I am weary of disbelieving: why should I wound my loveTo pleasure a sophist's pride in a graven image of truth?I will go back to my home, with the clouds and the stars above,And the heaven I used to know, and the God of my buried youth.I will go back to the home where of old in my boyish prideI pierced my father's heart with a murmur of unbelief.He only looked in my face as I spoke, but his mute eyes criedNight after night in my dreams; and he died in grief, in grief.Books? I have read the books, the books that we write ourselves,Extolling our love of an abstract truth and our pride of debate:I will go back to the love of the cotter who sings as he delves,To that childish infinite love and the God above fact and date.To that ignorant infinite God who colours the meaningless flowers,To that lawless infinite Poet who crowns the law with the crime;To the Weaver who covers the world with a garment of wonderful hours,And holds in His hand like threads the tales and the truths of time.Is the faith of the cotter so simple and narrow as this? Ah, well,It is hardly so narrow as yours who daub and plaster with dyesThe shining mirrors of heaven, the shadowy mirrors of hell,And blot out the dark deep vision, if it seem to be framed with lies.No faith I hurl against you, no fact to freeze your sneers.Only the doubt you taught me to weld in the fires of youthLeaps to my hand like the flaming sword of nineteen hundred years,The sword of the high God's answer,O Pilate, what is truth?Your laughter has killed more hearts than ever were pierced with swords,Ever you daub new mirrors and turn the old to the wall;And more than blood is lost in the weary battle of words;For creeds are many; but God is One, and contains them all.Ah, why should we strive or cry? Surely the end is close!Hold by your little truths: deem your triumph complete!But nothing is true or false in the infinite heart of the rose;And the earth is a little dust that clings to our travelling feet.I will go back to my home and look at the wayside flowers,And hear from the wayside cabins the kind old hymns again,Where Christ holds out His arms in the quiet evening hours,And the light of the chapel porches broods on the peaceful lane.And there I shall hear men praying the deep old foolish prayers,And there I shall see, once more, the fond old faith confessed,And the strange old light on their faces who hear as a blind man hears,—Come unto Me, ye weary, and I will give you rest.I will go back and believe in the deep old foolish tales,And pray the simple prayers that I learned at my mother's knee,Where the Sabbath tolls its peace thro' the breathless mountain-vales,And the sunset's evening hymn hallows the listening sea.
I am weary of disbelieving: why should I wound my loveTo pleasure a sophist's pride in a graven image of truth?I will go back to my home, with the clouds and the stars above,And the heaven I used to know, and the God of my buried youth.
I will go back to the home where of old in my boyish prideI pierced my father's heart with a murmur of unbelief.He only looked in my face as I spoke, but his mute eyes criedNight after night in my dreams; and he died in grief, in grief.
Books? I have read the books, the books that we write ourselves,Extolling our love of an abstract truth and our pride of debate:I will go back to the love of the cotter who sings as he delves,To that childish infinite love and the God above fact and date.
To that ignorant infinite God who colours the meaningless flowers,To that lawless infinite Poet who crowns the law with the crime;To the Weaver who covers the world with a garment of wonderful hours,And holds in His hand like threads the tales and the truths of time.
Is the faith of the cotter so simple and narrow as this? Ah, well,It is hardly so narrow as yours who daub and plaster with dyesThe shining mirrors of heaven, the shadowy mirrors of hell,And blot out the dark deep vision, if it seem to be framed with lies.
No faith I hurl against you, no fact to freeze your sneers.Only the doubt you taught me to weld in the fires of youthLeaps to my hand like the flaming sword of nineteen hundred years,The sword of the high God's answer,O Pilate, what is truth?
Your laughter has killed more hearts than ever were pierced with swords,Ever you daub new mirrors and turn the old to the wall;And more than blood is lost in the weary battle of words;For creeds are many; but God is One, and contains them all.
Ah, why should we strive or cry? Surely the end is close!Hold by your little truths: deem your triumph complete!But nothing is true or false in the infinite heart of the rose;And the earth is a little dust that clings to our travelling feet.
I will go back to my home and look at the wayside flowers,And hear from the wayside cabins the kind old hymns again,Where Christ holds out His arms in the quiet evening hours,And the light of the chapel porches broods on the peaceful lane.
And there I shall hear men praying the deep old foolish prayers,And there I shall see, once more, the fond old faith confessed,And the strange old light on their faces who hear as a blind man hears,—Come unto Me, ye weary, and I will give you rest.
I will go back and believe in the deep old foolish tales,And pray the simple prayers that I learned at my mother's knee,Where the Sabbath tolls its peace thro' the breathless mountain-vales,And the sunset's evening hymn hallows the listening sea.
Sing to me! Ah, remember howPoor Heine here in Paris leantWatching me play at the fall of dayAnd following where the music went,Till that old cloud upon his browWas almost smoothed away."Do roses in the moonlight flameLike this and this?" he said and smiled;Then bent his head as o'er his deadBrother might breathe some little childThe accustomed old half-jesting name,With all its mockery fled,Like summer lightnings, far away,In heaven. O, what Bohemian nightsWe passed down there for that brief yearWhen art revealed her last delights;And then, that night, that night in MayWhen Hugo came to hear!"Do roses in the moonlight glowLike this and this?" I could not seeHis eyes, and yet—they were quite wet,Blinded, I think! What should I beIf in that hour I did not knowMy own diviner debt?For God has made this world of oursOut of His own exceeding pain,As here in art man's bleeding heartSlow drop by drop completes the strain;And dreams of death make sweet the flowersWhere lovers meet to part.Recall, recall my little roomWhere all the masters came that night,Came just to hear me, Meyerbeer,Lamartine, Balzac; and no lightBut my two candles in the gloom;Though she, she too was there,George Sand. This music once unlockedMy heart, she took the gold she prized:Her novel gleams no richer: dreamsLike mine are best unanalysed:And she forgets her poor bemockedPrince Karol, now, it seems.I was Prince Karol; yes, and LisztCount Salvator Albani: sheMy Floriani—all so farAway!—My dreams are like the seaThat round Majorca sighed and kissedEach softly mirrored star.O, what a golden round of hoursOur island villa knew: we twoAlone with sky and sea, the sighOf waves, the warm unfathomed blue;With what a chain of nights like flowersWe bound Love, she and I.What music, what harmoniousGlad triumphs of the world's desireWhere passion yearns to God and burnsEarth's dross out with its own pure fire,Or tolls like some deep angelusThrough Death's divine nocturnes."Do roses in the moonlight glowLike this and this?" What did she thinkOf him whose hands at Love's commandMade Life as honey o'er the brinkOf Death drip slow, darkling and slow?Ah, did she understand?She studied every sob she heard,She watched each dying hope she found;And yet she understood not onePoor sorrow there that like a woundGaped, bleeding, pleading—for one word—No? And the dream was done.For her—I am "wrapped in incense gloom,In drifting clouds and golden light;"Once I was shod with fire and trodBeethoven's path through storm and night:It is too late now to resumeMy monologue with God.Well, my lost love, you were so kindIn those old days: ah, yes; you cameWhen I was ill! In dreams you stillWill come? (Do roses always flameBy moonlight, thus?) I, too, grow blindWith wondering if she will.Yet, Floriani, what am ITo you, though love was life to me?My life consumed like some perfumedPale altar-flame beside the sea:You stood and smiled and watched it die!You, you whom it illumed,Could you not feed it with your love?Am I not starving here and now?Sing, sing! I'd miss no smile or kiss—No roses in Majorca glowLike this and this—so death may proveBest—ah, how sweet life is!
Sing to me! Ah, remember howPoor Heine here in Paris leantWatching me play at the fall of dayAnd following where the music went,Till that old cloud upon his browWas almost smoothed away.
"Do roses in the moonlight flameLike this and this?" he said and smiled;Then bent his head as o'er his deadBrother might breathe some little childThe accustomed old half-jesting name,With all its mockery fled,
Like summer lightnings, far away,In heaven. O, what Bohemian nightsWe passed down there for that brief yearWhen art revealed her last delights;And then, that night, that night in MayWhen Hugo came to hear!
"Do roses in the moonlight glowLike this and this?" I could not seeHis eyes, and yet—they were quite wet,Blinded, I think! What should I beIf in that hour I did not knowMy own diviner debt?
For God has made this world of oursOut of His own exceeding pain,As here in art man's bleeding heartSlow drop by drop completes the strain;And dreams of death make sweet the flowersWhere lovers meet to part.
Recall, recall my little roomWhere all the masters came that night,Came just to hear me, Meyerbeer,Lamartine, Balzac; and no lightBut my two candles in the gloom;Though she, she too was there,
George Sand. This music once unlockedMy heart, she took the gold she prized:Her novel gleams no richer: dreamsLike mine are best unanalysed:And she forgets her poor bemockedPrince Karol, now, it seems.
I was Prince Karol; yes, and LisztCount Salvator Albani: sheMy Floriani—all so farAway!—My dreams are like the seaThat round Majorca sighed and kissedEach softly mirrored star.
O, what a golden round of hoursOur island villa knew: we twoAlone with sky and sea, the sighOf waves, the warm unfathomed blue;With what a chain of nights like flowersWe bound Love, she and I.
What music, what harmoniousGlad triumphs of the world's desireWhere passion yearns to God and burnsEarth's dross out with its own pure fire,Or tolls like some deep angelusThrough Death's divine nocturnes.
"Do roses in the moonlight glowLike this and this?" What did she thinkOf him whose hands at Love's commandMade Life as honey o'er the brinkOf Death drip slow, darkling and slow?Ah, did she understand?
She studied every sob she heard,She watched each dying hope she found;And yet she understood not onePoor sorrow there that like a woundGaped, bleeding, pleading—for one word—No? And the dream was done.
For her—I am "wrapped in incense gloom,In drifting clouds and golden light;"Once I was shod with fire and trodBeethoven's path through storm and night:It is too late now to resumeMy monologue with God.
Well, my lost love, you were so kindIn those old days: ah, yes; you cameWhen I was ill! In dreams you stillWill come? (Do roses always flameBy moonlight, thus?) I, too, grow blindWith wondering if she will.
Yet, Floriani, what am ITo you, though love was life to me?My life consumed like some perfumedPale altar-flame beside the sea:You stood and smiled and watched it die!You, you whom it illumed,Could you not feed it with your love?Am I not starving here and now?Sing, sing! I'd miss no smile or kiss—No roses in Majorca glowLike this and this—so death may proveBest—ah, how sweet life is!
O, many a lover sighsBeneath the summer skiesFor black or hazel eyesAll day.No light of hope can marMy whiter brighter star;I love a Princess farAway.Now you that haste to meetYour love's returning feetMust plead for every sweetCaress;But, day and night and day,Without a prayer to pray,I love my far awayPrincess.
O, many a lover sighsBeneath the summer skiesFor black or hazel eyesAll day.No light of hope can marMy whiter brighter star;I love a Princess farAway.
Now you that haste to meetYour love's returning feetMust plead for every sweetCaress;But, day and night and day,Without a prayer to pray,I love my far awayPrincess.
Sun-child, as you watched the rainBeat the pane,Saw the garden of your dreamsWhere the clove carnation growsAnd the roseVeiled with shimmering shades and gleams,Mirrored colours, mystic gleams,Fairy dreams,Drifting in your radiant eyesHalf in earnest asked, that day,Half in play,Where were all the butterflies?Where were all the butterfliesWhen the skiesClouded and their bowers of cloverBowed beneath the golden shower?Every flowerShook and the rose was brimming over.Ah, the dog-rose trembling overThyme and clover,How it glitters in the sun,Now the hare-bells lift againBright with rainAfter all the showers are done!See, when all the showers are done,How the sunSoftly smiling o'er the sceneBids the white wings come and goTo and froThrough the maze of gold and green.Magic webs of gold and greenRainbow sheenMesh the maze of flower and fern,Cuckoo-grass and meadow-sweet,And the wheatWhere the crimson poppies burn.Ay; and where the poppies burn,They returnAll across the dreamy downs,Little wings that flutter and beatO'er the sweetBluffs the purple clover crowns.Where the fairy clover crownsDreamy downs,And amidst the golden grassButtercups and daisies blowTo and froWhen the shadowy billows pass;Time has watched them pause and passWhere Love was;Ah, what fairy butterflies,Little wild incarnate blisses,Coloured kisses,Floating under azure skies!Under those eternal skiesSee, they rise:Mottled wings of moony sheen,Wings in whitest star-shine dipped,Orange tipped,Eyed with black and veined with green.They were fairies plumed with greenRainbow-sheenEre Time bade their host begoneFrom that palace built of rosesWhich still dozesIn the greenwood all alone.In the greenwood all aloneAnd unknown:Now they roam these mortal dellsWondering where that happy glade is,Painted Ladies,Admirals, and Tortoise-shells,O, Fritillaries, Admirals,Tortoise-shells;You, like fragments of the skiesFringed with Autumn's richest hues,Dainty bluesPatterned with mosaic dyes;Oh, and you whose peacock dyesGleam with eyes;You, whose wings of burnished copperBurn upon the sunburnt braeWhere all dayWhirrs the hot and grey grasshopper;While the grey grasshopper whirrsIn the furze,You that with your sulphur wingsMelt into the gold perfumeOf the broomWhere the linnet sits and sings;You that, as a poet sings,On your wingsImage forth the dreams of earth,Quickening them in form and hueTo the newGlory of a brighter birth;You that bring to a brighter birthDust and earth,Rapt to glory on your wings,All transfigured in the whiteLiving lightShed from out the soul of things;Heralds of the soul of things,You whose wingsCarry heaven through every glade;Thus transfigured from the petalsDeath unsettles,Little souls of leaf and blade;You that mimic bud and blade,Light and shade;Tinted souls of leaf and stone,Flower and sunny bank of sand,FairylandCalls her children to their own;Calls them back into their ownGreat unknown;Where the harmonies they cullOn their wings are made completeAs they beatThrough the Gate called Beautiful.
Sun-child, as you watched the rainBeat the pane,Saw the garden of your dreamsWhere the clove carnation growsAnd the roseVeiled with shimmering shades and gleams,Mirrored colours, mystic gleams,Fairy dreams,Drifting in your radiant eyesHalf in earnest asked, that day,Half in play,Where were all the butterflies?
Where were all the butterfliesWhen the skiesClouded and their bowers of cloverBowed beneath the golden shower?Every flowerShook and the rose was brimming over.
Ah, the dog-rose trembling overThyme and clover,How it glitters in the sun,Now the hare-bells lift againBright with rainAfter all the showers are done!
See, when all the showers are done,How the sunSoftly smiling o'er the sceneBids the white wings come and goTo and froThrough the maze of gold and green.
Magic webs of gold and greenRainbow sheenMesh the maze of flower and fern,Cuckoo-grass and meadow-sweet,And the wheatWhere the crimson poppies burn.
Ay; and where the poppies burn,They returnAll across the dreamy downs,Little wings that flutter and beatO'er the sweetBluffs the purple clover crowns.
Where the fairy clover crownsDreamy downs,And amidst the golden grassButtercups and daisies blowTo and froWhen the shadowy billows pass;
Time has watched them pause and passWhere Love was;Ah, what fairy butterflies,Little wild incarnate blisses,Coloured kisses,Floating under azure skies!
Under those eternal skiesSee, they rise:Mottled wings of moony sheen,Wings in whitest star-shine dipped,Orange tipped,Eyed with black and veined with green.
They were fairies plumed with greenRainbow-sheenEre Time bade their host begoneFrom that palace built of rosesWhich still dozesIn the greenwood all alone.
In the greenwood all aloneAnd unknown:Now they roam these mortal dellsWondering where that happy glade is,Painted Ladies,Admirals, and Tortoise-shells,
O, Fritillaries, Admirals,Tortoise-shells;You, like fragments of the skiesFringed with Autumn's richest hues,Dainty bluesPatterned with mosaic dyes;Oh, and you whose peacock dyesGleam with eyes;You, whose wings of burnished copperBurn upon the sunburnt braeWhere all dayWhirrs the hot and grey grasshopper;
While the grey grasshopper whirrsIn the furze,You that with your sulphur wingsMelt into the gold perfumeOf the broomWhere the linnet sits and sings;
You that, as a poet sings,On your wingsImage forth the dreams of earth,Quickening them in form and hueTo the newGlory of a brighter birth;
You that bring to a brighter birthDust and earth,Rapt to glory on your wings,All transfigured in the whiteLiving lightShed from out the soul of things;
Heralds of the soul of things,You whose wingsCarry heaven through every glade;Thus transfigured from the petalsDeath unsettles,Little souls of leaf and blade;
You that mimic bud and blade,Light and shade;Tinted souls of leaf and stone,Flower and sunny bank of sand,FairylandCalls her children to their own;Calls them back into their ownGreat unknown;Where the harmonies they cullOn their wings are made completeAs they beatThrough the Gate called Beautiful.
I lived in a cottage adown in the WestWhen I was a boy, a boy;But I knew no peace and I took no restThough the roses nigh smothered my snug little nest;For the smell of the seaWas much rarer to me,And the life of a sailor was all my joy.Chorus.—The life of a sailor was all my joy!My mother she wept, and she begged me to stayAnchored for life to her apron-string,And soon she would want me to help with the hay;So I bided her time, then I flitted awayOn a night of delight in the following spring,With a pair of stout shoonAnd a seafaring tuneAnd a bundle and stick in the light of the moon,Down the long roadTo Portsmouth I strode,To fight like a sailor for country and king.Chorus.—To fight like a sailor for country and king.And now that my feet are turned homeward againMy heart is still crying Ahoy! Ahoy!And my thoughts are still out on the Spanish mainA-chasing the frigates of France and Spain,For at heart an old sailor is always a boy;And his nose will still itchFor the powder and pitchTill the days when he can't tell t'other from which,Nor a grin o' the guns from a glint o' the sea,Nor a skipper like Nelson from lubbers like me.Chorus.—Nor a skipper like Nelson from lubbers like me.Ay! Now that I'm old I'm as bold as the best,And the life of a sailor is all my joy;Though I've swapped my legFor a wooden pegAnd my head is as bald as a new-laid egg,The smell of the seaIs like victuals to me,And I think in the grave I'll be crying Ahoy!For, though my old carcass is ready to rest,At heart an old sailor is always a boy.Chorus.—At heart an old sailor is always a boy.
I lived in a cottage adown in the WestWhen I was a boy, a boy;But I knew no peace and I took no restThough the roses nigh smothered my snug little nest;For the smell of the seaWas much rarer to me,And the life of a sailor was all my joy.
Chorus.—The life of a sailor was all my joy!
My mother she wept, and she begged me to stayAnchored for life to her apron-string,And soon she would want me to help with the hay;So I bided her time, then I flitted awayOn a night of delight in the following spring,With a pair of stout shoonAnd a seafaring tuneAnd a bundle and stick in the light of the moon,Down the long roadTo Portsmouth I strode,To fight like a sailor for country and king.
Chorus.—To fight like a sailor for country and king.
And now that my feet are turned homeward againMy heart is still crying Ahoy! Ahoy!And my thoughts are still out on the Spanish mainA-chasing the frigates of France and Spain,For at heart an old sailor is always a boy;And his nose will still itchFor the powder and pitchTill the days when he can't tell t'other from which,Nor a grin o' the guns from a glint o' the sea,Nor a skipper like Nelson from lubbers like me.
Chorus.—Nor a skipper like Nelson from lubbers like me.
Ay! Now that I'm old I'm as bold as the best,And the life of a sailor is all my joy;Though I've swapped my legFor a wooden pegAnd my head is as bald as a new-laid egg,The smell of the seaIs like victuals to me,And I think in the grave I'll be crying Ahoy!For, though my old carcass is ready to rest,At heart an old sailor is always a boy.
Chorus.—At heart an old sailor is always a boy.
Where the old grey churchyard slopes to the sea,On the sunny side of a mossed headstone;Watching the wild white butterflies passThrough the fairy forests of grass,Two little children with brown legs bareWere merrily, merrilyWeaving a wonderful daisy-chain,And chanting the rhyme that was graven thereOver and over and over again;While the warm wind came and played with their hairAnd laughed and was goneOut, far out to the foam-flowered leaLike an ocean-wandering memory.Eighteen hundred and forty-three,Dan Trevennick was lost at sea;And, buried here at her husband's sideLies the body of Joan, his bride,Who, a little while after she lost him, died.This was the rhyme that was graven there,And the children chanted it quietly;As the warm wind came and played with their hair,And rustled the golden grasses against the stone,And laughed and was goneTo waken the wild white flowers of the sea,And sing a song of the days that were,A song of memory, gay and blindAs the sun on the graves that it left behind;For this, ah this, was the song of the wind.IShe sat on the tarred old jetty, with a sailor's careless ease,And the clear waves danced around her feet and kissed her tawny knees;Her head was bare, and her thick black hair was coiled behind a throatChiselled as hard and bright and bold as the bow of a sailing boat.IIHer eyes were blue, and her jersey was blue as the lapping, slapping seas,And the rose in her cheek was painted red by the brisk Atlantic breeze;And she sat and waited her father's craft, while Dan Trevennick's eyesWere sheepishly watching her sunlit smiles and her soft contented sighs.IIIFor he thought he would give up his good black pipe and his evening glasses of beer,And blunder to chapel on Sundays again for a holy Christian year,To hold that foot in his hard rough hand and kiss the least of its toes:Then he swore at himself for a great damned fool; which he probably was, God knows.IVOften in summer twilights, too, he would sit on a coil of rope,As the stars came out in their twinkling crowds to play with wonder and hope,While he watched the side of her clear-cut face as she sat on the jetty and fished,And even to help her coil her line was more than he hoped or wished.VBut once or twice o'er the dark green tide he saw with a solemn delight,Hooked and splashing after her line, a flash and a streak of white;As hand over hand she hauled it up, a great black conger eel,For Dan Trevennick to kill as it squirmed with its head beneath his heel.VIAnd at last, with a crash and a sunset cry from the low soft evening star,A shadowy schooner suddenly loomed o'er the dark green oily bar;With fairy-like spars and misty masts in the golden dusk of gloaming,Where the last white seamew's wide-spread wings were wistfully westward roaming;VIIThen the song of the foreign seamen rose in the magical evening air,Faint and far away, as it seemed, but they knew it was, ah, so near;Far away as her heart from Dan's as he sheepishly drew to her side,And near as her heart when he kissed the lips of his newly promised bride.VIIIAnd when they were riding away in the train on the night of their honeymoon,What a whisper tingled against her cheek as it blushed like a rose in June;For she said, "I am tired and ready for bed," and Dan said, "So am I;"And she murmured, "Are you tired, too, poor Dan?" and he answered her, "No, dear, why?"IXIt was never a problem-play, at least, and the end of it all is this;They were drowned in the bliss of their ignorance and buried the rest in a kiss;And they loved one another their whole life long, as lovers will often do;For it never was only the fairy-tales that rang so royally true.XThe rose in her cheek was painted red by the brisk Atlantic breeze;Her eyes were blue, and her jersey was blue as the lapping, slapping seas;Her head was bare, and her thick black hair was coiled behind a throatChiselled as hard and bright and bold as the bow of a sailing boat.XIEighteen hundred and forty-three,Dan Trevennick was lost at sea;And, buried here at her husband's sideLies the body of Joan, his bride,Who, a little while after she lost him, died.
Where the old grey churchyard slopes to the sea,On the sunny side of a mossed headstone;Watching the wild white butterflies passThrough the fairy forests of grass,Two little children with brown legs bareWere merrily, merrilyWeaving a wonderful daisy-chain,And chanting the rhyme that was graven thereOver and over and over again;While the warm wind came and played with their hairAnd laughed and was goneOut, far out to the foam-flowered leaLike an ocean-wandering memory.
Eighteen hundred and forty-three,Dan Trevennick was lost at sea;And, buried here at her husband's sideLies the body of Joan, his bride,Who, a little while after she lost him, died.
This was the rhyme that was graven there,And the children chanted it quietly;As the warm wind came and played with their hair,And rustled the golden grasses against the stone,And laughed and was goneTo waken the wild white flowers of the sea,And sing a song of the days that were,A song of memory, gay and blindAs the sun on the graves that it left behind;For this, ah this, was the song of the wind.
I
She sat on the tarred old jetty, with a sailor's careless ease,And the clear waves danced around her feet and kissed her tawny knees;Her head was bare, and her thick black hair was coiled behind a throatChiselled as hard and bright and bold as the bow of a sailing boat.
II
Her eyes were blue, and her jersey was blue as the lapping, slapping seas,And the rose in her cheek was painted red by the brisk Atlantic breeze;And she sat and waited her father's craft, while Dan Trevennick's eyesWere sheepishly watching her sunlit smiles and her soft contented sighs.
III
For he thought he would give up his good black pipe and his evening glasses of beer,And blunder to chapel on Sundays again for a holy Christian year,To hold that foot in his hard rough hand and kiss the least of its toes:Then he swore at himself for a great damned fool; which he probably was, God knows.
IV
Often in summer twilights, too, he would sit on a coil of rope,As the stars came out in their twinkling crowds to play with wonder and hope,While he watched the side of her clear-cut face as she sat on the jetty and fished,And even to help her coil her line was more than he hoped or wished.
V
But once or twice o'er the dark green tide he saw with a solemn delight,Hooked and splashing after her line, a flash and a streak of white;As hand over hand she hauled it up, a great black conger eel,For Dan Trevennick to kill as it squirmed with its head beneath his heel.
VI
And at last, with a crash and a sunset cry from the low soft evening star,A shadowy schooner suddenly loomed o'er the dark green oily bar;With fairy-like spars and misty masts in the golden dusk of gloaming,Where the last white seamew's wide-spread wings were wistfully westward roaming;
VII
Then the song of the foreign seamen rose in the magical evening air,Faint and far away, as it seemed, but they knew it was, ah, so near;Far away as her heart from Dan's as he sheepishly drew to her side,And near as her heart when he kissed the lips of his newly promised bride.
VIII
And when they were riding away in the train on the night of their honeymoon,What a whisper tingled against her cheek as it blushed like a rose in June;For she said, "I am tired and ready for bed," and Dan said, "So am I;"And she murmured, "Are you tired, too, poor Dan?" and he answered her, "No, dear, why?"
IX
It was never a problem-play, at least, and the end of it all is this;They were drowned in the bliss of their ignorance and buried the rest in a kiss;And they loved one another their whole life long, as lovers will often do;For it never was only the fairy-tales that rang so royally true.
X
The rose in her cheek was painted red by the brisk Atlantic breeze;Her eyes were blue, and her jersey was blue as the lapping, slapping seas;Her head was bare, and her thick black hair was coiled behind a throatChiselled as hard and bright and bold as the bow of a sailing boat.
XI
Eighteen hundred and forty-three,Dan Trevennick was lost at sea;And, buried here at her husband's sideLies the body of Joan, his bride,Who, a little while after she lost him, died.
The round brown sails were reefed and struggling homeOver the glitter and gloom of the angry deep:Dark in the cottage she sang, "Soon, soon, he will come,Dreamikin, Drowsy-head, sleep, my little one, sleep."Over the glitter and gloom of the angry deepWas it only a dream or a shadow that vanished away?"Lullaby, little one, sleep, my little one, sleep."She sang in a dream as the shadows covered the day.Was it only a sail or a shadow that vanished away?The boats come home: there is one that will never return;But she sang in a dream as the shadows buried the day;And she set the supper and begged the fire to burn.The boats come home; but one will never return;And a strangled cry went up from the struggling sea.She sank on her knees and begged the fire to burn,"Burn, oh burn, for my love is coming to me!"A strangled cry went up from the struggling sea,A cry where the ghastly surf to the moon-dawn rolled;"Burn, oh burn; for my love is coming to me,His hands will be scarred with the ropes and starved with the cold."A strangled cry where the foam in the moonlight rolled,A bitter cry from the heart of the ghastly sea;"His hands will be frozen, the night is dark and cold,Burn, oh burn, for my love is coming to me."One cry to God from the soul of the shuddering sea,One moment of stifling lips and struggling hands;"Burn, oh burn; for my love is coming to me;And oh, I think the little one understands."One moment of stifling lips and struggling hands,Then only the glitter and gloom of the angry deep;"And oh, I think the little one understands;Dreamikin, Drowsy-head, sleep, my little one, sleep."
The round brown sails were reefed and struggling homeOver the glitter and gloom of the angry deep:Dark in the cottage she sang, "Soon, soon, he will come,Dreamikin, Drowsy-head, sleep, my little one, sleep."
Over the glitter and gloom of the angry deepWas it only a dream or a shadow that vanished away?"Lullaby, little one, sleep, my little one, sleep."She sang in a dream as the shadows covered the day.
Was it only a sail or a shadow that vanished away?The boats come home: there is one that will never return;But she sang in a dream as the shadows buried the day;And she set the supper and begged the fire to burn.
The boats come home; but one will never return;And a strangled cry went up from the struggling sea.She sank on her knees and begged the fire to burn,"Burn, oh burn, for my love is coming to me!"
A strangled cry went up from the struggling sea,A cry where the ghastly surf to the moon-dawn rolled;"Burn, oh burn; for my love is coming to me,His hands will be scarred with the ropes and starved with the cold."
A strangled cry where the foam in the moonlight rolled,A bitter cry from the heart of the ghastly sea;"His hands will be frozen, the night is dark and cold,Burn, oh burn, for my love is coming to me."
One cry to God from the soul of the shuddering sea,One moment of stifling lips and struggling hands;"Burn, oh burn; for my love is coming to me;And oh, I think the little one understands."
One moment of stifling lips and struggling hands,Then only the glitter and gloom of the angry deep;"And oh, I think the little one understands;Dreamikin, Drowsy-head, sleep, my little one, sleep."
Ghosts? Love would fain believe,Earth being so fair, the dead might wish to return!Is it so strange if, even in heaven, they yearnFor the May-time and the dreams it used to give?Through dark abysms of Space,From strange new spheres where Death has called them nowMay they not, with a crown on every brow,Still cry to the loved earth's lost familiar face?We two, love, we should comeSeeking a little refuge from the lightOf the blinding terrible star-sown Infinite,Seeking some sheltering roof, some four-walled home,From that too high, too wideCommunion with the universe and God,How glad to creep back to some lane we trodHemmed in with a hawthorn hedge on either side.Fresh from death's boundless birth,How fond the circled vision of the seaWould seem to souls tired of Infinity,How kind the soft blue boundaries of earth,How rich the nodding sprayOf pale green leaves that made the sapphire deepA background to the dreams of that brief sleepWe called our life when heaven was far away.How strange would be the sightOf the little towns and twisted streets again,Where all the hurrying works and ways of menWould seem a children's game for our delight.What boundless heaven could giveThis joy in the strait austere restraints of earth,Whereof the dead have felt the immortal dearthWho look upon God's face and cannot live?Our ghosts would clutch at flowersAs drowning men at straws, for fear the seaShould sweep them back to God's Eternity,Still clinging to the day that once was ours.No more with fevered brainPlunging across the gulfs of Space and TimeWould we revisit this our earthly climeWe two, if we could ever come again;Not as we came of old,But reverencing the flesh we now despiseAnd gazing out with consecrated eyes,Each of us glad of the other's hand to hold.So we should wander nighOur mortal home, and see its little roofKeeping the deep eternal night aloofAnd yielding us a refuge from the sky.We should steal in, once more,Under the cloudy lilac at the gate,Up the walled garden, then with hearts elateForget the stars and close our cottage door.Oh then, as children useTo make themselves a little hiding-place,We would rejoice in narrowness of space,And God should give us nothing more to lose.How good it all would seemTo souls that from the æonian ebb and flowCame down to hear once more the to and froSwing o' the clock dictate its hourly theme.How dear the strange recallFrom vast antiphonies of joy and painBeyond the grave, to these old books again,That cosy lamp, those pictures on the wall.Home! Home! The old desire!We would shut out the innumerable skies,Draw close the curtains, then with patient eyesBend o'er the hearth; laugh at our memories,Or watch them crumbling in the crimson fire.
Ghosts? Love would fain believe,Earth being so fair, the dead might wish to return!Is it so strange if, even in heaven, they yearnFor the May-time and the dreams it used to give?
Through dark abysms of Space,From strange new spheres where Death has called them nowMay they not, with a crown on every brow,Still cry to the loved earth's lost familiar face?
We two, love, we should comeSeeking a little refuge from the lightOf the blinding terrible star-sown Infinite,Seeking some sheltering roof, some four-walled home,
From that too high, too wideCommunion with the universe and God,How glad to creep back to some lane we trodHemmed in with a hawthorn hedge on either side.
Fresh from death's boundless birth,How fond the circled vision of the seaWould seem to souls tired of Infinity,How kind the soft blue boundaries of earth,
How rich the nodding sprayOf pale green leaves that made the sapphire deepA background to the dreams of that brief sleepWe called our life when heaven was far away.
How strange would be the sightOf the little towns and twisted streets again,Where all the hurrying works and ways of menWould seem a children's game for our delight.
What boundless heaven could giveThis joy in the strait austere restraints of earth,Whereof the dead have felt the immortal dearthWho look upon God's face and cannot live?
Our ghosts would clutch at flowersAs drowning men at straws, for fear the seaShould sweep them back to God's Eternity,Still clinging to the day that once was ours.
No more with fevered brainPlunging across the gulfs of Space and TimeWould we revisit this our earthly climeWe two, if we could ever come again;
Not as we came of old,But reverencing the flesh we now despiseAnd gazing out with consecrated eyes,Each of us glad of the other's hand to hold.
So we should wander nighOur mortal home, and see its little roofKeeping the deep eternal night aloofAnd yielding us a refuge from the sky.
We should steal in, once more,Under the cloudy lilac at the gate,Up the walled garden, then with hearts elateForget the stars and close our cottage door.
Oh then, as children useTo make themselves a little hiding-place,We would rejoice in narrowness of space,And God should give us nothing more to lose.
How good it all would seemTo souls that from the æonian ebb and flowCame down to hear once more the to and froSwing o' the clock dictate its hourly theme.
How dear the strange recallFrom vast antiphonies of joy and painBeyond the grave, to these old books again,That cosy lamp, those pictures on the wall.
Home! Home! The old desire!We would shut out the innumerable skies,Draw close the curtains, then with patient eyesBend o'er the hearth; laugh at our memories,Or watch them crumbling in the crimson fire.
IBeyond; beyond; and yet again beyond!What went ye out to seek, oh foolish-fond?Is not the heart of all things here and now?Is not the circle infinite, and the centreEverywhere, if ye would but hear and enter?Come; the porch bends and the great pillars bow.IICome; come and see the secret of the sun;The sorrow that holds the warring worlds in one;The pain that holds Eternity in an hour;One God in every seed self-sacrificed,One star-eyed, star-crowned universal Christ,Re-crucified in every wayside flower.
I
Beyond; beyond; and yet again beyond!What went ye out to seek, oh foolish-fond?Is not the heart of all things here and now?Is not the circle infinite, and the centreEverywhere, if ye would but hear and enter?Come; the porch bends and the great pillars bow.
II
Come; come and see the secret of the sun;The sorrow that holds the warring worlds in one;The pain that holds Eternity in an hour;One God in every seed self-sacrificed,One star-eyed, star-crowned universal Christ,Re-crucified in every wayside flower.
Teach me to live and to forgiveThe death that all must dieWho pass in slumber through this heavenOf earth and sea and sky;Who live by grace of Time and SpaceAt which their peace is priced;And cast their lots upon the robeThat wraps the cosmic Christ;Who cannot see the world-wide TreeWhere Love lies bleeding still;This universal cross of GodOur star-crowned Igdrasil.Teach me to live; I do not askFor length of earthly days,Or that my heaven-appointed taskShould fall in pleasant ways;If in this hour of warmth and lightThe last great knell were knolled;If Death should close mine eyes to-nightAnd all the tale be told;While I have lips to speak or singAnd power to draw this breath,Shall I not praise my Lord and KingAbove all else, for death?When on a golden eve he droveHis keenest sorrow deepDeep in my heart, and called it love;I did not wince or weep.A wild Hosanna shook the worldAnd wakened all the sky,As through a white and burning lightHer passionate face went by.When on a golden dawn he calledMy best beloved away,I did not shrink or stand appalledBefore the hopeless day.The joy of that triumphant dearthAnd anguish cannot die;The joy that casts aside this earthFor immortality.I would not change one word of doomUpon the dreadful scroll,That gave her body to the tombAnd freed her fettered soul.For now each idle breeze can bringThe kiss I never seek;The nightingale has heard her sing,The rose caressed her cheek.And every pang of every griefThat ruled my soul an hour,Has given new splendours to the leaf,New glories to the flower;And melting earth into the heavenWhose inmost heart is pain,Has drawn the veils apart and givenHer soul to mine again.
Teach me to live and to forgiveThe death that all must dieWho pass in slumber through this heavenOf earth and sea and sky;Who live by grace of Time and SpaceAt which their peace is priced;And cast their lots upon the robeThat wraps the cosmic Christ;
Who cannot see the world-wide TreeWhere Love lies bleeding still;This universal cross of GodOur star-crowned Igdrasil.
Teach me to live; I do not askFor length of earthly days,Or that my heaven-appointed taskShould fall in pleasant ways;
If in this hour of warmth and lightThe last great knell were knolled;If Death should close mine eyes to-nightAnd all the tale be told;
While I have lips to speak or singAnd power to draw this breath,Shall I not praise my Lord and KingAbove all else, for death?
When on a golden eve he droveHis keenest sorrow deepDeep in my heart, and called it love;I did not wince or weep.
A wild Hosanna shook the worldAnd wakened all the sky,As through a white and burning lightHer passionate face went by.
When on a golden dawn he calledMy best beloved away,I did not shrink or stand appalledBefore the hopeless day.
The joy of that triumphant dearthAnd anguish cannot die;The joy that casts aside this earthFor immortality.
I would not change one word of doomUpon the dreadful scroll,That gave her body to the tombAnd freed her fettered soul.
For now each idle breeze can bringThe kiss I never seek;The nightingale has heard her sing,The rose caressed her cheek.
And every pang of every griefThat ruled my soul an hour,Has given new splendours to the leaf,New glories to the flower;
And melting earth into the heavenWhose inmost heart is pain,Has drawn the veils apart and givenHer soul to mine again.
IHe sat with his foolish mouth agape at the golden glare of the sea,And his wizened and wintry flaxen locks fluttered around his ears,And his foolish infinite eyes were full of the sky's own glitter and glee,As he dandled an old Dutch Doll on his knee and sang the song of the spheres.IIBlue and red and yellow and green they are melting away in the white;Hey! but the wise old world was wrong and my idiot heart was right;Yes; and the merry-go-round of the stars rolls to my cracked old tune,Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.IIIThen he cradled his doll on his crooning heart and cried as a sea-bird cries;And the hot sun reeled like a drunken god through the violent violet vault:And the hillside cottage that danced to the deep debauch of the perfumed skiesGrew palsied and white in the purple heath as a pillar of Dead Sea salt.IVThere were three gaunt sun-flowers nigh his chair: they were yellow as death and tall;And they threw their sharp blue shadowy stars on the blind white wizard wall;And they nodded their heads to the weird old hymn that daunted the light of the noon,Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.VThe little dog laughed and leered with the white of his eye as he sidled awayTo stare at the dwarfish hunchback waves that crawled to the foot of the hill,For his master's infinite mind was wide to the wealth of the night and the day;The walls were down: it was one with the Deep that only a God can fill.VIThen a tiny maiden of ten sweet summers arrived with a song and a smile,And she swung on the elfin garden-gate and sung to the sea for a while,And a phantom face went weeping by and a ghost began to croonHey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.VIIAnd she followed a butterfly up to his chair; and the moon-calf caught at her handAnd stared at her wide blue startled eyes and muttered, "My dear, I have been,In fact, I am there at this moment, I think, in a wonderful fairy-land:"And he bent and he whispered it low in her ear—"I know why the grass is green.VIII"I know why the daisy is white, my dear, I know why the seas are blue;I know that the world is a dream, my dear, and I know that the dream is true;I know why the rose and the toad-stool grow, as a curse and a crimson boon,Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.IX"If I gaze at a rose, do you know, it grows till it overshadows the earth,Like a wonderful Tree of Knowledge, my dear, the Tree of our evil and good;But I dare not tell you the terrible vision that gave the toad-stool birth,The dream of a heart that breaks, my dear, and a Tree that is bitter with blood.X"Oh, Love may wander wide as the wind that blows from sea to sea,But a wooden dream, for me, my dear, and a painted memory;For the God that has bidden the toad-stool grow has writ in his cosmic rune,Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon."XIThen he stared at the child and he laughed aloud, and she suddenly screamed and fled,As he dreamed of enticing her out thro' the ferns to a quarry that gapped the hill,To hurtle her down and grin as her gold hair scattered around her headFar, far below, like a sunflower disk, so crimson-spattered and still.XII"Ah, hush!" he cried; and his dark old eyes were wet with a sacred loveAs he kissed the wooden face of his doll and winked at the skies above,"I know, I know why the toad-stools grow, and the rest of the world will, soon;Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon."XIII"Blue and red and yellow and green they are all mixed up in the white;Hey! but the wise old world was wrong and my idiot heart was right;Yes; and the merry-go-round of the stars rolls to my cracked old tune,Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon."
I
He sat with his foolish mouth agape at the golden glare of the sea,And his wizened and wintry flaxen locks fluttered around his ears,And his foolish infinite eyes were full of the sky's own glitter and glee,As he dandled an old Dutch Doll on his knee and sang the song of the spheres.
II
Blue and red and yellow and green they are melting away in the white;Hey! but the wise old world was wrong and my idiot heart was right;Yes; and the merry-go-round of the stars rolls to my cracked old tune,Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.
III
Then he cradled his doll on his crooning heart and cried as a sea-bird cries;And the hot sun reeled like a drunken god through the violent violet vault:And the hillside cottage that danced to the deep debauch of the perfumed skiesGrew palsied and white in the purple heath as a pillar of Dead Sea salt.
IV
There were three gaunt sun-flowers nigh his chair: they were yellow as death and tall;And they threw their sharp blue shadowy stars on the blind white wizard wall;And they nodded their heads to the weird old hymn that daunted the light of the noon,Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.
V
The little dog laughed and leered with the white of his eye as he sidled awayTo stare at the dwarfish hunchback waves that crawled to the foot of the hill,For his master's infinite mind was wide to the wealth of the night and the day;The walls were down: it was one with the Deep that only a God can fill.
VI
Then a tiny maiden of ten sweet summers arrived with a song and a smile,And she swung on the elfin garden-gate and sung to the sea for a while,And a phantom face went weeping by and a ghost began to croonHey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.
VII
And she followed a butterfly up to his chair; and the moon-calf caught at her handAnd stared at her wide blue startled eyes and muttered, "My dear, I have been,In fact, I am there at this moment, I think, in a wonderful fairy-land:"And he bent and he whispered it low in her ear—"I know why the grass is green.
VIII
"I know why the daisy is white, my dear, I know why the seas are blue;I know that the world is a dream, my dear, and I know that the dream is true;I know why the rose and the toad-stool grow, as a curse and a crimson boon,Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon.
IX
"If I gaze at a rose, do you know, it grows till it overshadows the earth,Like a wonderful Tree of Knowledge, my dear, the Tree of our evil and good;But I dare not tell you the terrible vision that gave the toad-stool birth,The dream of a heart that breaks, my dear, and a Tree that is bitter with blood.
X
"Oh, Love may wander wide as the wind that blows from sea to sea,But a wooden dream, for me, my dear, and a painted memory;For the God that has bidden the toad-stool grow has writ in his cosmic rune,Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon."
XI
Then he stared at the child and he laughed aloud, and she suddenly screamed and fled,As he dreamed of enticing her out thro' the ferns to a quarry that gapped the hill,To hurtle her down and grin as her gold hair scattered around her headFar, far below, like a sunflower disk, so crimson-spattered and still.
XII
"Ah, hush!" he cried; and his dark old eyes were wet with a sacred loveAs he kissed the wooden face of his doll and winked at the skies above,"I know, I know why the toad-stools grow, and the rest of the world will, soon;Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon."
XIII
"Blue and red and yellow and green they are all mixed up in the white;Hey! but the wise old world was wrong and my idiot heart was right;Yes; and the merry-go-round of the stars rolls to my cracked old tune,Hey! diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon."