Damon:
He dreams not of the court, and city lifeIs what he rails at.
Cydilla:
Well, if he now be wise and sober-souledAnd loved for goodness, I can rest content.
Damon:
My brain lights up to see thee happy! wait,It may be I can give some notion howOur poet spoke:'Damon, the best of life is in thine eyes —Worship of promise-laden beauty. Seems he notThe god of this fair scene?Those waves claim such a master as that boy;And these green slopes have waited till his feetShould wander them, to prove they were not spreadIn wantonness. What were this flower's prayerHad it a voice? The place behind his earWould brim its cup with bliss and overbrim;Oh, to be worn and fade beside his cheek!' —'In love and happy, Delphis; and the boy?' —'Loves and is happy' —You hale from?' —'Ætna;We have been out two days and crossed this ridge,West of Mount Mycon's head. I serve his father,A farmer well-to-do and full of sense,Who owns a grass-farm cleared among the pinesNorth-west the cone, where even at noon in summer,The slope it falls on lengthens a tree's shade.To play the lyre, read and write and danceI teach this lad; in all their country toilJoin, nor ask better fare than cheese, black bread,Butter or curds, and milk, nor better bedThan litter of dried fern or lentisk yields,Such as they all sleep soundly on and dream,(If e'er they dream) of places where it grew, —Where they have gathered mushrooms, eaten berries,Or found the sheep they lost, or killed a fox,Or snared the kestrel, or so played their pipesSome maid showed pleasure, sighed, nay even wept.There to be poet need involve no strain,For though enough of coarseness, dung — nay, nay,And suffering too, be mingled with the life,'Tis wedded to such air,Such water and sound health!What else might jar or fret chimes in attunedLike satyr's cloven hoof or lorn nymph's griefIn a choice ode. Though lust, disease and death,As everywhere, are cruel tyrants, yetThey all wear flowers, and each sings a songSuch as the hilly echo loves to learn.''At last then even Delphis knows content?''Damon, not so:This life has brought me health but not content.That boy, whose shouts ring round us while he flingsIntent each stone toward yon shining objectAfloat inshore ... I eat my heart to thinkHow all which makes him worthy of more loveMust train his ear to catch the siren croonThat never else had reached his upland home!And he who failed in proof, how should he armAnother against perils? Ah, false hopeAnd credulous enjoyment! How should I,Life's fool, while wakening ready wit in him,Teach how to shun applause and those bright eyesOf women who pour in the lap of springTheir whole year's substance? They can offerTo fill the day much fuller than I could,And yet teach night surpass it. Can my meansPrevent the ruin of the thing I cherish?What cares Zeus for him? Fate despises love.Why, lads more exquisite, brimming with promise,A thousand times have been lost for the lackOf just the help a watchful god might give;But which the best of fathers, best of mothers,Of friends, of lovers cannot quite supply.Powers, who swathe man's virtue up in weakness,Then plunge his delicate mind in hot desire,Preparing pleasure first and after shameTo bandage round his eyes, — these gods are notThe friends of men.'The Delphis of old days before me stood,Passionate, stormy, teeming with black thought,His back turned on that sparkling summer sea,His back turned on his love; and wilder wordsAnd less coherent thought poured from him now.Hipparchus waking took stock of the scene.I watched him wend down, rubbing sleepy lids,To where the boy was busy throwing stones.He joined the work, but even his stronger armAnd heavier flints he hurled would not sufficeTo drive that floating object nearer shore:And, ere the rebel Delphis had expressedEnough of anger and contempt for gods,(Who, he asserted, were the dreams of men),I saw the stone-throwers both take the waterAnd swimming easily attain their end.The way they held their noses proved the thingA tunny, belly floating upward, dead;Both towed it till the current caught and swept itOut far from that sweet cove; they laughing watched:Then, suddenly, Amyntas screamed and DelphisTurned to see him sinkLocked in Hipparchus' arms.The god Apollo neverBurst through a cloud with more ease than thy sonPoured from his homespun garbThe rapid glory of his naked limbs,And like a streak of lightning reached the waves: —Wherein his thwarted speed appeared more awfulAs, brought within the scope of comprehension,Its progress and its purpose could be gauged.Spluttering Amyntas rose, Hipparchus near himWho cried 'Why coy of kisses, lovely lad?I ne'er would harm thee; art thou not ashamedTo treat thy conquest thus?'He shouted partly to drown the sea's noise, chieflyThe nearing Delphis to disarm.His voice lost its assurance while he spoke,And, as he finished, quick to escape he turned;Thy son's eyes and that steady coming on,As he might see them over ruffled crests,Far better helped him swimThan ever in his life he swam before.Delphis passed by Amyntas;Hipparchus was o'ertaken,Cuffed, ducked and shaken;In vain he clung about his angry foe;Held under he perforce let go:I, fearing for his life, set up a whoopTo bring cause and effect to thy son's mind,And in dire rage's room his sense returned.He towed Hipparchus back like one he'd savedFrom drowning, laid him out upon that ledgeWhere late Amyntas stood, where now he kneeledShivering, alarmed and mute.Delphis next set the drowned man's mouth to drain;We worked his arms, for I had joined them; soonHis breathing recommenced; we laid him higherOn sun-warmed turf to come back to himself;Then we climbed to the cart without a word.The sun had dried their limbs; they, putting onTheir clothes, sat down; at length, I asked the ladWhat made him keen to pelt a stinking fish.Blushing he said, 'I wondered what it was.But that man, when he came to help, declared'Twould prove a dead sea-nymph, and we might see,By swimming out, how finely she was made.I did not half believe, yet when we foundThat foul stale fish, it made us laugh.' He smiledAnd watched Hipparchus spit and cough and groan.I moved to the car and unpacked bread and meat,A cheese, some fruit, a skin of wine, two bowls.Amyntas was all joy to see such things;Ran off and pulled acanthus for our plates;Chattering, he helped me set all forth, — was keenTo choose rock basin where the wine might cool;Approved, was full as happy as I to praise:And most he pleased me, when he set a placeFor poor Hipparchus. Thus our eager work,While Delphis, in his thoughts retired, sat frowning,Grew like a home-conspiracy to trapThe one who bears the brunt of outside caresInto the glow of cheerfulness that bathesThe children and the mother, — happy notTo foresee winter, short-commons or long debts,Since they are busied for the present meal, —Too young, too weak, too kind, to peer ahead,Or probe the dark horizon bleak with storms.Oh! I have sometimes thought there is a godWho helps with lucky accidents when folkJoin with the little ones to chase such gloom.That chance which left Hipparchus with no clothes,Surely divinity was ambushed in it?When he must put on Chloe's, Amyntas rockedWith laughter, and Hipparchus, quick to useA favourable gust, pretends confusionSuch as a farmer's daughter red-faced showsIf in the dance her dress has come unpinned.She suddenly grows grave; yet, seeing thereFriends only, stoops behind a sister-skirt.Then, having set to rights the small mishap,Holding her screener's elbows, round her shoulderPeeps, to bob back meeting a young man's eye.All, grateful for such laughs, give Hermes thanks.And even Delphis at Hipparchus smiledWhen, from behind me, he peeped bashful forth;Amyntas called him Baucis every time,Laughing because he was or was not likeSome wench ...Why, Delphis, in the name of ZeusHow come you here?
Cydilla:
What can have happened, Delphis?Be brief for pity!
Delphis:
Nothing, mother, nothingThat has not happened time on time beforeTo thee, to Damon, when the life ye thoughtWith pride and pleasure yours, has proved a dream.They strike down on us from the top of heaven,Bear us up in their talons, up and up,Drop us: we fall, are crippled, maimed for life.'Our dreams'? nay, we are theirs for sport, for prey,And life is the King Eagle,The strongest, highest flyer, from whose clutchThe fall is fatal always.
Cydilla:
Delphis, Delphis,Good Damon had been making me so happyBy telling ...
Delphis:
How he watched me near the zenith?Three years backThat dream pounced on me and began to soar;Having been sick, my heart had found new lies;The only thoughts I then had ears for wereHealthy, virtuous, sweet;Jaded town-wastrel,A country setting was the sole could take meThree years back.Damon might have guessedFrom such a dizzy heightWhat fall was coming.
Cydilla:
Ah my boy, my boy!
Damon:
Sit down, be patient, let us hear and aid,; —Has aught befallen Amyntas?
Delphis:
Would he were dead!Would that I had been brute enough to slay him! —Great Zeus, Hipparchus had so turned his head,His every smile and wordAs we sat by our fire, stung my fool's heart. —How we laughed to see him curtsey,Fidget strings about his waist, —Giggle, his beard caught in the chlamys' hemDrawing it tight about his neck, 'just likeOur Baucis.' Could not sleepFor thinking of the life they lead in towns;He said so: when, at last,He sighed from dreamland, thoughtsI had been day-long broodingBroke into vision.A child, a girl,Beautiful, nay more than others beautiful,Not meant for marriage, not for one man meant,You know what she will be;At six years old or seven her life is round her;A company, all ages, old men, young men,Whose vices she must prey on.And the bent crone she will be is there too,Patting her head and chuckling prophecies. —O cherry lips, O wild bird eyes,O gay invulnerable setter-at-noughtOf will, of virtue —Thou art as constant a cause as is the sea,As is the sun, as are the winds, as night,Of opportunities not only but events; —The unalterable pastIs full of thy contrivance,Aphrodite,Goddess of ruin!No girl; nay, nay,Amyntas is young,Is gay,Has beauty and health — and yetIn his sleep I have seen him smileAnd known that his dream was vile;Those eyes which brimmed over with gleeTill my life flowed as fresh as the sea —Those eyes, gloved each in a warm live lid,May be glad that their visions are hid.I taught myself to rhyme; the trick will cling.Ah, Damon, day-lit vision is more dreadThan those which suddenly replace the dark!When the dawn filtered through our tent of boughsI saw him closely wrapped in his grey cloak,His head upon a pile of caked thin leavesWhose life had dried up full two years ago.Their flakes shook in the breath from those moist lips;The vow his kiss would seal must prove, I knewAs friable as that pale ashen fritter;It had more body than reason dare expectFrom that so beautiful creature's best intent.He waking found me no more there; and wandersThrough Ætna's woods to-dayCalling at times, or questioning charcoal burners,Till he shall strike a road shall lead him home;Yet all his life must be spent as he spendsThis day in whistling, wondering, singing, chatting,In the great wood, vacant and amiable.
Damon:
Can it be possible that thou desertestThy love, thy ward, the work of three long years,Because chance, on an April holidayHas filled this boy's talk with another man,And wonder at another way of life?Worse than a woman's is such jealousy;The lad must live!
Delphis:
Live, live! to be sure, he must live!I have lived, am a fool for my pains!And yet, and yet,This heart has ached to play the god for him: —Mine eyes for his had sifted visible things;Speech had been filtered ere it reached his ear;Not in the world should he have lived, but breathedHumanity's distilled quintessences;The indiscriminate multitude sorted should yield himAcquaintance and friend discerned, chosen by me: —By me, who failed, wrecked my youth's prime, and draggedMore wonderful than his gifts in the mire!
Damon:
Yet if experience could not teach and saveOthers from ignorance, why, towns would beRuins, and civil men like outlaws thieve,Stab, riot, ere two generations passed.
Delphis:
Where is the Athens that Pericles loved?Where are the youths that were Socrates' friends?There was a town where all learntWhat the wisest had taught!Why had crude Sparta such treasonous force?Could Philip of MacedonBreed a true Greek of his son?What honour to conquer a worldWhere Alcibiades failed,Lead half-drilled highland hordesWhose lust would inherit the wise?There is nothing art's industry shapedBut their idleness praising it mocked.Thus Fate re-assumed her commandAnd laughed at experienced law.What ails man to love with such pains?Why toil to create in the mindOf those who shall close in his graveThe best that he is and has hoped?The longer permission he has,The nobler the structure so raised,The greater its downfall. Fools, fools,Where is a town such as Pericles ruled?Where youths to replace those whom Socrates loved?Wise Damon, thou art silent; — Mother, thouHast only arms to cling about thy son. —Who can descry the purpose of a godWith eyes wide-open? shut them, every foolCan conjure up a world arriving somewhere,Resulting in what he may call perfection.Evil must soon or late succeed to good.There well may once have been a golden age:Why should we treat it as a poet's tale?Yet, in those hills that hung o'er Arcady,Some roving inebriate DaimonBegat him fair childrenOn nymphs of the vineyard,On nymphs of the rock: —And in the heart of the forestLay bound in white arms,In action creative a fatherWithout a thought for his child: —A purposeless god,The forbear of menTo corrupt, ape, inherit and spoilThat fine race beforehand with doom!No, Damon, what's an answer worth to oneWhose mind has been flung open?Only last night,The gates of my spirit gave entranceUnto the great light;And I saw how virtue seduceth,Not ended today or tomorrowLike the passion for love,Like the passion for life —But perennial painAnd age-long effort.Dead deeds are the teeth that shineIn the mouth that repeateth praise,That spurs men to do high thingsSince their fathers did higher before —To give more than they hope to receive,To slave and to die in a secular cause!The mouth that smiles over-praiseEats out the heart of each foolTo feed the great dream of a race.Yet wearied peoples each in turn awakeFrom virtue, as a man from his brief love,And, roughly shaken, face the useless truth;No answer to brute fact has e'er been found.Slaves of your slaves, caged in your furnished rooms,Ushered to meals when reft of appetite —Though hungry, bound to wait a stated hour —Your dearest contemplation broken offBy the appointed summons to your bath;Racked with more thought for those whom you may flogThan for those dear; obsessed by your possessionsWith a dull round of stale anxieties; —Soon maintenance grows the extreme reach of hopeFor those held in respect, as in a vice,By citizens of whom they are the pick.Of men the least bond is the roving seamanWho hires himself to merchantman or pirateFor single voyages, stays where he may please,Lives his purse empty in a dozen ports,And ne'er obeys the ghost of what once was!His laugh chimes readily; his kiss, no symbolOf aught to come, but cordial, eager, hot,Leaves his tomorrow free. With him for comradeEach day shall be enough, and what is goodEnjoyed, and what is evil borne or cursed.I go, because I will not have a home,Or here prefer to there, or near to far.I go, because I will not have a friendLay claim upon my leisure this day week.I will be melted by each smile that takes me;What though a hundred lips should meet with mine!A vagabond I shall be as the moon is.The sun, the waves, the winds, all birds, all beasts,Are ever on the move, and take what comes;They are not parasites like plants and menRooted in that which fed them yesterday.Not even Memory shall follow Delphis,For I will yield to all impulse save hers,Therein alone subject to prescient rigour;Lest she should lure me back among the dying —Pilfer the present for the beggar past.Free minds must bargain with each greedy momentAnd seize the most that lies to hand at once.Ye are too old to understand my words;I yet have youth enough, and can escapeFrom that which sucks each individual manInto the common dream.
Cydilla:
Stay, Delphis, hear what Damon has to say!He is mad!
Damon:
Mad — yes — mad as cruelty!* * * * *Poor, poor Cydilla! was it then to thisThat all my tale was prologue?Think of Amyntas, think of that poor boy,Bereaved as we are both bereaved! Come, come,Find him, and say that Love himself has sent usTo offer our poor service in his stead.
Cydilla:
Good Damon, help me find my wool; my eyesAre blind with tears; then I will come at once!We must be doing something, for I feelWe both shall drown our hearts with time to spare.
Contents/Contents, p. 2
Ah whither dost thou float, sweet silent star,In yonder floods of evening's dying light?Before the fanning wings of rising night,Methinks thy silvery bark is driven farTo some lone isle or calmly havened shore,Where the lorn eye of man can follow thee no more.How many a one hath watched thee even as I,And unto thee and thy receding rayPoured forth his thoughts with many a treasured sighToo sweet and strange for the remorseless day;But thou hast gone and left unto their sightToo great a host of stars, and yet too black a night.E'en as I gaze upon thee, thy bright formDoth sail away among the cloudy islesAround whose shores the sea of sunlight smiles.On thee may break no black and boisterous stormTo turn the tenour of thy calm career.As thou wert long ago so now thou dost appear.Art thou a tear left by the exiled dayUpon the dusky cheek of drowsy night?Or dost thou as a lark carol alwayFull in the liquid glow of heavenly light?Or, bent on discord and angelic wars,As some bright spirit tread before the trooping stars?The disenchanted vapours hide thee fast;The watery twilight fades and night comes on;One lingering moment more and thou art gone,Lost in the rising sea of clouds that castTheir inundations o'er the darkening air;And wild the night wind wails the lightless world's despair.
Contents/Contents, p. 2
Cuckoo, are you calling me,Or is it a voice of wizardry?In these woodlands I am lost,From glade to glade of flowers tost.Seven times I held my way,And seven times the voice did say,Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man couldIssue from this underwood,Half of green and half of brown,Unless he laid his senses down.Only let him chance to seeThe snows of the anemoneHeaped above its greenery;Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man couldIssue from the master wood.Magic paths there are that cross;Some beset with jewelled mossAnd boughs all bare; where others run,Bluebells bathe in mist and sunPast a clearing filled with clumpsOf primrose round the nutwood stumps;All as gay as gay can be,And bordered with dog-mercury,The wizard flower, the wizard green,Like a Persian carpet seen.Brown, dead bracken lies between,And wrinkled leaves, whence fronds of fernStill untwist and upward turn.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man couldIssue from this wizard wood,Half of green, and half of brown,Unless he laid his senses down.Seven times I held my wayWhere new heaps of brushwood lay,All with withies loosely bound,And never heard a human sound.Yet men have toiled and men have restedBy yon hurdles darkly-breasted,Woven in and woven out,Piled four-square, and turned aboutTo show their white and sharpened stakesLike teeth of hounds or fangs of snakes.The men are homeward sped, for noneLoves silence and a sinking sun.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Woodmen knowSouls are lost that hear it so,Seven times upon the wind,To lull the watch-dogs of the mind.A stranger wood you shall not find!Beech and birch and oak agreeHere to dwell in company.Hazel, elder, few men couldName the kinds of underwood.Summer and winter haunt together,And golden light with misty weather.'Tis summer where this beech is seenDefenceless in its virgin green;All its leaves are smooth and thin,And the sunlight passes in,Passes in and filters throughTo a green heaven below the blue.Low the branches fall and traceA circle round that mystic place,Guarded on its outward sideBy hyacinths in all their pride;And within dim moons appear,Wax and wane — I go not near!Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How we fearSights and sounds that come and goWithout a cause for men to know!Why for a whispered doubt should IShun that other beech-tree high,Red and watchful, still and bare,With a thousand spears in air,Guarding yet its treasured leafFrom storm and hail and winter's grief?Unregarded on the groundLeaves of yester-year abound,For what is autumn's gold to oneThat hoards a life scarce yet begun?Let me so renew my youth,I defend it, nail and tooth,Rooting deep and lifting high.For this my dead leaves hiss and sighAnd glow as on the downward roadTo the dog-snake's dread abode.Noxious things of earth and air,Get you hence, for I prepareTo flaunt my beauty in the sunWhen all beside me are undone.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Pan shall seeThe surge of my virginityOvertop the sobered glade.Luminous and unafraidNear his sacred oak I'll spreadLures to tempt him from his bed:His couch, his lair his form shall beBy none but by the fair beech-tree.O cunning Oak! What is your skillTo hold the god against my will?Keep your favours back like me,With disfavour he shall seeOrange hues of jealousy:Show your leaf in early prime,It shall be dark before its time:Me you shall not rival ever.Silver Birch, would you endeavour,Trembling in your bridal dress,To win at last a dog's caress?Through your twigs so thin and darkShows the black and ashen bark,Like a face that underneathTightened eyebrows looks on death.Think not, dwarf, that Pan shall findAught about you to his mind.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! All shall tryTo win him. But the beech and I,Man and tree made one at last,Alone have power to hold him fast.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Forth I creep,When the flowers fall asleep,And upgather odours rareFloating on the misty air,All to be imprisoned whereMy sap is rising till they reachThe swelling twigs, and thence shall eachSeparate scent be shaken freeAs my flowers and leaves agree.Rare in sooth those flowers shall be:Cunningly will I deviseColours to delight the eyes,Slipping from my fissured stemTo get by stealth or stratagemThe glory of the morning petal.Where the bees at noontide settle,Mine to rifle all their sweets:Honey and bee-bread on the teatsOf my blossoms shall be spread,Till the lime-trees shake with dreadOf the marvels still to comeWhen their bees about me hum.Welcome, welcome, cloudless night,Is our labour ended quite?Are the mortal and the treeNow made one in ecstasy,One in foretaste of the dawn?Crescent moon, sink, sink outworn!Stars be buried, stars be born,Mount and dip to tell arightThe doings of the morrow's light!Mists, assemble, hide me quite,Till the sun with growing strengthGrips your veils, and length by lengthTears them down from head to foot;Then to the challenge I am put!Tell me busy, busy glade,Half in light and half in shade,Is your world of wood-folk there?All are come but the mole and hare;One is blind, and undergroundOf that tumult hears no sound;The other Pan has crept within,To bask afield in the hare-skin.All are come of woodland fowlBut the cuckoo and the owl;The owl's asleep, and the cuckoo-birdNowhere seen is eachwhere heard.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Those that seeThe leafing of this great beech-tree,And its flowers of every kind,Woodland lovers have in mind;Those that breathe the scented windOr touch this bark of satin, couldNever issue from our wood.Tell me, busy, busy glade,Are little flying things afraid?All are come of aery folk,Gnats that hover like a smoke,Butterflies and humble-bees,Insects winged in all degrees,Honey-toilers, pleasure-makers,Of labours and of joys forsakers,Round these boughs to live and die.Only the moth and the dragon-flyKeep their haunts and come not nigh:The moth is moonstruck, she must creepWith twitching wings, and half-asleep,Through folds of darkness; and that other,The dragon-fly, Narcissus' brother,Flashes all his burnished mailIn a still pool adown the dale.Tell me, busy, busy glade,Shifting aye in light and shade,Are the dryads peeping forth,More in wonder than in wrath,Each beneath her own dear treeParting her hair that she may seeHow queens put on their sovereignty?All are come of Pan's own race,Nymphs and satyrs fill the place,Necks outstretched and ears a-twitching,That Pan may know of all this witching.Heedless stumble the goatfeetTill four-footed things retreat.Cries of Ah! and Ay! and Eh!Scare the forest birds away,And their notes that rang so clearAt dawn, you now shall rarely hear:Only a robin here and therePitches high his trembling voiceIn a challenge to rejoice.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How two notesStolen from all woodland throatsMake the satyrs stand like stone,Waiting for Pan to call his own!How the couching dryads seemTo root themselves as in a dream,And the naiads, wan and whist,To melt into an evening mist!Tell me, silent, silent glade,All in light that once was shade,All in shade that once was light,How went the creatures from my sight?Where are the shapes that turned to stone,And my tree that reigned alone?Red and watchful, still and bare,With a thousand spears in air,Stands the beech that you would bindUnlawfully to human mind.Gone is every woodland elfTo the mighty god himself.Mortal! You yourself are fast!Doubt not Pan shall come at lastTo put a leer within your eyesThat pry into his mysteries.He shall touch the busy brainLest it ever teem again;Point the ears and twist the feet,Till by day you dare not meetMen, or in the failing lightMutter more than, Friend, good-night!Tell me, whispering, whispering glade,Am I eager or afraid?Do I wish the god to come?What shall I say if he be dumb?Tell me, wherefore hiss and sighThose shrivelled leaves? Has Pan gone by?Why do your thousand pools of lightGaze like eyes that fade at night?Pan has but twain, Pan's eyes are bright!Cuckoo! Cuckoo! See, yon stakesGape and grin like fangs of snakes;Not snakes nor hounds are mouthing thus;Pan himself is watching us.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! NowThe god is breasting the hill-brow.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Pan is near:Joy runs trembling back to fear.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! All my bloodKnocks through the heart whose every thudChokes me, blinds me, drains my madness.As one half-drowned, I feel life's gladnessOoze from each pore. Towards the sunDownhill I reel that fain would run.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Thornless seemBriars that part as in a dream.Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Hazel-boughsHurt not though they blood the brows.Cuckoo! In a meadow proneAt last I lie, my wits my own;And in my hand I clasp the flowerTo counteract that magic power;The cuckoo-flower, in a lilac sheetUnder body, head and feet.Above me apple-blossoms fleckThe cloudless sky, a neighbouring beckWith many a happy gurgle goesDown to the farm through alder-rows.Strange it is, and it is sweet,To hear the distant mill-wheel beat,And the kindly cries of menTurning the cattle home again,The clank of pails and all the shadesOf laughter of the busy maids.Now is come the evening star,And my limbs new-blooded are.So beside the stream I chooseA path that patient anglers use,Which with many twists and turnsBrings me where a candle burns,A lowly light, through cottage paneSeen and hid and seen again.Cuckoo! Now you call in vain.I am far and I am freeFrom all woodland wizardry!
Contents/Contents, p. 2
Mad Patsy said, he said to me,That every morning he could seeAn angel walking on the sky;Across the sunny skies of mornHe threw great handfuls far and nighOf poppy seed among the corn;And then, he said, the angels runTo see the poppies in the sun.A poppy is a devil weed,I said to him — he disagreed;He said the devil had no handIn spreading flowers tall and fairThrough corn and rye and meadow land,By garth and barrow everywhere:The devil has not any flower,But only money in his power.And then he stretched out in the sunAnd rolled upon his back for fun:He kicked his legs and roared for joyBecause the sun was shining down,He said he was a little boyAnd would not work for any clown:He ran and laughed behind a bee,And danced for very ecstasy.
Contents/Contents, p. 2
I thought I heard Him calling. Did you hearA sound, a little sound? My curious earIs dinned with flying noises, and the treeGoes — whisper, whisper, whisper silentlyTill all its whispers spread into the soundOf a dull roar. Lie closer to the ground,The shade is deep and He may pass us by.We are so very small, and His great eye,Customed to starry majesties, may gazeToo wide to spy us hiding in the maze;Ah, misery! the sun has not yet goneAnd we are naked: He will look uponOur crouching shame, may make us stand uprightBurning in terror — O that it were night!He may not come ... what? listen, listen, now —He is here! lie closer ...Adam, where art thou?
Contents/Contents, p. 2
So Eden was deserted, and at eveInto the quiet place God came to grieve.His face was sad, His hands hung slackly downAlong his robe; too sorrowful to frownHe paced along the grassy paths and throughThe silent trees, and where the flowers grewTended by Adam. All the birds had goneOut to the world, and singing was not oneTo cheer the lonely God out of His grief —The silence broken only when a leafTapt lightly on a leaf, or when the wind,Slow-handed, swayed the bushes to its mind.And so along the base of a round hill,Rolling in fern, He bent His way untilHe neared the little hut which Adam made,And saw its dusky rooftree overlaidWith greenest leaves. Here Adam and his spouseWere wont to nestle in their little houseSnug at the dew-time: here He, standing sad,Sighed with the wind, nor any pleasure hadIn heavenly knowledge, for His darlings twainHad gone from Him to learn the feel of pain,And what was meant by sorrow and despair, —Drear knowledge for a Father to prepare.There he looked sadly on the little place;A beehive round it was, without a traceOf occupant or owner; standing dimAmong the gloomy trees it seemed to HimA final desolation, the last wordWherewith the lips of silence had been stirred.Chaste and remote, so tiny and so shy,So new withal, so lost to any eye,So pac't of memories all innocentOf days and nights that in it had been spentIn blithe communion, Adam, Eve, and He,Afar from Heaven and its gaudery;And now no more! He still must be the GodBut not the friend; a Father with a rodWhose voice was fear, whose countenance a threat,Whose coming terror, and whose going wetWith penitential tears; not evermoreWould they run forth to meet Him as beforeWith careless laughter, striving each to beFirst to His hand and dancing in their gleeTo see Him coming — they would hide insteadAt His approach, or stand and hang the head,Speaking in whispers, and would learn to prayInstead of asking, 'Father, if we may.'Never again to Eden would He hasteAt cool of evening, when the sun had pacedBack from the tree-tops, slanting from the rimOf a low cloud, what time the twilight dimKnit tree to tree in shadow, gathering slowTill all had met and vanished in the flowOf dusky silence, and a brooding starStared at the growing darkness from afar,While haply now and then some nested birdWould lift upon the air a sleepy wordMost musical, or swing its airy bedTo the high moon that drifted overhead.'Twas good to quit at evening His great throne,To lay His crown aside, and all aloneDown through the quiet air to stoop and glideUnkenned by angels: silently to hideIn the green fields, by dappled shades, where brooksThrough leafy solitudes and quiet nooksFlowed far from heavenly majesty and pride,From light astounding and the wheeling tideOf roaring stars. Thus does it ever seemGood to the best to stay aside and dreamIn narrow places, where the hand can feelSomething beside, and know that it is real.His angels! silly creatures who could singAnd sing again, and delicately flingThe smoky censer, bow and stand asideAll mute in adoration: thronging wide,Till nowhere could He look but soon He sawAn angel bending humbly to the lawMechanic; knowing nothing more of pain,Than when they were forbid to sing again,Or swing anew the censer, or bow downIn humble adoration of His frown.This was the thought in Eden as He trod —... It is a lonely thing to be a God.So long! afar through Time He bent His mind,For the beginning, which He could not find,Through endless centuries and backwards stillEndless for ever, till His 'stonied willHalted in circles, dizzied in the swingOf mazy nothingness. — His mind could bringNot to subjection, grip or hold the themeWhose wide horizon melted like a dreamTo thinnest edges. Infinite behindThe piling centuries were trodden blindIn gulfs chaotic — so He could not seeWhen He was not who always had To Be.Not even godly fortitude can stareInto Eternity, nor easy bearThe insolent vacuity of Time:It is too much, the mind can never climbUp to its meaning, for, without an end,Without beginning, plan, or scope, or trendTo point a path, there nothing is to holdAnd steady surmise: so the mind is rolledAnd swayed and drowned in dull Immensity.Eternity outfaces even MeWith its indifference, and the fruitless yearWould swing as fruitless were I never here.And so for ever, day and night the same,Years flying swiftly nowhere, like a gamePlayed random by a madman, without endOr any reasoned object but to spendWhat is unspendable — Eternal Woe!O Weariness of Time that fast or slowGoes never further, never has in viewAn ending to the thing it seeks to do,And so does nothing: merely ebb and flow,From nowhere into nowhere, touching soThe shores of many stars and passing on,Careless of what may come or what has gone.O solitude unspeakable! to beFor ever with oneself! never to seeAn equal face, or feel an equal hand,To sit in state and issue reprimand,Admonishment or glory, and to smileDisdaining what has happenèd the while!O to be breast to breast against a foe!Against a friend! to strive and not to knowThe laboured outcome: love nor be awareHow much the other loved, and greatly careWith passion for that happy love or hate,Nor know what joy or dole was hid in fate,For I have ranged the spacy width and goneSwift north and south, striving to look uponAn ending somewhere. Many days I spedHard to the west, a thousand years I fledEastwards in fury, but I could not findThe fringes of the Infinite. BehindAnd yet behind, and ever at the endCame new beginnings, paths that did not wendTo anywhere were there: and ever vastAnd vaster spaces opened — till at lastDizzied with distance, thrilling to a painUnnameable, I turned to Heaven again.And there My angels were prepared to flingThe cloudy incense, there prepared to singMy praise and glory — O, in fury IThen roared them senseless, then threw down the skyAnd stamped upon it, buffeted a starWith My great fist, and flung the sun afar:Shouted My anger till the mighty soundRung to the width, frighting the furthest boundAnd scope of hearing: tumult vaster still,Thronging the echo, dinned My ears, untilI fled in silence, seeking out a placeTo hide Me from the very thought of Space.And so, He thought, in Mine own Image IHave made a man, remote from Heaven highAnd all its humble angels: I have pouredMy essence in his nostrils: I have coredHis heart with My own spirit; part of Me,His mind with laboured growth unceasinglyMust strive to equal Mine; must ever growBy virtue of My essence till he knowBoth good and evil through the solemn testOf sin and retribution, till, with zest,He feels his godhead, soars to challenge MeIn Mine own Heaven for supremacy.Through savage beasts and still more savage clay,Invincible, I bid him fight a wayTo greater battles, crawling through defeatInto defeat again: ordained to meetDisaster in disaster; prone to fall,I prick him with My memory to callDefiance at his victor and ariseWith anguished fury to his greater sizeThrough tribulation, terror, and despair.Astounded, he must fight to higher air,Climb battle into battle till he beConfronted with a flaming sword and Me.So growing age by age to greater strength,To greater beauty, skill and deep intent:With wisdom wrung from pain, with energyNourished in sin and sorrow, he will beStrong, pure and proud an enemy to meet,Tremendous on a battle-field, or sweetTo walk by as a friend with candid mind.— Dear enemy or friend so hard to find,I yet shall find you, yet shall put My breastIn enmity or love against your breast:Shall smite or clasp with equal ecstasyThe enemy or friend who grows to Me.The topmost blossom of his growing IShall take unto Me, cherish and lift highBeside Myself upon My holy throne: —It is not good for God to be alone.The perfect woman of his perfect raceShall sit beside Me in the highest placeAnd be My Goddess, Queen, Companion, Wife,The rounder of My majesty, the life,Of My ambition. She will smile to seeMe bending down to worship at her kneeWho never bent before, and she will say,'Dear God, who was it taughtTheehow to pray?'And through eternity, adown the slopeOf never-ending time, compact of hope,Of zest and young enjoyment, I and SheWill walk together, sowing jollityAmong the raving stars, and laughter throughThe vacancies of Heaven, till the blueVast amplitudes of space lift up a song,The echo of our presence, rolled alongAnd ever rolling where the planets singThe majesty and glory of the King.Then conquered, thou, Eternity, shalt lieUnder My hand as little as a fly.I am the Master: I the mighty GodAnd you My workshop. Your pavilions trodBy Me and Mine shall never cease to be,For you are but the magnitude of Me,The width of My extension, the surroundOf My dense splendour. Rolling, rolling round,To steeped infinity, and out beyondMy own strong comprehension, you are bondAnd servile to My doings. Let you swingMore wide and ever wide, you do but flingAround this instant Me, and measure stillThe breadth and the proportion of My Will.Then stooping to the hut — a beehive round —God entered in and saw upon the groundThe dusty garland, Adam, (learned to weave)Had loving placed upon the head of EveBefore the terror came, when joyous theyCould look for God at closing of the dayProfound and happy. So the Mighty GuestRent, took, and placed the blossoms in His breast.'This,' said He gently, 'I shall show My queenWhen she hath grown to Me in space serene,And say "'twas worn by Eve."' So, smiling fair,He spread abroad His wings upon the air.