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diff --git a/9559.txt b/9559.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a286e72 --- /dev/null +++ b/9559.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2176 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ride to the Lady, by Helen Gray Cone + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: Ride to the Lady + and Other Poems + +Author: Helen Gray Cone + +Posting Date: August 16, 2012 [EBook #9559] +Release Date: December, 2005 +First Posted: October 8, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIDE TO THE LADY *** + + + + +Produced by Ted Garvin, Josephine Paolucci, and Project +Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + + +THE RIDE TO THE LADY + +And Other Poems + +BY + +HELEN GRAY CONE + +1891 + + + + + + + + CONTENTS + + The Ride to the Lady + + The First Guest + + Silence + + Arraignment + + The Going Out of the Tide + + King Raedwald + + Ivo of Chartres + + Madonna Pia + + Two Moods of Failure + + The Story of the "Orient" + + A Resurrection + + The Glorious Company + + The Trumpeter + + Comrades + + The House of Hate + + The Arrowmaker + + A Nest in a Lyre + + Thisbe + + The Spring Beauties + + Kinship + + Compensation + + When Willows Green + + At the Parting of the Ways + + The Fair Gray Lady + + The Encounter. + + Summer Hours + + Love Unsung + + The Wish for a Chaplet + + Sonnets: + The Torch Race + To Sleep + Sister Snow + The Contrast + A Mystery + Triumph + In Winter, with the Book we had in Spring + Sere Wisdom + Isolation + The Lost Dryad + The Gifts of the Oak + The Strayed Singer + The Immortal Word + + + + + THE RIDE TO THE LADY + + + "Now since mine even is come at last,-- + For I have been the sport of steel, + And hot life ebbeth from me fast, + And I in saddle roll and reel,-- + Come bind me, bind me on my steed! + Of fingering leech I have no need!" + The chaplain clasped his mailed knee. + "Nor need I more thy whine and thee! + No time is left my sins to tell; + But look ye bind me, bind me well!" + They bound him strong with leathern thong, + For the ride to the lady should be long. + + Day was dying; the poplars fled, + Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red; + Out of the sky the fierce hue fell, + And made the streams as the streams of hell. + All his thoughts as a river flowed, + Flowed aflame as fleet he rode, + Onward flowed to her abode, + Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face. + (Viewless Death apace, apace, + Rode behind him in that race.) + + "Face, mine own, mine alone, + Trembling lips my lips have known, + Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne + Under the kisses that make them mine! + Only of thee, of thee, my need! + Only to thee, to thee, I speed!" + The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; + In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern. + + Far behind had the fight's din died; + The shuddering stars in the welkin wide + Crowded, crowded, to see him ride. + The beating hearts of the stars aloof + kept time to the beat of the horse's hoof, + "What is the throb that thrills so sweet? + Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!" + But his own strong pulse the fainter fell, + Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell. + The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet + Not alone with the started sweat. + + Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood + Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood; + Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein,-- + But the viewless rider rode to win, + Out of the wood to the highway's light + Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; + The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried, + And the weight of the dead oppressed his side. + + Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; + And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew; + And the waiting heaven turned weirdly blue, + As a garment worn of a wizard grim. + He neighed at the gate in the morning dim. + + She heard no sound before her gate, + Though very quiet was her bower. + All was as her hand had left it late: + The needle slept on the broidered vine, + Where the hammer and spikes of the passion-flower + Her fashioning did wait. + On the couch lay something fair, + With steadfast lips and veiled eyne; + + But the lady was not there, + On the wings of shrift and prayer, + Pure as winds that winnow snow, + Her soul had risen twelve hours ago. + The burdened steed at the barred gate stood, + No whit the nearer to his goal. + Now God's great grace assoil the soul + That went out in the wood! + + + + + THE FIRST GUEST + + + When the house is finished, Death enters. + _Eastern Proverb_ + + Life's House being ready all, + Each chamber fair and dumb, + Ere life, the Lord, is come + With pomp into his hall,-- + Ere Toil has trod the floors, + Ere Love has lit the fires, + Or young great-eyed Desires + Have, timid, tried the doors; + Or from east-window leaned + One Hope, to greet the sun, + Or one gray Sorrow screened + Her sight against the west,-- + Then enters the first guest, + The House of life being done. + + He waits there in the shade. + I deem he is Life's twin, + For whom the house was made. + Whatever his true name, + Be sure, to enter in + He has both key and claim. + + The daybeams, free of fear, + Creep drowsy toward his feet; + His heart were heard to beat, + Were any there to hear; + Ah, not for ends malign, + Like wild thing crouched in lair, + Or watcher of a snare, + But with a friend's design + He lurks in shadow there! + + He goes not to the gates + To welcome any other, + Nay, not Lord Life, his brother; + But still his hour awaits + Each several guest to find + Alone, yea, quite alone; + Pacing with pensive mind + The cloister's echoing stone, + Or singing, unaware, + At the turning of the stair + Tis truth, though we forget, + In Life's House enters none + Who shall that seeker shun, + Who shall not so be met. + "Is this mine hour?" each saith. + "So be it, gentle Death!" + Each has his way to end, + Encountering this friend. + Griefs die to memories mild; + Hope turns a weaned child; + Love shines a spirit white, + With eyes of deepened light. + When many a guest has passed, + Some day 'tis Life's at last + To front the face of Death. + Then, casements closed, men say: + "Lord Life is gone away; + He went, we trust and pray, + To God, who gave him breath." + Beginning, End, He is: + Are not these sons both His? + Lo, these with Him are one! + To phrase it so were best: + God's self is that first Guest, + The House of Life being done! + + + + + SILENCE + + + Why should I sing of earth or heaven? not rather rest, + Powerless to speak of that which hath my soul possessed,-- + For full possession dumb? Yea, Silence, that were best. + + And though for what it failed to sound I brake the string, + And dashed the sweet lute down, a too much fingered thing, + And found a wild new voice,--oh, still, why should I sing? + + An earth-song could I make, strange as the breath of earth, + Filled with the great calm joy of life and death and birth? + Yet, were it less than this, the song were little worth. + + For this the fields caress; brown clods tell each to each; + Sad-colored leaves have sense whereto I cannot reach; + Spiced everlasting-flowers outstrip my range of speech. + + A heaven-song could I make, all fire that yet was peace, + And tenderness not lost, though glory did increase? + But were it less than this, 't were well the song should cease. + + For this the still west saith, with plumy flames bestrewn; + Heaven's body sapphire-clear, at stirless height of noon; + The cloud where lightnings pulse, beside the untroubled moon. + + I will not sing of earth or heaven, but rather rest, + Rapt by the face of heaven, and hold on earth's warm breast. + Hushed lips, a beating heart, yea, Silence, that were best. + + + + + ARRAIGNMENT + + + "Not ye who have stoned, not ye who have smitten us," cry + The sad, great souls, as they go out hence into dark, + "Not ye we accuse, though for you was our passion borne; + And ye we reproach not, who silently passed us by. + We forgive blind eyes and the ears that would not hark, + The careless and causeless hate and the shallow scorn. + + "But ye, who have seemed to know us, have seen and heard; + Who have set us at feasts and have crowned with the costly rose; + Who have spread us the purple of praises beneath our feet; + Yet guessed not the word that we spake was a living word, + Applauding the sound,--we account you as worse than foes! + We sobbed you our message; ye said, 'It is song, and sweet!'" + + + + + THE GOING OUT OF THE TIDE + + + The eastern heaven was all faint amethyst, + Whereon the moon hung dreaming in the mist; + To north yet drifted one long delicate plume + Of roseate cloud; like snow the ocean-spume. + + Now when the first foreboding swiftly ran + Through the loud-glorying sea that it began + To lose its late gained lordship of the land, + Uprose the billow like an angered man, + And flung its prone strength far along the sand; + Almost, almost to the old bound, the dark + And taunting triumph-mark. + + But no, no, no! and slow, and slow, and slow, + Like a heart losing hold, this wave must go,-- + Must go, must go,--dragged heavily back, back, + Beneath the next wave plunging on its track, + Charging, with thunderous and defiant shout, + To fore-determined rout. + + Again, again the unexhausted main + Renews fierce effort, drawing force unguessed + From awful deeps of its mysterious breast: + Like arms of passionate protest, tossed in vain, + The spray upflings above the billow's crest. + Again the appulse, again the backward strain-- + Till ocean must have rest. + + With one abandoned movement, swift and wild,-- + As though bowed head and outstretched arms it laid + On the earth's lap, soft sobbing,--hushed and stayed, + The great sea quiets, like a soothed child. + Ha! what sharp memory clove the calm, and drave + This last fleet furious wave? + + On, on, endures the struggle into night, + Ancient as Time, yet fresh as the fresh hour; + As oft repeated since the birth of light + As the strong agony and mortal fight + Of human souls, blind-reaching, with the Power + Aloof, unmoved, impossible to cross, + Whose law is seeming loss. + + Low-sunken from the longed-for triumph-mark; + The spent sea sighs as one that grieves in sleep. + The unveiled moon along the rippling plain + Casts many a keen, cold, shifting silvery spark, + Wild as the pulses of strange joy, that leap + Even in the quick of pain. + + And she compelling, she that stands for law,-- + As law for Will eternal,--perfect, clear, + And uncompassionate shines: to her appear + Vast sequences close-linked without a flaw. + All past despairs of ocean unforgot, + All raptures past, serene her light she gives, + The moon too high for pity, since she lives + Aware that loss is not. + + + + + KING RAEDWALD + + + Will you hear now the speech of King Raedwald,--heathen Raedwald, + the simple yet wise? + He, the ruler of North-folk and South-folk, a man open-browed + as the skies, + Held the eyes of the eager Italians with his blue, bold, + Englishman's eyes. + + In his hall, on his throne, so he sat, with the light of the fire + on him full: + Colored bright as the ring of red gold on his hand, fit to buffet + a bull, + Was the mane that grew down on his neck, was the beard he would + pondering pull. + + To the priests, to the eager Italians, thus fearless less he poured + his free speech; + "O my honey-tongued fathers, I turn not away from the faith that ye + teach! + Not the less hath a man many moods, and may ask a religion for each. + + "Grant that all things are well with the realm on a delicate day + of the spring, + Easter month, time of hopes and of swallows! + The praises, the psalms that ye sing, + As in pleasant accord they float heavenward, are good in the ears + of the king. + + "Then the heart bubbles forth with clear waters, to the time + of this wonder-word Peace, + From the chanting and preaching whereof ye who serve the + white Christ never cease; + And your curly, soft incense ascending enwraps my content + like a fleece. + + "But a churl comes adrip from the rivers, pants me out, fallen + spent on the floor, + 'O King Raedwald, Northumberland marches, and to-morrow knocks + hard at thy door, + Hot for melting thy crown on the hearth!' + Then commend me to Woden and Thor! + + "Could I sit then and listen to preachments on turning the cheek + to the blow, + And saying a prayer for the smiter, and holding my seen treasure low + For the sake of a treasure unseen? By the sledge of the Thunderer, no! + + "For my thought flashes out as a sword, cleaving counsel as + clottage of cream; + And your incense and chanting are but as the smoke of burnt + towns and the scream; + And I quaff me the thick mead of triumph from enemies' skulls + in my dream! + + "And 'tis therefore this day I resolve me,--for King Raedwald + will cringe not, nor lie!-- + I will bring back the altar of Woden; in the temple will have it, + hard by + The new altar of this your white Christ. As my mood may decide, + worship I!" + + So he spake in his large self-reliance,--he, a man open-browed + as the skies; + Would not measure his soul by a standard that was womanish-weak + to his eyes, + Smite his breast and go on with his sinning,--savage Raedwald, + the simple yet wise! + + And the centuries bloom o'er his barrow. But for us,--have we + mastered it quite, + The old riddle, that sweet is strong's outcome, the old marvel, + that meekness is might, + That the child is the leader of lions, that forgiveness is force + at its height? + + When we summon the shade of rude Raedwald, in his candor how + king-like he towers! + Have the centuries, over his slumber, only borne sterile falsehoods + for flowers? + Pray you, what if Christ found him the nobler, having weighed his + frank manhood with ours? + + + + + IVO OF CHARTRES + + + Now may it please my lord, Louis the king, + Lily of Christ and France! riding his quest, + I, Bishop Ivo, saw a wondrous thing. + + There was no light of sun left in the west, + And slowly did the moon's new light increase. + Heaven, without cloud, above the near hill's crest, + Lay passion purple in a breathless peace. + Stars started like still tears, in rapture shed, + Which without consciousness the lids release. + + All steadily, one little sparkle red, + Afar, drew close. A woman's form grew up + Out of the dimness, tall, with queen-like head, + And in one hand was fire; in one, a cup. + Of aspect grave she was, with eyes upraised, + As one whose thoughts perpetually did sup + At the Lord's table. + + While the cresset blazed, + Her I regarded. "Daughter, whither bent, + And wherefore?" As by speech of man amazed, + One moment her deep look to me she lent; + Then, in a voice of hymn-like, solemn fall, + Calm, as by role, she spake out her intent: + + "I in my cruse bear water, wherewithal + To quench the flames of Hell; and with my fire + I Paradise would burn: that hence no small + Fear shall impel, and no mean hope shall hire, + Men to serve God as they have served of yore; + But to his will shall set their whole desire, + For love, love, love alone, forevermore!" + + And "love, love, love," rang round her as she passed + From sight, with mystic murmurs o'er and o'er + Reverbed from hollow heaven, as from some vast, + Deep-colored, vaulted, ocean-answering shell. + + I, Ivo, had no power to ban or bless, + But was as one withholden by a spell. + Forward she fared in lofty loneliness, + Urged on by an imperious inward stress, + To waste fair Eden, and to drown fierce Hell. + + + + + MADONNA PIA + + + Ricordati di me, che son la Pia. + Siena mi fe; disfecomi Maremma; + Salsi colui, che, inanellata pria, + Disposato m'avea colla sua gemma. + + _Purgatorio_, Canto V. + + + To westward lies the unseen sea, + Blue sea the live winds wander o'er. + The many-colored sails can flee, + And leave the dead, low-lying shore. + Her longing does not seek the main, + Her face turns northward first at morn; + There, crowning all the wide champaign, + Siena stood, where she was born. + + Siena stands, and still shall stand; + She ne'er shall see or town or tower. + Warm life and beauty, hand in hand, + Steal farther from her hour by hour. + Yet forth she leans, with trembling knees, + And northward will she stare and stare + Through that thick wall of cypress-trees, + And sigh adown the stirless air: + + "Shall no remembrance in Siena linger + Of me, once fair, whom slow Maremma slays? + As well he knows, whose ring upon my finger + Hath sealed for his alone mine earthly days!" + + From wilds where shudders through the weeds + The dull, mean-headed, silent snake, + Like voiceless doubt that creeps and breeds; + From swamps where sluggish waters take, + As lives unblest a passing love, + The flag-flower's image in the spring, + Or seem, when flits the bird above, + To stir within with shadowed wing, + + A Presence mounts in pallid mist + To fold her close: she breathes its breath; + She waxes wan, by Fever kissed, + Who weds her for his master, Death, + Aside are set her dimmed hopes all, + She counts no more the uncurrent hoard; + On gray Death's neck she fain would fall, + To own him for her proper lord. + + She minds the journey here by night: + When some red sudden torch would blaze, + She saw by fits, with childish fright, + The cork-trees twist beside the ways. + Like dancing demon shapes they showed, + With malice drunk; the bat beat by, + The owlet sobbed; on, on they rode, + She knew not where, she knows not why. + + For Nello--when in piteous wise + She lifted up her look to ask, + Except the ever-burning eyes + His face was like a marble mask. + And so it always meets her now; + The tomb wherein at last he lies + Shall bear such carven lips and brow, + All save the ever-burning eyes. + + Perchance it is his form alone + Doth stroke his hound, at meat doth sit, + And, for the soul that was his own, + A fiend awhile inhabits it; + While he sinks through the fiery throng, + Down, to fill an evil bond, + Since false conceit of others' wrong + Hath wrought him to a sin beyond. + + But she--if when her years were glad + Vain fluttering thoughts were hers, that hid + Behind that gracious fame she had; + If e'er observance hard she did + That sinful men might call her saint,-- + White-handed Pia, dovelike-eyed,-- + The sick blank hours shall yet acquaint + Her heart with all her blameful pride. + + And Death shall find her kneeling low, + And lift her to the porphyry stair, + And she from ledge to ledge shall go, + Stayed by the staff of that last prayer, + Until the high, sweet-singing wood + Whence folk are rapt to heaven, she win; + Therein the unpardoned never stood, + Nor may one Sorrow nest therein. + + But through the Tuscan land shall beat + Her Sorrow, like a wounded bird; + And if her suit at Mary's feet + Avail, its moan shall yet be heard + By some just poet, who shall shed, + Whate'er the theme that leads his rhyme + Bright words like tears above her, dead, + Entreating of the after time: + + "Among you let her mournful memory linger! + Siena bare her, whom Maremma slew; + And this dark lord, who gave her maiden finger + His ancient gem, the secret only knew." + + + + + TWO MOODS OF FAILURE + + I + + THE LAST CUP OF CANARY + + Sir Harry Lovelock, 1645 + + + So, the powder's low, and the larder's clean, + And surrender drapes, with its black impending, + All the stage for a sorry and sullen scene: + Yet indulge me my whim of a madcap ending! + + Let us once more fill, ere the final chill, + Every vein with the glow of the rich canary! + Since the sweet hot liquor of life's to spill, + Of the last of the cellar what boots be chary? + + Then hear the conclusion: I'll yield my breath, + But my leal old house and my good blade never! + Better one bitter kiss on the lips of Death + Than despoiled Defeat as a wife forever! + + Let the faithful fire hold the walls in ward + Till the roof-tree crash! Be the smoke once riven + While we flash from the gate like a single sword, + True steel to the hilt, though in dull earth driven! + + Do you frown, Sir Richard, above your ruff, + In the Holbein yonder? My deed ensures you! + For the flame like a fencer shall give rebuff + To your blades that blunder, you Roundhead boors, you! + + And my ladies, a-row on the gallery wall, + Not a sing-song sergeant or corporal sainted + Shall pierce their breasts with his Puritan ball, + To annul the charms of the flesh, though painted! + + I have worn like a jewel the life they gave; + As the ring in mine ear I can lightly lose it, + If my days be done, why, my days were brave! + If the end arrive, I as master choose it! + + Then fill to the brim, and a health, I say, + To our liege King Charles, and I pray God bless him! + 'T would amend worse vintage to drink dismay + To the clamorous mongrel pack that press him! + + And a health to the fair women, past recall, + That like birds astray through the heart's hall flitted; + To the lean devil Failure last of all, + And the lees in his beard for a fiend outwitted! + + + II + + THE YOUNG MAN CHARLES STUART REVIEWETH THE TROOPS ON BLACKHEATH + + (Private Constant-in-Tribulation Joyce, _May_, 1660) + + + We were still as a wood without wind; as 't were set by a spell + Stayed the gleam on the steel cap, the glint on the slant petronel. + He to left of me drew down his grim grizzled lip with his teeth,-- + I remember his look; so we grew like dumb trees on the heath. + + But the people,--the people were mad as with store of new wine; + Oh, they cheered him, they capped him, they roared as he rode + down the line: + He that fled us at Worcester, the boy, the green brier-shoot, the son + Of the Stuart on whom for his sin the great judgment was done! + + Swam before us the field of our shame, and our souls walked afar; + Saw the glory, the blaze of the sun bursting over Dunbar; + Saw the faces of friends, in the morn riding jocund to fight; + Saw the stern pallid faces again, as we saw them at night! + + "O ye blessed, who died in the Lord! would to God that we too + Had so passed, only sad that we ceased his high justice to do, + With the words of the psalm on our lips that from Israel's once came, + How the Lord is a strong man of war; yea, the Lord is his name! + + "Not for us, not for us! who have served for his kingdom seven years, + Yea, and yet other seven have we served, sweating blood, bleeding + tears, + For the kingdom of God and the saints! Rachel's beauty made bold, + Yet we bear but a Leah at last to a hearth that is cold!" + + Burned the fire while I mused, while I gloomed; in the end came a call; + Settled o'er me a calm like a cloud, spake a voice still and small: + "Take thou Leah to bride, take thou Failure to bed and to board! + Thou shalt rear up new strengths at her knees; she is given + of the Lord! + + "If with weight of his right hand, with power, he denieth to deal, + And the smoke clouds, and thunders of guns, and the lightnings + of steel, + Shall the cool silent dews of his grace, in a season of peace, + Not descend on the land, as of old, for a sign, on the fleece? + + "Hath he cleft not the rock, to the yield of a stream that is sweet? + Hath he set in the ribs of the lion no honey for meat? + Can he bring not delight to the desert, and buds to the rod? + He will shine, he will visit his vine; he hath sworn, he is God!" + + Then I thought of the gate I rode through on the roan that's + long dead,-- + I remember the dawn was but pale, and the stars overhead; + Of the babe that is grown to a maid, and of Martha, my wife, + And the spring on the wolds far away, and gave thanks for my life! + + + + + THE STORY OF THE "ORIENT" + + + 'T was a pleasant Sunday morning while the spring was in its glory, + English spring of gentle glory; smoking by his cottage door, + Florid-faced, the man-o'-war's-man told his white-head boy the story, + Noble story of Aboukir, told a hundred times before. + + "Here, the _Theseus_--here, the _Vanguard_;" as he spoke + each name sonorous,-- + _Minotaur, Defence, Majestic_, stanch old comrades of the brine, + That against the ships of Brucys made their broadsides roar + in chorus,-- + Ranging daisies on his doorstone, deft he mapped the battle-line. + + Mapped the curve of tall three-deckers, deft as might + a man left-handed, + Who had given an arm to England later on at Trafalgar. + While he poured the praise of Nelson to the child with eyes expanded, + Bright athwart his honest forehead blushed the scarlet cutlass-scar. + + For he served aboard the _Vanguard_, saw the Admiral blind and bleeding + Borne below by silent sailors, borne to die as then they deemed. + Every stout heart sick but stubborn, fought the sea-dogs on unheeding, + Guns were cleared and manned and cleared, the battle thundered, + flashed, and screamed. + + Till a cry swelled loud and louder,--towered on fire the + _Orient_ stately, + Brucys' flag-ship, she that carried guns a hundred and a score; + Then came groping up the hatchway he they counted dead but lately, + Came the little one-armed Admiral to guide the fight once more. + + "'Lower the boats!' was Nelson's order."-- + But the listening boy beside him, + Who had followed all his motions with an eager wide blue eye, + Nursed upon the name of Nelson till he half had deified him, + Here, with childhood's crude consistence, broke the tale + to question "Why?" + + For by children facts go streaming in a throng that never pauses, + Noted not, till, of a sudden, thought, a sunbeam, gilds the motes, + All at once the known words quicken, and the child would deal + with causes. + Since to kill the French was righteous, why bade Nelson lower + the boats? + + Quick the man put by the question. "But the _Orient_, none + could save her; + We could see the ships, the ensigns, clear as daylight by the flare; + And a many leaped and left her; but, God rest 'em! some were braver; + Some held by her, firing steady till she blew to God knows where." + + At the shock, he said, the _Vanguard_ shook through all + her timbers oaken; + It was like the shock of Doomsday,--not a tar but shuddered hard. + All was hushed for one strange moment; then that awful calm was broken + By the heavy plash that answered the descent of mast and yard. + + So, her cannon still defying, and her colors flaming, flying, + In her pit her wounded helpless, on her deck her Admiral dead, + Soared the _Orient_ into darkness with her living and her dying: + "Yet our lads made shift to rescue three-score souls," the seaman said. + + Long the boy with knit brows wondered o'er that friending + of the foeman; + Long the man with shut lips pondered; powerless he to tell the cause + Why the brother in his bosom that desired the death of no man, + In the crash of battle wakened, snapped the bonds of hate like straws. + + While he mused, his toddling maiden drew the daisies to a posy; + Mild the bells of Sunday morning rang across the church-yard sod; + And, helped on by tender hands, with sturdy feet all bare and rosy, + Climbed his babe to mother's breast, as climbs the slow world + up to God. + + + + A RESURRECTION + + + _Neither would they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead_. + + I was quick in the flesh, was warm, and the live heart shook my breast; + In the market I bought and sold, in the temple I bowed my head. + I had swathed me in shows and forms, and was honored above the rest + For the sake of the life I lived; nor did any esteem me dead. + + But at last, when the hour was ripe--was it sudden-remembered word? + Was it sight of a bird that mounted, or sound of a strain that + stole? + I was 'ware of a spell that snapped, of an inward strength that + stirred, + Of a Presence that filled that place; and it shone, and I knew + my Soul. + + And the dream I had called my life was a garment about my feet, + For the web of the years was rent with the throe of a + yearning strong. + With a sweep as of winds in heaven, with a rush as of flames that meet, + The Flesh and the Spirit clasped; and I cried, "Was I dead so long?" + + I had glimpse of the Secret, flashed through the symbol obscure + and mean, + And I felt as a fire what erst I repeated with lips of clay; + And I knew for the things eternal the things eye hath not seen; + Yea, the heavens and the earth shall pass; but they never + shall pass away. + + And the miracle on me wrought, in the streets I would straight + make known: + "When this marvel of mine is heard, without cavil shall men receive + Any legend of haloed saint, staring up through the sealed stone!" + So I spake in the trodden ways; but behold, there would none believe! + + + + + THE GLORIOUS COMPANY + + + "Faces, faces, faces of the streaming marching surge, + Streaming on the weary road, toward the awful steep, + Whence your glow and glory, as ye set to that sharp verge, + Faces lit as sunlit stars, shining as ye sweep? + + "Whence this wondrous radiance that ye somehow catch and cast, + Faces rapt, that one discerns 'mid the dusky press + Herding in dull wonder, gathering fearful to the Vast? + Surely all is dark before, night of nothingness!" + + _Lo, the Light!_ (they answer) _O the pure, + the pulsing Light, + Beating like a heart of life, like a heart of love, + Soaring, searching, filling all the breadth and depth and height, + Welling, whelming with its peace worlds below, above!_ + + "O my soul, how art thou to that living Splendor blind, + Sick with thy desire to see even as these men see!-- + Yet to look upon them is to know that God hath shined: + Faces lit as sunlit stars, be all my light to me!" + + + + + THE TRUMPETER + + + Two ships, alone in sky and sea, + Hang clinched, with crash and roar; + There is but one--whiche'er it be-- + Will ever come to shore. + + And will it be the grim black bulk, + That towers so evil now? + Or will it be The Grace of God, + With the angel at her prow? + + The man that breathes the battle's breath + May live at last to know; + But the trumpeter lies sick to death + In the stifling dark below. + + He hears the fight above him rave; + He fears his mates must yield; + He lies as in a narrow grave + Beneath a battle-field. + + His fate will fall before the ship's, + Whate'er the ship betide; + He lifts the trumpet to his lips + As though he kissed a bride. + + "Now blow thy best, blow thy last, + My trumpet, for the Right!"-- + He has sent his soul in one strong blast, + To hearten them that fight. + + + + + COMRADES + + + "Oh, whither, whither, rider toward the west?" + "And whither, whither, rider toward the east?" + "I rode we ride upon the same high quest, + Whereon who enters may not be released; + + "To seek the Cup whose form none ever saw,-- + A nobler form than e'er was shapen yet, + Though million million cups without a flaw, + Afire with gems, on princes' boards are set; + + "To seek the Wine whereof none ever had + One draught, though many a generous wine flows free,-- + The spiritual blood that shall make glad + The hearts of mighty men that are to be." + + "But shall one find it, brother? Where I ride, + Men mock and stare, who never had the dream, + Yet hope within my breast has never died." + "Nor ever died in mine that trembling gleam." + + "Eastward, I deem: the sun and all good things + Are born to bless us of the Orient old." + "Westward, I deem: an untried ocean sings + Against that coast, 'New shores await the bold.'" + + "God speed or thee or me, so coming men + But have the Cup!" "God speed!"--Not once before + Their eyes had met, nor ever met again, + Yet were they loving comrades evermore. + + + + + THE HOUSE OF HATE + + + Mine enemy builded well, with the soft blue hills in sight; + But betwixt his house and the hills I builded a house for spite: + And the name thereof I set in the stone-work over the gate, + With a carving of bats and apes; and I called it the House of Hate. + + And the front was alive with masks of malice and of despair; + Horned demons that leered in stone, and women with serpent hair; + That whenever his glance would rest on the soft hills far and blue, + It must fall on mine evil work, and my hatred should pierce + him through. + + And I said, "I will dwell herein, for beholding my heart's desire + On my foe;" and I knelt, and fain had brightened the hearth with fire; + But the brands they would hiss and die, as with curses a strangled man, + And the hearth was cold from the day that the House of Hate began. + + And I called at the open door, "Make ye merry, all friends of mine, + In the hall of my House of Hate, where is plentiful store and wine. + We will drink unhealth together unto him I have foiled and fooled!" + And they stared and they passed me by; but I scorned to be thereby + schooled. + + And I ordered my board for feast; and I drank, in the topmost seat, + Choice grape from a curious cup; and the first it was wonder-sweet; + But the second was bitter indeed, and the third was bitter and black, + And the gloom of the grave came on me, and I cast the cup to wrack. + + Alone, I was stark alone, and the shadows were each a fear; + And thinly I laughed, but once, for the echoes were strange to hear; + And the wind in the hallways howled as a green-eyed wolf might cry, + And I heard my heart: I must look on the face of a man, or die! + + So I crept to my mirrored face, and I looked, and I saw it grown + (By the light in my shaking hand) to the like of the masks of stone; + And with horror I shrieked aloud as I flung my torch and fled, + And a fire-snake writhed where it fell; and at midnight + the sky was red. + + And at morn, when the House of Hate was a ruin, despoiled of flame, + I fell at mine enemy's feet, and besought him to slay my shame; + But he looked in mine eyes and smiled, and his eyes were + calm and great: + "You rave, or have dreamed," he said; "I saw not your House of Hate." + + + + + THE ARROWMAKER + + + Day in, day out, or sun or rain, + Or sallow leaf, or summer grain, + Beneath a wintry morning moon + Or through red smouldering afternoon, + With simple joy, with careful pride, + He plies the craft he long has plied: + To shape the stave, to set the sting, + To fit the shaft with irised wing; + And farers by may hear him sing, + For still his door is wide: + "Laugh and sigh, live and die,-- + The world swings round; I know not, I, + If north or south mine arrows fly!" + + And sometimes, while he works, he dreams, + And on his soul a vision gleams: + Some storied field fought long ago, + Where arrows fell as thick as snow. + His breath comes fast, his eyes grow bright, + To think upon that ancient fight. + Oh, leaping from the strained string + Against an armored Wrong to ring, + Brave the songs that arrows sing! + He weighs the finished flight: + "Live and die; by and by + The sun kills dark; I know not, I, + In what good fight mine arrows fly!" + + Or at the gray hour, weary grown, + When curfew o'er the wold is blown, + He sees, as in a magic glass, + Some lost and lonely mountain-pass; + And lo! a sign of deathful rout + The mocking vine has wound about,-- + An earth-fixed arrow by a spring, + All greenly mossed, a mouldered thing; + That stifled shaft no more shall sing! + He shakes his head in doubt. + "Laugh and sigh, live and die,-- + The hand is blind: I know not, I, + In what lost pass mine arrows lie! + One to east, one to west, + Another for the eagle's breast,-- + The archer and the wind know best!" + The stars are in the sky; + He lays his arrows by. + + + + + A NEST IN A LYRE + + + As sign before a playhouse serves + A giant Lyre, ornately gilded, + On whose convenient coignes and curves + The pert brown sparrows late have builded. + They flit, and flirt, and prune their wings, + Not awed at all by golden glitter, + And make among the silent strings + Their satisfied ephemeral twitter. + + Ah, somewhat so we perch and flit, + And spy some crumb and dash to win it, + And with a witty chirping twit + Our sheltering Time--there's nothing in it! + In Life's large frame, a glorious Lyre's, + We nest, content, our season flighty, + Nor guess we brush the powerful wires + Might witch the stars with music mighty. + + + + + THISBE + + + The garden within was shaded, + And guarded about from sight; + The fragrance flowed to the south wind, + The fountain leaped to the light. + + And the street without was narrow, + And dusty, and hot, and mean; + But the bush that bore white roses, + She leaned to the fence between: + + And softly she sought a crevice + In that barrier blank and tall, + And shyly she thrust out through it + Her loveliest bud of all. + + And tender to touch, and gracious, + And pure as the moon's pure shine, + The full rose paled and was perfect,-- + For whose eyes, for whose lips, but mine! + + + + + THE SPRING BEAUTIES + + + The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church; + A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch. + "Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them, + But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them. + "Vanity, oh, vanity! + Young maids, beware of vanity!" + Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee, + Half parson-like, half soldierly. + + The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes, + Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes; + And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass, + They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass, + All because the buff-coat Bee + Lectured them so solemnly:-- + "Vanity, oh, vanity! + Young maids, beware of vanity!" + + + + + KINSHIP + + + A lily grew in the tangle, + In a flame red garment dressed, + And many a ruby spangle + Besprinkled her tawny breast. + + And the silken moth sailed by her + With a swift and a snow-white sail; + Not a gilt-girt bee came nigh her, + Nor a fly in his gay green mail. + + And the bronze-brown wings and the golden, + O'er the billowing meadows blown, + Were still as by magic holden + From the lily that flamed alone; + + Till over the fragrant tangle + A wanderer winging went, + And with many a ruby spangle + Were his tawny vans besprent. + And he hovered one moment stilly + O'er the thicket, her mazy bower, + Then he sank to the heart of the lily, + And they seemed but a single flower. + + + + + COMPENSATION + + + The brook ran laughing from the shade, + And in the sunshine danced all day: + The starlight and the moonlight made + Its glimmering path a Milky Way. + + The blue sky burned, with summer fired; + For parching fields, for pining flowers, + The spirits of the air desired + The brook's bright life to shed in showers. + + It gave its all that thirst to slake; + Its dusty channel lifeless lay; + Now softest flowers, white-foaming, make + Its winding bed a Milky Way. + + + + + WHEN WILLOWS GREEN + + + When goldenly the willows green, + And, mirrored in the sunset pool, + Hang wavering, wild-rose clouds between: + When robins call in twilights cool: + What is it we await? + Who lingers and is late? + What strange unrest, what yearning stirs us all + When willows green, when robins call? + + When fields of flowering grass respire + A sweet that seems the breath of Peace, + And liquid-voiced the thrushes choir, + Oh, whence the sense of glad release? + What is it life uplifts? + Who entered, bearing gifts? + What floods from heaven the being overpower + When thrushes choir, when grasses flower? + + + + + AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS + + (AD COMITEM JUNIOREM) + + + Comrade Youth! Sit down with me + Underneath the summer tree, + Cool green dome whose shade is sweet, + Where the sunny roadways meet, + See, the ancient finger-post, + Silver-bleached with rain and shine, + Warns us like a noon-day ghost: + That way's yours, and this way's mine! + I would hold you with delays + Here at parting of the ways. + + Hold you! I as well might look + To detain the racing brook + With regrets and grievance tender, + As my comrade swift and slender, + Shy, capricious, all of spring! + Catch the wind with blossoms laden, + Catch the wild bird on the wing, + Catch the heart of boy or maiden! + + Yet I'll hold your image fast, + As this hour I saw you last,-- + As with staff in hand you sat, + Soft curls putting forth defiant + From the tilted Mercury's hat, + Wreathen with the wilding grace + Of the fresh-leaved vine and pliant, + Stealing down to see your face. + Eyes of pleasance, lips of laughter, + I shall hoard you long hereafter; + Very dear shall be the days + Ere the parting of the ways! + + Shall you deem them dear, in truth, + Days when we, o'er hill and hollow, + Trudged together, Comrade Youth? + Ah, you dream of days to follow! + Hand in hand we jogged along; + I would fetch from out my scrip, + Crust or jest or antique song,-- + Live and lovely, on your lip, + Such poor needments as I had + Were as yours; you made me glad. + --Lo, the dial! No prayer stays + Time, at parting of the ways! + + This gold memory--rings it true? + Half for me and half for you. + Cleave and share it. Now, good sooth, + God be with you, Comrade Youth! + + + + + THE FAIR GRAY LADY + + + When the charm at last is fled + From the woodland stark and pale, + And like shades of glad hours dead + Whirl the leaves before the gale: + + When against the western fire + Darkens many an empty nest, + Like a thwarted heart's desire + That in prime was hardly guessed: + + Then the fair gray Lady leans, + Lingering, o'er the faded grass, + Still the soul of all the scenes + Once she graced, a golden lass. + + O'er the Year's discrowned sleep, + Dear as in her earlier day, + She her bending watch doth keep, + She the Goldenrod grown gray. + + + + + THE ENCOUNTER + + + There's a wood-way winding high, + Roofed far up with light-green flicker, + Save one midmost star of sky. + Underfoot 'tis all pale brown + With the dead leaves matted down + One on other, thick and thicker; + Soft, but springing to the tread. + There a youth late met a maid + Running lightly,--oh, so fleetly! + "Whence art thou?" the herd-boy said. + Either side her long hair swayed, + Half a tress and half a braid, + Colored like the soft dead leaf, + As she answered, laughing sweetly, + On she ran, as flies the swallow; + He could not choose but follow + Though it had been to his grief. + + "I have come up from the valley,-- + From the valley!" Once he caught her, + Swerving down a sidelong alley, + For a moment, by the hand. + "Tell me, tell me," he besought her, + "Sweetest, I would understand + Why so cold thy palm, that slips + From me like the shy cold minnow? + The wood is warm, and smells of fern, + And below the meadows burn. + Hard to catch and hard to win, oh! + Why are those brown finger tips + Crinkled as with lines of water?" + + Laughing while she featly footed, + With the herd-boy hasting after, + Sprang she on a trunk uprooted, + Clung she by a roping vine; + Leaped behind a birch, and told, + Still eluding, through its fine, + Mocking, slender, leafy laughter, + Why her finger tips were cold: + + "I went down to tease the brook, + With her fishes, there below; + She comes dancing, thou must know, + And the bushes arch above her; + But the seeking sunbeams look, + Dodging through the wind-blown cover, + Find and kiss her into stars. + Silvery veins entwine and crook + Where a stone her tripping bars; + There be smooth, clear sweeps, and swirls + Bubbling up crisp drops like pearls. + There I lie, along the rocks + Thick with greenest slippery moss, + And I have in hand a strip + Of gray, pliant, dappled bark; + And I comb her liquid locks + Till her tangling currents cross; + And I have delight to hark + To the chiding of her lip, + Taking on the talking stone + With each turn another tone. + Oh, to set her wavelets bickering! + Oh, to hear her laughter simple, + See her fret and flash and dimple! + Ha, ha, ha!" The woodland rang + With the rippling through the flickering. + At the birch the herd-boy sprang. + + On a sudden something wound + Vine-like round his throbbing throat; + On a sudden something smote + Sharply on his longing lips, + Stung him as the birch bough whips: + Was it kiss or was it blow? + Never after could he know; + She was gone without a sound. + + Never after could he see + In the wood or in the mead, + Or in any company + Of the rustic mortal maids, + Her with acorn-colored braids; + Never came she to his need. + Never more the lad was merry, + Strayed apart, and learned to dream, + Feeding on the tart wild berry; + Murmuring words none understood,-- + Words with music of the wood, + And with music of the stream. + + + + + SUMMER HOURS + + + Hours aimless-drifting as the milkweed's down + In seeming, still a seed of joy ye bear + That steals into the soul when unaware, + And springs up Memory in the stony town. + + + + + LOVE UNSUNG + + + Seven jewelled rays has the Sun fast bound + In his arrow of blinding sheen; + But he quickens the breast of the fruitful ground + With a subtlest ray unseen. + + And the rainbow moods of this love of ours + I may blend in the song I bring; + But the magic that makes life laugh with flowers + Is the love that I cannot sing. + + + + + THE WISH FOR A CHAPLET + + + Vineleaf and rose I would my chaplet make: + I would my word were wine for all men's sake. + Pure from the pressing of the stainless feet + Of unblamed Hours, and for an altar meet. + + Vineleaf and rose: I would, had I the art, + Distil, to lasting sweet, Joy's rosy heart, + That no sere autumn should its fragrance wrong, + Closed in the crystal glass of slender song. + + + + + SONNETS + + + + + THE TORCH-RACE + + + Brave racer, who hast sped the living light + With throat outstretched and every nerve a-strain, + Now on thy left hand labors gray-faced Pain, + And Death hangs close behind thee on the right. + Soon flag the flying feet, soon fails the sight, + With every pulse the gaunt pursuers gain; + And all thy splendor of strong life must wane + And set into the mystery of night. + + Yet fear not, though in falling, blindness hide + Whose hand shall snatch, before it scars the sod, + The light thy lessening grasp no more controls: + Truth's rescuer, Truth shall instantly provide: + This is the torch-race game, that noblest souls + Play on through time beneath the eyes of God. + + + + + TO SLEEP + + + All slumb'rous images that be, combined, + To this white couch and cool shall woo thee, Sleep! + First will I think on fields of grasses deep + In gray-green flower, o'er which the transient wind + Runs like a smile; and next will call to mind + How glistening poplar-tops, when breezes creep + Among their leaves, a tender motion keep, + Stroking the sky, like touch of lovers kind. + + Ah, having felt thy calm kiss on mine eyes, + All night inspiring thy divine pure breath, + I shall awake as into godhood born, + And with a fresh, undaunted soul arise, + Clear as the blue convolvulus at morn. + --Dear bedfellow, deals thus thy brother, Death? + + + + + SISTER SNOW + + + Praised be our Lord (to echo the sweet phrase + Of saintly Francis) for our sister Snow: + Whose soft, soft coming never man may know + By any sound; whose down-light touch allays + All fevers of worn earth. She clothes the days + In garments without spot, and hence doth go + Her noiseless shuttle swiftly to and fro, + And very pure, and pleasant, are her ways. + + But yesterday, how loveless looked the skies! + How cold the sun's last glance, and unbenign, + Across the field forsaken, russet-leaved! + Now pearly peace on all the landscape lies. + --Wast thou not sent us, Sister, for a sign + Of that vast Mercy of God, else unconceived? + + + + + RETROSPECT + + + "Backward," he said, "dear heart I like to look + To those half-spring, half-winter days, when first + We drew together, ere the leaf-buds burst. + Sunbeams were silver yet, keen gusts yet shook + The boughs. Have you remembered that kind book, + That for our sake Galeotto's part rehearsed, + (The friend of lovers,--this time blessed, not cursed!) + And that best hour, when reading we forsook?" + + She, listening, wore the smile a mother wears + At childish fancies needless to control; + Yet felt a fine, hid pain with pleasure blend. + Better it seemed to think that love of theirs, + Native as breath, eternal as the soul, + Knew no beginning, could not have an end. + + + + + THE CONTRAST + + + He loved her; having felt his love begin + With that first look,--as lover oft avers. + He made pale flowers his pleading ministers, + Impressed sweet music, drew the springtime in + To serve his suit; but when he could not win, + Forgot her face and those gray eyes of hers; + And at her name his pulse no longer stirs, + And life goes on as though she had not been. + + She never loved him; but she loved Love so, + So reverenced Love, that all her being shook + At his demand whose entrance she denied. + Her thoughts of him such tender color took + As western skies that keep the afterglow. + The words he spoke were with her till she died. + + + + + A MYSTERY + + + That sunless day no living shadow swept + Across the hills, fleet shadow chasing light, + Twin of the sailing cloud: but, mists wool white, + Slow-stealing mists, on those heaved shoulders crept, + And wrought about the strong hills while they slept + In witches' wise, and rapt their forms from sight. + Dreams were they; less than dream, the noblest height + And farthest; and the chilly woodland wept. + + A sunless day and sad: yet all the while + Within the grave green twilight of the wood, + inscrutable, immutable, apart, + Hearkening the brook, whose song she understood, + The secret birch-tree kept her silver smile, + Strange as the peace that gleams at sorrow's heart. + + + + + TRIUMPH + + + This windy sunlit morning after rain, + The wet bright laurel laughs with beckoning gleam + In the blown wood, whence breaks the wild white stream + Rushing and flashing, glorying in its gain; + Nor swerves nor parts, but with a swift disdain + O'erleaps the boulders lying in long dream, + Lapped in cold moss; and in its joy doth seem + A wood-born creature bursting from a chain. + + And "Triumph, triumph, triumph!" is its hoarse + Fierce-whispered word. O fond, and dost not know + Thy triumph on another wise must be,-- + To render all the tribute of thy force, + And lose thy little being in the flow + Of the unvaunting river toward the sea! + + + + + IN WINTER, WITH THE BOOK WE READ IN SPRING + + + The blackberry's bloom, when last we went this way, + Veiled all her bowsome rods with trembling white; + The robin's sunset breast gave forth delight + At sunset hour; the wind was warm with May. + Armored in ice the sere stems arch to-day, + Each tiny thorn encased and argent bright; + Where clung the birds that long have taken flight, + Dead songless leaves cling fluttering on the spray. + + O hand in mine, that mak'st all paths the same, + Being paths of peace, where falls nor chill nor gloom, + Made sweet with ardors of an inward spring! + I hold thee--frozen skies to rosy flame + Are turned, and snows to living snows of bloom, + And once again the gold-brown thrushes sing. + + + + + SERE WISDOM + + + I had remembrance of a summer morn, + When all the glistening field was softly stirred + And like a child's in happy sleep I heard + The low and healthful breathing of the corn. + Late when the sumach's red was dulled and worn, + And fainter grew the trite and troublous word + Of tristful cricket, that replaced the bird, + I sought the slope, and found a waste forlorn. + + Against that cold clear west, whence winter peers, + All spectral stood the bleached stalks thin-leaved, + Dry as papyrus kept a thousand years, + And hissing whispered to the wind that grieved, + _It was a dream--we have no goodly ears-- + There was no summer-time--deceived! deceived!_ + + + + + ISOLATION + + + White fog around, soft snow beneath the tread, + All sunless, windless, tranced, the morning lay; + All noiseless, trackless, new, the well-known way. + The silence weighed upon the sense; in dread, + "Alone, I am alone," I shuddering said, + "And wander in a region where no ray + Has ever shone, and as on earth's first day + Or last, my kind are not yet born or dead." + + Yet not afar, meanwhile, there faltered feet + Like mine, through that wide mystery of the snow, + Nor could the old accustomed paths divine; + And even as mine, unheard spake voices low, + And hearts were near, that as my own heart beat, + Warm hands, and faces fashioned like to mine. + + + + + THE LOST DRYAD + + (TO EDITH M. THOMAS) + + + Into what beech or silvern birch, O friend + Suspected ever of a dryad strain, + Hast crept at last, delighting to regain + Thy sylvan house? Now whither shall I wend, + Or by what winged post my greeting send, + Bird, butterfly, or bee? Shall three moons wane, + And yet not found?--Ah, surely it was pain + Of old, for mortal youth his heart to lend + To any hamadryad! In his hour + Of simple trust, wild impulse him bereaves: + She flees, she seeks her strait enmossed bower + And while he, searching, softly calls, and grieves, + Oblivious, high above she laughs in leaves, + Or patters tripping talk to the quick shower. + + + + + A MEMORY + + + Though pent in stony streets, 'tis joy to know, + 'Tis joy, although we breathe a fainter air, + The spirit of those places far and fair + That we have loved, abides; and fern-scents flow + Out of the wood's heart still, and shadows grow + Long on remembered roads as warm days wear; + And still the dark wild water, in its lair, + The narrow chasm, stirs blindly to and fro. + + Delight is in the sea-gull's dancing wings, + And sunshine wakes to rose the ruddy hue + Of rocks; and from her tall wind-slanted stem + A soft bright plume the goldenrod outflings + Along the breeze, above a sea whose blue + Is like the light that kindles through a gem. + + + + + THE GIFTS OF THE OAK + + (FOR THE SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL) + + + 'There needs no crown to mark the forest's king.' + Thus, long ago thou sang'st the sound-heart tree + Sacred to sovereign Jove, and dear to thee + Since first, a venturous youth with eyes of spring,-- + Whose pilgrim-staff each side put forth a wing,-- + Beneath the oak thou lingeredst lovingly + To crave, as largess of his majesty, + Firm-rooted strength, and grace of leaves that sing. + + He gave; we thank him! Graciousness as grave, + And power as easeful as his own he gave; + Long broodings rich with sun, and laughters kind; + And singing leaves, whose later bronze is dear + As the first amber of the budding year,-- + Whose voices answer the autumnnal wind. + + + + + THE STRAYED SINGER + + (MATTHEW ARNOLD) + + + He wandered from us long, oh, long ago, + Rare singer, with the note unsatisfied; + Into what charmed wood, what shade star-eyed + With the wind's April darlings, none may know. + We lost him. Songless, one with seed to sow, + Keen-smiling toiler, came in place, and plied + His strength in furrowed field till eventide, + And passed to slumber when the sun was low. + + But now,--as though Death spoke some mystic word + Solving a spell,--present to thought appears + The morn's estray, not him we saw but late; + And on his lips the strain that once we heard, + And in his hand, cool as with Springtime's tears, + The melancholy wood-flowers delicate. + + + + + THE IMMORTAL WORD + + + One soiled and shamed and foiled in this world's fight, + Deserter from the host of God, that here + Still darkly struggles,--waked from death in fear, + And strove to screen his forehead from the white + And blinding glory of the awful Light, + The revelation and reproach austere. + Then with strong hand outstretched a Shape drew near, + Bright-browed, majestic, armored like a knight. + + "Great Angel, servant of the Highest, why + Stoop'st thou to me?" although his lips were mute, + His eyes inquired. The Shining One replied: + "Thy Book, thy birth, life of thy life am I, + Son of thy soul, thy youth's forgotten fruit. + We two go up to judgment side by side." + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ride to the Lady, by Helen Gray Cone + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIDE TO THE LADY *** + +***** This file should be named 9559.txt or 9559.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/5/5/9559/ + +Produced by Ted Garvin, Josephine Paolucci, and Project +Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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