, + Beyond the pane the daylight’s span + Grows to the evening gloom; + But my heart is out with the gipsy man + In his lair among the broom. + + Beside the farm both barn and stack + Dark in the steading rise, + Up in the loaning green, the track + Along the firwood lies, + Where the gipsy sits with his brows of black, + And the black light in his eyes. + + He marks the swift owl skim the trees + When twilight turns to grey, + He hears the whisper up the leas + Before the coming day, + And the secret hours of the world he sees + And the soul of night at play. + + His ceiling is the drooping bough, + The fir-trees’ ragged limb, + When from the hills the western sough + Sings o’er the lowlands dim; + And the polestar, hanging above the Plough, + Is the lantern-flame for him. + + O weary roof and crowding wall + That bar the scented air! + O chain and key whose ceaseless thrall + Lies on a world of care, + There are no bolts shot in the firwood tall + But the joy of life is there! + + O to be out when spring has drest + The green moss for a bed, + To roam by plain and wooded crest + Till the rose-hips turn to red; + And to lay me down for the last long rest, + With the great sky overhead! + +❦ + + + + +‘COME ON, COME UP, YE ROVERS’ + + + Come on, come up, ye rovers + Whose ships at anchor ride, + The west wind stirs the clovers, + And O! the world is wide: + So, up with your chains as the sun goes down + And out upon the tide! + + There drives on the Atlantic + The torn scud of the rain, + And lines of foam leap frantic + Against the coast of Spain, + Where the air is full of the souls of men + Who sailed the Spanish Main. + + Where Rocca’s light is burning + On plunging miles of sea, + Eastward and eastward turning, + By Crete and Tripoli, + There is a spirit abroad in the wind + That cries aloud to me. + + The coast drops low behind you, + The gull swoops round the spars; + Shall small men’s limits bind you + Whose milestones are the stars? + Whose signposts stand where Orion swings + Above earth’s locks and bars? + + Come up, ye sons of morning, + This world was built for you! + Far off, Heaven’s light’s adorning + The lands where dreams come true; + And the Angel that sits at the Gates of the East + Shall open and let you through. + +❦ + + + + +AN ECHO + + + When all the world is young and apple-bloom + Is rose and white upon the orchard tree, + When all the threads of Spring’s ethereal loom + Weave a green garment for her phantasy; + That voice of youth and growth and vanished years + Comes through all time, in floating cadence, still, + Through mists of life and long-forgotten tears, + The cuckoo calling faintly from the hill. + + The hidden streams in many a marshy place + Their chains of little standing pools unfold, + Like silver mirrors for Spring’s wanton face + Tossed at her feet and framed in marigold. + Hark to her footsteps down the sloping fields + Dancing in measure to the music shrill, + That, from its budding depth, the coppice yields, + The cuckoo calling faintly from the hill. + + O Youth, O Time, O Change--O haunting note! + When from our life we shed mortality, + When all our joys and passions are remote, + All that the ear could hear or eye could see; + Haply, across the gulf where Time lies bound, + Some shadow of a voice may reach us still, + Like that long echo from enchanted ground, + The cuckoo calling faintly from the hill. + +❦ + + + + +A YOUNG MOON + + + A crescent hung above the trees, + A sweep of fading sky; + A parting shiver in the breeze, + And day lies down to die. + + A silver curve above the murk + Where weary cities slave + And heart and hand are seamed with work + Whose goal is but the grave. + + Within the young moon’s slender arm + The old moon’s shadow lies, + That wraith whose evanescent charm + Melts back to Paradise. + + O’er one, o’er all, the wonder swings; + A gleam sad eyes may see; + A lamp that flies on hidden wings + To light my love and me; + + A vigil-taper, lone, apart, + High above field and town + O’er many a spot where some poor heart + Has laid its burden down. + +❦ + + + + +THE SOUL + + + I laid a rose upon my loved one’s bier + Beside her quiet face; + A red rose, scented with the fadeless year + When Love’s eyes met us in the noonday clear + In a fair place. + + I set it very softly down to lie + Amid her heavy hair; + And then, methought, the Soul that hovered by + Looked towards me through the dimness with a sigh + As I stood there. + + I laid my empty world upon the pyre, + Beside her open hand; + A world that life had stocked with youth and fire, + Fortune and fame and wealth and world’s desire, + And strength to stand. + + She knew each aim, fulfilled or unfulfilled, + That ever had been mine; + And then, methought, the Soul above her willed + Towards me through the dusk, a whisper stilled, + Whisper or sign? + + I laid my heart upon my loved one’s breast, + Beside her silent heart; + Sorrow and vigil shared, the worst, the best, + All, all it held she knew who lay at rest, + Till we did part. + + Ah me! it seemed as if her pale lips shook + With pity as she lay, + As though she wore that unforgotten look; + And then, methought, the Soul came down and took + My heart away. + +❦ + + + + +THE BALLAD OF HAKON + + + Across the stretching reed-beds + The dusk and twilight flee, + And thick the sea-fog covers + The roaring Northern Sea. + + O Hakon, grey-eyed Hakon + With tawny yellow hair, + Why are you standing all alone? + Why are you waiting there? + + Across the stretching reed-beds, + Amid the falling light, + Comes tripping fair maid Mettelil + Among the bents to-night. + + ‘O Mettelil, you have tarried, + The dark is drawing on, + Were you with young Herr Axel + This long long hour that’s gone? + + I watched him by the reed-beds, + I saw him pause and wait, + Till twilight came I looked for you-- + O Mettelil, it is late! + + Goodbye, goodbye, Maid Mettelil, + The raven cries o’erhead, + A stormy wind rolls in from sea, + Mettelil, my heart is dead!’ + + * * * * * + + Across the roaring ocean + The plunging war-ships go, + And Hakon, armed to battle, + Sails out to meet the foe. + + Where’er the press is thickest, + Upon the prow he stands; + Around him fly the arrows + Shot by the foeman’s hands. + + The air is wild with shrieking + Of those that fight and drown. + The blows fall thick round Hakon + But none can strike him down. + + ‘O Death that I am seeking, + Why com’st thou not to me? + I would my heart lay cold and still + Beneath the rolling sea!’ + + At home sits fair Maid Mettelil, + The tears are in her eyes, + And, ere a month is come and gone, + In kirkyard ground she lies. + + And sadly home comes Hakon, + Weary his face has grown, + All through the night he wanders + Beside the kirkyard lone. + + ‘Mettelil, the leaves are falling, + The north wind whistles free, + The chill mist wraps me in its shroud, + Come back, come back to me!’ + + Between the glimmering headstones, + Beneath the branches black, + A form comes quickly gliding + And stands at Hakon’s back. + + ‘Turn round, turn round now, Hakon, + And hold me to your breast + And touch my cold lips once with yours, + For then my soul can rest.’ + + She wound her white arms round him, + She touched his tawny hair, + ‘O Hakon, hold me faster, + My grave is opening there!’ + + He held her close and closer, + Lower he bent his head-- + An icy wind swept o’er his heart, + One kiss, and he was dead. + +❦ + + + + +IGNIS FATUUS + + + ‘Little Goblin at the fire, + Have you found the Heart’s Desire? + Have you seen it in your flitting by night or by noon?’ + ‘O it may be in the swell + Of the mist-wreath up the fell, + Or the long clouds trailing at the tail o’ the moon.’ + + ‘Little Goblin in the cold, + Have you seen it on the wold, + Where the winds with flying voices run free as they rave?’ + ‘O it may be in the sigh + Of a time that is gone by + Or the long grass growing by the brink o’ the grave.’ + + ‘Little Goblin in the trees, + Looking down the darkening leas, + Have you seen no golden country where the heart finds rest?’ + ‘O, it may be where the night + Comes to quench the flaming light, + In the far lands lying through the fire o’ the west.’ + +❦ + + + + +THE LITTLE NIGHTJAR + + + When the moon is on the wall + And her shadow on the door, + When darkness on the orchard lies like sea upon the shore, + The apple-boughs are silver with the silence swimming through, + With the halo of the dew; + Hark! what little shrieking nightjar ever gave so soft a call + When the moon is on the wall? + + When the moon is on the wall + There’s a sound among the trees; + O master on the settle, with the sheep dog at your knees, + At the little nightjar’s voice does he stir to wake and growl? + Does the hooting of the owl + Make him prick his ears and quiver, make his hackles rise and fall + When the moon is on the wall? + + When the moon is on the wall + And the fire has sunk and died, + The maid sits still to listen for the lad that lurks outside-- + Good master, dozing o’er your pipe, how fast is slumber’s thrall + When the moon is on the wall! + + * * * * * + + O! but ’tis strange how shadows move that lay so still, so still, + And stranger yet how close they draw before the night grows chill, + And the little nightjar shrieks no more from out the elm-tree tall, + And the moon has left the wall. + +❦ + + + + +POSSESSION + + + She has laid her snare + And her eyes hold midnight’s sign, + Like pools in a moonless land + Lit up by the stars that shine; + With her burning hair + She has bound you, strand by strand, + She holds your heart in her hand, + But your soul is mine. + + She has set her feet + In a path where roses blow, + She plays with your heart, the sea + Plays thus with its dead below, + And the game is sweet; + But your soul is here with me, + O Man; it is yours and free-- + But it cannot go. + + We shall stand, we two, + And her lips shall hold the sum + Of notes in a syren’s tone, + But mine shall be closed and dumb; + And, the whole day through, + Shall her eyes allure your own, + But I will stand like a stone + And your soul shall come. + +❦ + + + + +AIRLIE KIRK + + + A little spot of tangled ground + Set in the folding hill, + From curlew-haunted braes the sound + Of flitting voices shrill; + The high October sky unrolled + Above the plough-land’s crest, + Rank mallows by the hearthstone cold + With the field-mouse for guest; + Gudeman, it is long since the fire went out + And time that we went to rest. + + The naked rafters overhead + Stand up like withered hands; + I mind me when the roof-tree spread + Where now the burdock stands. + The threshold’s deep between the whin + And fast in briers twined; + Where little feet ran out and in + The track is hard to find; + Gudeman, it is long since we closed the door + And left what it held behind. + + Down in the strath the kirk is set + Upon the running burn; + It’s many roads we’ve trod, and yet + It’s here we must return. + Old lights along the fields are laid, + Old shadows lie as deep, + But new eyes watch them as they fade + Among the grazing sheep, + And it’s time we went down to Airlie kirk + And laid ourselves down to sleep. + +❦ + + + + +THE FLUTE PLAYER + + + In the window’s shade ere the dusk has spread + Over plain and hill, + And the tulip-flowers in the garden-bed + Have a glory still; + + When the world of toil and the world of ease + Are alike at rest; + I can hear him play in the belt of trees + Where the fields slope west. + + And the notes run high and the notes run low + In a rambling stream; + Like an old voice calling from long ago, + A dream of a dream. + + His eyes are afire with the secret light + Of a land unknown, + And the tree-stems echo his footsteps’ flight + Upon moss and stone. + + There is no more staying nor rest for me + When his flute is heard, + It is out, out, out to the melody + Without sign or word. + + The lamps may be lit in the shuttered room + And the door be fast, + Or a long day faint with a summer’s bloom + On the hedges cast; + + Let the path be winding in crowded ways + Or in woods profound, + It is all forgotten when once he plays + And I hear the sound. + + Though foot may ache and though heart may fail + And the brain grow numb, + It is follow, follow the flying trail + Till the flute is dumb. + + For life was a breath of the early spring, + When at first he came, + And, now that the harvest is ripening, + It is still the same; + + And it well may be when the last dusk falls + On my little day, + When the last sun colours the crumbling walls + Of the house of clay; + + I shall hear him playing beyond the hill + Where the fields slope west, + And follow him on till his steps are still + And the flute at rest. + +❦ + + + + +IN LOWER EGYPT + + + Above the ancient waters of the Nile + The mists of earth and dusk of heaven meet, + Where, slow along the bank, the camel-file + Moves, like a passing dream, on velvet feet; + And, as the choral voices of a dream, + The night sounds play their chant upon the stream. + + The crane stands silent; all the fields exhale + A band of fertile damp along the shore; + The same moon, red and low behind the veil, + That lit Old Egypt, lights for me once more + The mirage of a kingdom that has been, + And, through the mist, the shadow of a queen. + + Rise up, O Royal Egypt, from the dusk + With all the weight of tresses on thine head + Heavy with golden nets and faint with musk, + Girt with the lotus from the river-bed, + And eyes that once, with their devouring fire, + Lit for men’s hearts a sacrificial pyre. + + O Serpent, by a serpent slain at last! + Come through the vapourous fields with garments trailed, + Embroidered with the lotus-leaf, made fast + With gems; with green and Tyrian purple veiled; + Turn but thy face, that I may see and know + The witchcraft throned in Egypt long ago. + + There is a sound of flute and wavering reed, + The measured throb of falling oars that beat, + A tall prow swimming noiseless through the weed, + The shifting glimmer of a silken sheet; + And, from the dim luxuriance drawn nigh, + The feet of Royal Egypt passing by. + + And now, her foot is set upon the barge, + The flutes play up, the fans ply to and fro, + The ripples, dying at the river-marge, + Curl, as the prow swings out upon the flow, + And its retreating music and its state + Leave, once again, the dusk inviolate: + + Only, across the tillage lying low, + There comes the creak of well-wheels working late. + +❦ + + + + +WINTER AND SPRING + + + O wet green winter grass, + Sodden and chill with rain, + There are some footsteps that will never pass + Along the fields again. + + O fresh blue air of Spring, + When lights lie long upon the slope, + There are two eyes to which you cannot bring + Your lights of youth and hope. + + O white syringa-tree, + Year in, year out, below your feet + There is one heart to all eternity + That will not stir nor beat. + +❦ + + + + +A TRYST + + + Here, where our two ways part, + That, for a little time, ran side by side, + That now must turn and turning must divide, + Look, look and see how straight through Eden’s heart, + Unbarred, unbroken, lay the double track; + The dark has fallen and the sun has set, + The world lies round us, limitless, and yet + I will come back. + + Across the plain of life + There stretches this enchanted forest’s band, + Haunted of crying voices, stirred and fanned, + Swept through by airs whose breath, I know, is rife + In that far bourn wherein no man may lack + His sure fulfilment; look on leaf and flower-- + In the dim dawn of some unnumbered hour + I will come back. + + So meet me here: good-bye; + The light that lies on all this golden time + Shall burn on the horizon and shall climb + Like some vast city’s glow into the sky, + Unquenched by darkness or the cloudy wrack; + In flesh or spirit--which, it matters not, + --Remembered or unlooked for or forgot-- + I will come back. + +❦ + + + + +THE CALL + + + The stars above the apple boughs, + Like distant gazers, stand aloof, + Watching the white walls of the house, + Watching the room below the roof. + + There is the night-hush over all + Beneath the crescent hanging low, + And, through the dark, there comes a call + From hidden lips whose voice I know. + + And every root and stem and leaf, + Sends out its scented breath to me; + The fox is waiting like a thief, + The bird is watching from the tree. + + And, in the room below the thatch, + While the white house in sleep is drowned, + Up to the open window-latch + There come strange whispers from the ground. + + * * * * * + + I will arise and steal upon the stair, + Where the tall clock counts up Time’s gathered hoard + Telling its numbers to the empty air, + My naked feet upon the creaking board. + Out, out across the threshold I will go + Into the night, the sighing, luring night, + And all the eyes above, around, below, + Like lamps upon my path shall peer and glow + Till thorn and thicket are alive with light. + + I will lie down upon my mother Earth, + Heart to her heart and soul upon her soul, + Until the sounds that in the night have birth + Above my head their harmonies unroll; + And over me the little pattering feet + Shall come and go; and every bush and tree + Shall send from out its shades a cloudy fleet + Of flitting wings whose softly-thronging beat + Shall neither stay nor turn because of me. + +❦ + + + + +TIME AND SPACE + + + ‘How far, O friend, are you and I apart + While all these wastes of sea between us roll?’ + ‘So far, that now, the beating of your heart + Has merged into the flutter of your soul.’ + + ‘How far, my dear, has your hand gone from mine + In these long days and months since they have met?’ + ‘So far that memory has forgot to pine, + Believing that its touch is present yet.’ + + ‘And O! how far, when night has fallen between, + Shall we be set in all the years untold?’ + ‘So near that you, when trouble’s blast is keen, + Shall feel my shade between you and the cold.’ + +❦ + + + + +A TRANSLATION + +(FROM THE GERMAN) + + +1 + + In the valley with moonlight streaming, + In depths of the forest free, + An old and forgotten dreaming + Is weaving its spell round me. + + +2 + + Dim columns, ghostlike and lonely, + Range darkly on yonder mound, + To the bat and the owlet only + Familiar trysting ground. + + +3 + + From the rocks come memories ringing, + The west wind whispers and calls, + And towers of gold are springing + From ruin and crumbling walls. + + +4 + + In a haze, through cloudland blowing, + Is wafted the old love--dead; + She draws me towards her, glowing + With radiance of youth that’s fled. + + +5 + + Like bliss from a far past carried + Comes softly her whispered vow; + And what in the years lay buried + Stands living before me now. + + +6 + + Then, soft as it came, the vision + Is gone; from the forest space, + Where we kissed in the woods Elysian + Has faded her vanished face. + + +7 + + The golden dreamland of wonder + Has fled on the passing wind, + The desolate walls up yonder + Are all that remain behind. + + +8 + + And, under the branches sweeping, + I walk in the dawn alone, + For day on the hills is creeping + And the glory of dreams has flown. + +❦ + + + + +GLAMOUR + + + It seems as though Spring’s light and waving leaves + Were part of youth alone; + As though the shadows, dancing by the eaves + In shifting web on wall and window thrown, + Forgot how nature weaves. + + Still throbs the chorus of the birds content, + Still, clouded with the may, + Cream-white, the hedges trail their load of scent, + Winding along the border of the way, + The same, yet different. + + It seems as though the pear-tree’s bridal veil + Had lost its fluttered lace; + The butterflies that dart their splendour frail + Through sun and blossom in their endless chase + On duller pinions sail. + + What joy has faded out from field and tree? + What glamour from the air? + Are not the cowslips grouped as cunningly, + Whispering together like young maidens fair + To wait the errant bee? + + All, all the hues that Springtime ever wore + Return as fair again; + The ribes hangs its tassels as of yore, + Pungent and sweet beneath the dropping rain + At every cottage door. + + But what is lost? Nay, naught from nature’s flow + Of magic infinite; + Unchanged the earth, the skies of long ago-- + Yet, once we saw them through the morning light + And now the sun is low. + +❦ + + + + +LENORE IN THE OLIVEYARDS + +(FOR MUSIC) + + + When, stooping from the walls of Heaven, the night + Lets down on earth her star-bespangled hair, + And all the pavement of the winding stair + Is grey beneath a waning crescent’s light, + Look down upon the planted olive-trees, + A maze of twisted stem and silver leaf; + This is the message sighing on the breeze + ‘Joy sails on flying wings and youth is brief.’ + + +(HE SINGS) + + ‘Come down, come down, the little Loves are peeping + Between the stems and shadows on the grass + And all the prying eyes of earth are sleeping, + The sands are running in the hour-glass; + + The red anemone a crown shall weave you, + Be-jewelled with the dew and spiked with flame, + And all the little waiting Loves receive you + Beneath the branches whispering your name. + + Come down, Lenore; the cock will soon be crowing, + The noisy birds awake that now are dumb; + Can new hours match the moments that are going? + Who knows? Not you nor I, Lenore. Come.’ + +❦ + + + + +NEW YEAR’S EVE + + + Go far from me, ye brood + Of little Hates and Sins who thus intrude, + Hide with the perished leaf below the mould; + The Old Year’s shade is dim-- + A touch, no more, upon the round world’s rim-- + And all the sky a-glitter in the cold. + + Stand closer, Faith and Truth + And the long Patience that outlasts its youth, + The hour is at the change; and, drawing near, + There is a footstep’s sound, + A measured fall upon the iron ground, + And the earth, spell-bound, waits the coming year. + + Come from your graves, O Lost! + And stand, this once, beside me in the frost + And turn, once more, your eyes upon my own; + Leave, for the past’s old sake, + Some look, some comrade’s sign for me to take, + That, in the tossings of the time unknown, + I may not be alone. + +❦ + + + + +THREE POEMS FOR CHILDREN + + + + +I. THE LILACS + + + The fields and garden-borders + Are bright because of spring, + The clouds of guelder roses + Are out and blossoming; + And close beside the gateway, + Tall, upon either hand, + Their green robes shot with sunlight, + Like queens, the Lilacs stand. + + And one is crowned with purple, + And one is crowned with white; + Look! where the wind is passing + They bow to left and right, + And trails of scent they scatter + As royal gifts to all, + To every creature dwelling + Within the garden-wall. + + O queen in plumes of purple! + Throw me a breath of joy, + You are all grand and glorious + And I a little boy; + But ask the lovely lady + With white plumes in her hair + To scent my heart with sweetness, + To make it pure and fair. + +❦ + + + + +II. DREAMS + + + This is a thing that no one knows; + When every hedge in summer blows + With twining vetch and brier-rose, + + When every bud has burst its sheath, + The white convolvulus’ wreath + Is hung with blossoms underneath. + + They are so faint and pale and shy + They almost look as if they’d die + Before the sun has left the sky. + + What children, even if they tried, + Could ever guess that, far inside + Each bell, a little sprite may hide? + + And who’d suppose that, in the night, + When no one’s there to see the sight, + They all unclose their trumpets white? + + And, when the world is fast asleep, + Out of the flowers these fairies creep + And down into the lanes they peep. + + They see the little tinker-boys + Who have no home, no nurse, no toys, + And O! so few of children’s joys. + + And, as they watch them lying there + With weary heads and feet all bare, + They hover round them in the air; + + Such lovely dreams for them they make + That their tired feet no longer ache, + And they are happy when they wake. + + What do they show them? Glorious things; + Whole palaces of queens and kings + And birds that fly on golden wings. + + And silent waters, winding far + Through groves of trees where angels are, + Lit by the trail of one blue star. + + And, when they wake, these visions stay + To help them on along their way + And keep them cheerful all the day. + + _You_ want such dreams, you say to me? + --Ah, if these wonders you would see + A tinker’s child you’d have to be, + + To wander far and wander wide + From New Year’s Day to Christmastide, + And then--you’d have to sleep outside. + + But now the white moon walks the sky, + So, from your beds, thank God on high, + Because so soft and safe you lie. + + --And yet, some day, however blest, + You too may weary of your rest + And think, perhaps, that dreams are best. + +❦ + + + + +III. THE SNOW WITCH + + + When all the world is under snow, + And the wind, crying in the north, + Sends its wild choir of voices forth, + Now shrieking loud, now falling low, + The Snow Witch with her ice-crowned hair + Is hurling snowflakes everywhere. + + Her garments are the Northern Lights + Beyond the bare arms of the trees; + And, from her height, she looks and sees + Earth’s towns and hamlets lit o’ nights; + And sighs, mayhap, far up above, + For one poor hearth alight with love. + +❦ + + + + +THE VALLEY OF THE KINGS + + + Northward upon the stream our boat is creeping, + The sky above is pearl, the river pearl, + And soon will coming night her shades unfurl + Like some great bird on stealthy pinions sweeping, + As the effulgence chills + And young stars stand above the Theban hills + Within whose fastnesses the kings are sleeping. + + To them the roll of time is but a dreaming, + To them the lotus, mouldered on their breasts, + Still dripping from the Nile, in beauty rests, + As when the mourners broke those blossoms streaming + And shook the silver shower, + The pallid glory of the royal flower + Fit guerdon for a royal spirit deeming. + + To-night it seems that peak and rugged boulder + Stand o’er their soundless dwellings for a sign; + Surely some cipher of a hand divine + Is graven yonder on the mountain’s shoulder, + Hidden in shadows vast + That melt to greyness as the boat slips past + With the slow current, and the sky grows colder. + + Mayhap, the phantom of a past endeavour, + Born of that ancient striving to the light, + Has wrapt the secret sepulchres with might + And haunts the valley of the Nile for ever; + Breathing eternally + A note of immortality to be, + Resounding ceaselessly and dying never. + + While, round the sleepers, sounds of feet have broken + The stillness that encompassed them so long, + And the loud voices of an idle throng + Within those halls of death have idly spoken; + While sacrilegious hands + Have loosed about them the funereal bands + To rob their bosoms of life’s symbolled token, + + From one unchanging hope can none divide them, + Although its outward emblem be despoiled; + Though silence and the peace for which they toiled + A world whose ways they knew not has denied them, + That hope its wings has spread + Within the rifled strongholds of the dead + As the wings shadowed on the wall beside them. + + Changeless, unaltered still the soul’s desire is, + Fixed as the hills whose heights we leave behind + To merge in fading colours undefined, + Purple and amethyst and rose and iris, + And, to the dripping oar, + The dusk is closing down along the shore, + The brooding dusk of Isis and Osiris. + +❦ + + + + +THE LOWLAND PLOUGHMAN + + + The team is stabled up, my lass, + The dew lies thick and grey; + Beyond the world, the long green light + Clings to the edge of day. + + By farm and fold the work is still, + Their breath the beanflowers yield, + And, in the dusk, the gowans stand + Like moons along the field. + + A little ghost alone, my dear, + The night moth flitters by; + Beside the hedge I’m lonely too, + Although no ghost am I. + + Leave the gudeman to mind the hearth, + The wife to mend the fire, + Nor heed the lads whose voices come + In mirth from yard and byre. + + The evening star is up, my dear, + And oh! the night is sweet, + Come through the heavy drops that bend + The grasses at your feet. + + For I am young and I am strong + And well can work for two, + And ’tis a year, come Martinmas, + I’ve loved no lass but you. + + And, in a year, come Martinmas, + Before the fields are sown, + I will not need to walk nor stray + Between the lights alone. + + For then the cot beyond the farm + A happy man will hold, + A wife who wears a golden ring + To match her hair of gold. + +❦ + + + + +LATE FEBRUARY + + + Blue vistas of an avenue + Range, line on line, against the sky; + Away, beyond, the low hills lie + To frame this landscape in with blue. + + And clear and far the light is spread + As though earth smiled to feel the stir, + The first faint thrill that moves in her + Who, all these months, has lain as dead. + + Fresh year, fresh sky, fresh hope--and yet + A sigh is in the lengthening days; + Between the trunks the blackbird strays + Whose long-drawn note is called regret. + + White snowdrops, close among the roots, + Scored at your drooping hearts with green, + What scents from springs that once have been + Cling, like old griefs, among your shoots? + + Yes, like old griefs; and we, who view, + Year after year, life’s deathless round, + Feel their spent throb in every wound + And know that they are deathless too. + +❦ + + + + +FROM A TRAIN-WINDOW + + + Where, struck with sunset light, the shining rails + Converge upon our track, + The smoky canopy of London veils + The distant heaven with black. + + Behind us, dropping further in our wake, + The lessening city lies, + And all the landscape has begun to take + A glamour from the skies. + + Scarcely a cloud the sun’s effulgence shields + From evening’s stealthy hand; + But half the crimson disc beyond the fields + Stares on the level land. + + Through the moist meadows, broad on either side, + Merged to one dusky plain, + There sounds, the breathing stillness to divide, + The clanking of the train. + + And cooling silence, like a wave of balm, + After the city’s heat, + Is spread around us, odourous and calm, + With foam of meadowsweet. + + In the damp ditches ranging from the line + Towards the lighted west + Tall spires of blossom, dimly white, define + A sweetness manifest. + + And now the last red rim is vanishing, + Leaving the sky-line cold, + And mists, transfigured, to the grasses cling + Like gossamer of gold. + + The dusk descends; between us and the town + The gliding miles increase; + And on our souls there settles softly down + An all-enfolding peace. + +❦ + + + + +POEMS OF INDIA + + + + +I. IN A MANGO-TOPE[1] + +[1] Grove. + + + Between the sky-line and my feet + The stretch of lemon-grass is sere, + And, from some hidden village near, + There comes a single tom-tom’s beat. + + High noon is grey on bush and tree, + The plain runs on without a change, + As though, for once, the eye could range + Through time into eternity. + + And round me, in the mango-tope, + No sound disturbs the stillness wide + But the horse tethered at my side + Cropping the herbage of the slope. + + All human stress has died away, + As if life, pausing, held apart, + As if this vain world’s fretting heart + Stood still to hear the silence pray. + + In many a mud-walled haunt of man + To-night the screaming conch will blare + --God knows what forces throng the air + Above these plains of Hindoostan. + + From under every banyan-tree + Whose roots entwine the reddened stone + Carved with some god that lurks alone + Beneath the aërial canopy, + + From every grove within the land + Whose shadows hide a crumbling shrine + There seems to come some unknown sign, + Some touch of an undreamed-of hand. + + And where, without the village wall, + Some woman’s soul went up in fire + And the thick reek above the pyre + Hung in mid-heaven like a pall, + + Around that altar in the plain, + Hid though it be in jungle grass, + Forgotten as the seasons pass, + There clings the majesty of pain; + + The life-through-death that has not ceased, + Which cannot drown in Lethe’s flood, + That sign of sacrificial blood + That stains and glorifies the East. + + O land so near the veil, where life + Is lived beside the shore of death, + Which treads the rose to taste its breath + And wraps the garland round the knife, + + Beneath the chastening of thy sun, + By tree and plain and jungle-shrine, + Whose soul through silence touches thine, + May know that life and death are one! + +❦ + + + + +II. NIGHT IN THE PLAINS + + + The plains lie in the furnace of the year + And sleep, repenting, hides from men his boon, + And flagging life strains fitfully to hear + The tardy footstep of the slow monsoon. + All day the stones, the dust upon the plain, + From never-changing skies the heat have drawn, + And darkness brings no solace in its train + --The breeze will rise an hour before the dawn. + + There is no rest; from out the heavy skies + The burning planets hang; now near, now far, + Shrilly the women’s voices fall and rise, + Crying to Kali in the hot bazaar. + There is no nightwatch but will end at last, + There is no vigil but will pass away, + The time wears on, the moon is setting fast + --The breeze will rise an hour before the day. + + Life crouches low and fear is with the strong, + On every side the crawling time to mark, + There sound, like fevered pulses all night long, + The tom-toms, throbbing in the stifling dark; + A puff of odour from the jasmine-tree + Comes by the well across the parching lawn, + See where the hosts of heaven stand patiently, + --The breeze will rise an hour before the dawn. + + The sick men toss, the breathless air is still; + Along the ward one slow, soft whisper falls, + Where Death’s grim angel waits to have his will + Within the shadow of the whitewashed walls; + And women’s steadfast eyes are fixed upon + The lurking shape whose hand they keep at bay, + Stand up, O souls of men, fight on, fight on! + --The breeze will rise an hour before the day. + + Is that a shiver in the tamarind, + Or some awakening bird that stirs the leaves? + Turn, turn to sleep, there comes a breath of wind + And mainas talk by the verandah-eaves; + A little space to sleep and to forget + Before the tyrant sun begins his sway, + Ere in the heavens his brazen throne be set + --God give us strength to face the coming day. + +❦ + + + + +III. THE RESTING-PLACE + + + Brother, beside the jungle track, thy stone + Half raised, a nameless, carven slab, I see, + Half hidden by the tangle, secretly; + Where roots join twisted hands above thy head, + Where scarce a footfall passes save my own, + Nor white man’s tread. + + I have been wandering since noon was high, + And now, because the evening comes apace, + Thy tomb shall be my rest a little space; + From thy long-vanished hand this loan I take, + Across the years this hospitality + That thou dost make. + + The jungle has grown over thee, O friend, + For, scarce a furlong from thy buried dust, + Once stood a city where the great and just + Built high the parapet and mosque and dome, + Where now the creeper flings its tasselled end + Around their home. + + How many centuries have come and gone + Since first thou sawest, with awakened eyes, + The green-scarfed houris proffering Paradise; + Since thy young cresent moon, athwart this shade, + Son of the Prophet, has in silver shone + Where thou art laid! + + Mayhap, thy spirit loved what mine loves best; + The tread of horses and the pride of life, + The jungle’s magic and the joy of strife, + The long nights spent beneath the spangled sky-- + O dead Mahommedan! Thy passing guest + By these accepts from thee this meed of rest + _Salaam, O Bhai!_[2] + +[2] Brother. + +❦ + + + + +IV. EVENING IN THE OPIUM FIELDS + + + As pageants, marshalled by a masterhand, + So are the poppy-fields; in rose and red + And foam of white and livid purple spread, + Mile upon mile, they stretch on either hand; + Dark by the well the heavy mangoes stand, + Where labouring oxen pace with dusty tread + And dripping water-skins climb up to shed + Their gush upon the irrigated land. + + So cool the labyrinthine channels run, + Flooding the grey stems with a maze of gold; + For, as he nears his end, the dying sun + Does all the plain within his arms enfold; + Beneath the mangoe-trees long shadows creep, + Like sleep’s tread falling through the flowers of sleep. + +❦ + + + + +V. ‘GOD IS GREAT’ + + + “_Allāh hu akhbar! + Allāh hu akhbar! + La ilahā illalāh!_” + + Aslant upon the dusty way + The little mosque has thrown its shade, + A streak of blue at noontime laid, + To lengthen tardily with day; + And now the hour has come to pray, + Soldier and prince and clod-- + ‘God is great, God is great, + There is no god but God!’ + + He stands upon the outer wall, + His hand upraised, his sunken eyes + Look westward to where Mecca lies; + Ho! Islam’s men, it is the call + To evening prayer; he cries to all, + Soldier and prince and clod-- + ‘God is great, God is great, + There is no god but God!’ + + Close to the wall below his feet + A pomegranate, against the white, + Flaunts, green and scarlet, in the light, + Now glaring day has lost its heat; + Ho! Islam’s men in field and street, + Soldier and prince and clod-- + ‘God is great, God is great, + There is no god but God!’ + + Dark figure, seeing inwardly + Through evening mist and evening balms + To Mecca, white among the palms, + Across the rolling leagues of sea, + At thy long cry they bend the knee, + Soldier and prince and clod-- + ‘God is great, God is great, + There is no god but God!’ + + Spread at thy feet, around, beneath, + The world wears on amid its tears, + And few and evil are their years + Fighting their way from birth to death, + Soldier and prince and clod-- + What shining city canst thou see, + Far off, beyond the flood of fate, + Where none are poor or desolate + That thou dost cry eternally? + + There comes no answer, early, late, + But ‘God is great, God is great, + There is no god but God!’ + + “_Allāh hu akhbar! + Allāh hu akhbar! + La ilahā illalāh!_” + +❦ + + + + +VI. A MAHOMMEDAN GRAVEYARD + + + Within the wall their graves are still and white, + Their feet turned ever southward; all the dust + Is thick in moonlight, and the banyans thrust + Long roots into the glory of the night; + Hanging like dusky tresses overhead, + Where, by the highway’s side, lie Islam’s dead. + + Who sighs, who prays one prayer as he perceives, + So near his passing foot, that township set + With crumbling slab and little minaret + Below the lattice of the banyan leaves? + Who knows one name in all that silent throng + Whose hands have ceased from work so long--so long? + + Each heart round which eternal shadow sleeps + Has spent the hour that we have all to spend, + Has waited for the coming of the end, + And now, who thinks, who minds, who cares, who weeps? + Who tells us how he faced the figure grim? + ’Tis words to us--it was the world to him. + + How shall we nerve our hearts to bear that sight, + The long horizon of advancing dark, + That dread oblivion with no lamp nor spark + Of love’s remembrance to make soft the night? + What is there but the dull relief of tears + That weakness wrings from us throughout our years? + + No, never that. Who stands and fights his pain + Can still endure. But unto him who lies + And seeks to ease him with his coward cries + Relief is not nor any rest again; + And who can tighten up the string anew + That gives beneath the straining of the screw? + + O brothers! turn and look where courage stands + Serene and still with never-changing eye, + Courage to be forgot--to live--to die, + Stand up like men and clench your failing hands; + What man could dare to face the land unknown + With but a coward’s heart to call his own? + +❦ + + + + +VII. CHERRY-BLOSSOM AT DAGSHAI + + + Far down below this range to-day + A waft of morning pureness fills + The blue ravines that stretch away + To lose themselves among the hills. + + And, like a shrouded diadem, + Beyond the peaks set row on row, + Looms northern India’s mystic gem, + The crown of Himalayan snow. + + These lower heights which close us in + A more ethereal jewel wear, + There seems, where sheer descents begin, + A radiant mirage in the air, + + For, with its veil of rose and foam + A-quiver like transparent wings, + To the stern ramparts of its home + The wild hill cherry-blossom clings. + + Own sister to the clouds of dawn, + Each magic tree o’erhangs the brink, + Its slender stems like lattice drawn, + Dark, on a fairyland of pink. + + Three days agone no sign was ours, + No voice to cry the coming hope + That autumn’s wave would break in flowers + And roll in torrents down the slope; + + But as, when darkness rends apart, + A shaft of glory pierces through, + Joy’s hand has pierced the mountain’s heart + And all the barren world is new. + +❦ + + + + +VIII. ‘WITH MILITARY HONOURS’ + + + Take down the helmet from its dusty board, + Lay down his sword + Upon the flag that drapes his narrow bed; + Pace, horses, with your load, + Down the white road, + Beneath the glare by Eastern sunlight shed. + + And you, ye passing men of other race, + Make way, give place + Before a freight more sacred than the gun; + Dark eyes of each degree + Look up and see + That well-known pageant passing in the sun. + + With clank of chain and wheels the carriage goes, + But his repose + Nor sound of arms nor tramp of horse can dim; + Forward; the dead-march rolls, + Keep we our souls + Strong for the last that love can do for him. + + Flowers, lie soft upon his weary breast, + He is at rest, + The fight he could but lose is over now; + Lie light, ye heartsease bands, + Like parting hands + Laying a last caress upon his brow. + + Asters, twine purple like a velvet pall, + Cry out to all, + Ye heavy grave-flowers, of a new-made grief; + A body striving sore + That strives no more; + His night was long but daylight brought relief. + + O trumpet voice of flaming marigold! + Tell out with bold + And certain tongue how great a heart lies here, + Until the Trumpet’s tone + Shall drown your own + And that dear head upon its time-worn bier + Shall wake and hear. + +❦ + + + + +IX. THE DISTANT TEMPLE + + + Branch of the henna-tree, + Blown in a temple garden far away + In that unfading East across the sea, + O for one waft of perfume from your spray + To cheer the heart in me! + + Flower of the champa white, + Sown by the evening wind where dusky feet + Have worn the temple pavement with their beat, + I would lie down and give my soul to-night + Could I but breathe your sweet! + + Note of the temple gong + At sunset clanging through the dusty gold, + Since last I heard your nightly music told + It seems as though the months were ages long + And joy itself grown old. + + Heart of the East, my heart, + Laden with your remembrance, may not rest; + The very winds that blow from east to west + From out that far horizon-line, impart + Your whisper, trebly blest. + + Sound of the temple drum, + Like distant beating of the march of fate, + Through the long years your voice is never dumb, + Calling, at sundown, from the temple gate + To me, who cannot come. + +❦ + + +_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay._ + + + + +Transcriber’s Notes + + +Possible printer’s errors were generally retained, including odd and +inconsistent hyphenations, spellings, and punctuations. + +_Italics_, =Bolds=, and +Small Caps+ have been marked as so. + +Footnotes have been renumbered and moved to the end of their respective +stanza. + +Where missing in certain poems, the fleuron ❦ symbol/illustration has +been silently added to the end. + +These poems have had their individual indentation or stanzas +standardized within each poem: The Lost Track, The Soul, New Year’s +Eve, With Military Honours. + +Quotation marks have been added to the 2nd stanza of Time and Space: +‘How far, my dear, has your hand gone from mine In these long days and +months since they have met?’ + +In the 5th stanza of The Valley of the Kings, the final comma was kept +instead of replacing it with a period. +The section number of God is Great has been changed to “V.” to match +the Table of Contents. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78110 *** |