How comes it, Flora, that, whenever wePlay cards together, you invariably,However the pack parts,Still hold the Queen of Hearts?
I've scanned you with a scrutinizing gaze,Resolved to fathom these your secret ways:But, sift them as I will,Your ways are secret still.
I cut and shuffle; shuffle, cut, again;But all my cutting, shuffling, proves in vain: 10Vain hope, vain forethought too;The Queen still falls to you.
I dropped her once, prepense; but, ere the dealWas dealt, your instinct seemed her loss to feel:'There should be one card more,'You said, and searched the floor.
I cheated once; I made a private notchIn Heart-Queen's back, and kept a lynx-eyed watch;Yet such another backDeceived me in the pack: 20
The Queen of Clubs assumed by arts unknownAn imitative dint that seemed my own;This notch, not of my doing,Misled me to my ruin.
It baffles me to puzzle out the clue,Which must be skill, or craft, or luck in you:Unless, indeed, it beNatural affinity.
I will tell you when they met:In the limpid days of Spring;Elder boughs were budding yet,Oaken boughs looked wintry still,But primrose and veined violetIn the mossful turf were set,While meeting birds made haste to singAnd build with right good will.
I will tell you when they parted:When plenteous Autumn sheaves were brown, 10Then they parted heavy-hearted;The full rejoicing sun looked downAs grand as in the days before;Only they had lost a crown;Only to them those days of yoreCould come back nevermore.
When shall they meet? I cannot tell,Indeed, when they shall meet again,Except some day in Paradise:For this they wait, one waits in pain. 20Beyond the sea of death love liesFor ever, yesterday, to-day;Angels shall ask them, 'Is it well?'And they shall answer, 'Yea.'
'Croak, croak, croak,'Thus the Raven spoke,Perched on his crooked treeAs hoarse as hoarse could be.Shun him and fear him,Lest the Bridegroom hear him;Scout him and rout himWith his ominous eye about him.
Yet, 'Croak, croak, croak,'Still tolled from the oak; 10From that fatal black bird,Whether heard or unheard:'O ship upon the high seas,Freighted with lives and spices,Sink, O ship,' croaked the Raven:'Let the Bride mount to heaven.'
In a far foreign land,Upon the wave-edged sand,Some friends gaze wistfullyAcross the glittering sea. 20'If we could clasp our sister,'Three say, 'now we have missed her!''If we could kiss our daughter!'Two sigh across the water.
Oh, the ship sails fastWith silken flags at the mast,And the home-wind blows soft;But a Raven sits aloft,Chuckling and choking,Croaking, croaking, croaking:— 30Let the beacon-fire blaze higher;Bridegroom, watch; the Bride draws nigher.
On a sloped sandy beach,Which the spring-tide billows reach,Stand a watchful throngWho have hoped and waited long:'Fie on this ship, that tarriesWith the priceless freight it carries.The time seems long and longer:O languid wind, wax stronger;'— 40
Whilst the Raven perched at easeStill croaks and does not cease,One monotonous noteTolled from his iron throat:'No father, no mother,But I have a sable brother:He sees where ocean flows to,And he knows what he knows, too.'
A day and a nightThey kept watch worn and white; 50A night and a dayFor the swift ship on its way:For the Bride and her maidens—Clear chimes the bridal cadence—For the tall ship that neverHove in sight for ever.
On either shore, someStand in grief loud or dumbAs the dreadful dreadGrows certain though unsaid. 60For laughter there is weeping,And waking instead of sleeping,And a desperate sorrowMorrow after morrow.
Oh, who knows the truth,How she perished in her youth,And like a queen went downPale in her royal crown:How she went up to gloryFrom the sea-foam chill and hoary, 70From the sea-depth black and rivenTo the calm that is in Heaven?
They went down, all the crew,The silks and spices too,The great ones and the small,One and all, one and all.Was it through stress of weather,Quicksands, rocks, or all together?Only the Raven knows this,And he will not disclose this.— 80
After a day and yearThe bridal bells chime clear;After a year and a dayThe Bridegroom is brave and gay:Love is sound, faith is rotten;The old Bride is forgotten:—Two ominous Ravens onlyRemember, black and lonely.
'Oh, sad thy lot before I came,But sadder when I go;My presence but a flash of flame,A transitory glowBetween two barren wastes like snow.What wilt thou do when I am gone,Where wilt thou rest, my dear?For cold thy bed to rest upon,And cold the falling yearWhose withered leaves are lost and sere.' 10
She hushed the baby at her breast,She rocked it on her knee:'And I will rest my lonely rest,Warmed with the thought of thee,Rest lulled to rest by memory.'She hushed the baby with her kiss,She hushed it with her breast:'Is death so sadder much than this—Sure death that builds a nestFor those who elsewhere cannot rest?' 20
'Oh, sad thy note, my mateless dove,With tender nestling cold;But hast thou ne'er another loveLeft from the days of old,To build thy nest of silk and gold,To warm thy paleness to a blushWhen I am far away—To warm thy coldness to a flush,And turn thee back to May,And turn thy twilight back to day?' 30
She did not answer him again,But leaned her face aside,Weary with the pang of shame and pain,And sore with wounded pride:He knew his very soul had lied.She strained his baby in her arms,His baby to her heart:'Even let it go, the love that harms:We twain will never part;Mine own, his own, how dear thou art.' 40
'Now never teaze me, tender-eyed,Sigh-voiced,' he said in scorn:'For nigh at hand there blooms a bride,My bride before the morn;Ripe-blooming she, as thou forlorn.Ripe-blooming she, my rose, my peach;She woos me day and night:I watch her tremble in my reach;She reddens, my delight,She ripens, reddens in my sight.' 50
'And is she like a sunlit rose?Am I like withered leaves?Haste where thy spicèd garden blows:But in bare Autumn evesWilt thou have store of harvest sheaves?Thou leavest love, true love behind,To seek a love as true;Go, seek in haste: but wilt thou find?Change new again for new;Pluck up, enjoy—yea, trample too. 60
'Alas for her, poor faded rose,Alas for her her, like me,Cast down and trampled in the snows.''Like thee? nay, not like thee:She leans, but from a guarded tree.Farewell, and dream as long ago,Before we ever met:Farewell; my swift-paced horse seems slow.'She raised her eyes, not wetBut hard, to Heaven: 'Does God forget?' 70
Sonnet
Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)We stood together in an open field;Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,Sporting at ease and courting full in view.When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;So farewell life and love and pleasures new.Then as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow topsBent in a wind which bore to me a soundOf far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.
Jess and Jill are pretty girls,Plump and well to do,In a cloud of windy curls:Yet I know whoLoves me more than curls or pearls.
I'm not pretty, not a bit—Thin and sallow-pale;When I trudge along the streetI don't need a veil:Yet I have one fancy hit. 10
Jess and Jill can trill and singWith a flute-like voice,Dance as light as bird on wing,Laugh for careless joys:Yet it's I who wear the ring.
Jess and Jill will mate some day,Surely, surely:Ripen on to June through May,While the sun shines make their hay,Slacken steps demurely: 20Yet even there I lead the way.
While roses are so red,While lilies are so white,Shall a woman exalt her faceBecause it gives delight?She's not so sweet as a rose,A lily's straighter than she,And if she were as red or whiteShe'd be but one of three.
Whether she flush in love's summerOr in its winter grow pale, 10Whether she flaunt her beautyOr hide it away in a veil,Be she red or white,And stand she erect or bowed,Time will win the race he runs with herAnd hide her away in a shroud.
You must not call me Maggie, you must not call me Dear,For I'm Lady of the Manor now stately to see;And if there comes a babe, as there may some happy year,'Twill be little lord or lady at my knee.
Oh, but what ails you, my sailor cousin Phil,That you shake and turn white like a cockcrow ghost?You're as white as I turned once down by the mill,When one told me you and ship and crew were lost:
Philip my playfellow, when we were boy and girl(It was the Miller's Nancy told it to me), 10Philip with the merry life in lip and curl,Philip my playfellow drowned in the sea!
I thought I should have fainted, but I did not faint;I stood stunned at the moment, scarcely sad,Till I raised my wail of desolate complaintFor you, my cousin, brother, all I had.
They said I looked so pale—some say so fair—My lord stopped in passing to soothe me back to life:I know I missed a ringlet from my hairNext morning; and now I am his wife. 20
Look at my gown, Philip, and look at my ring,I'm all crimson and gold from top to toe:All day long I sit in the sun and sing,Where in the sun red roses blush and blow.
And I'm the rose of roses says my lord;And to him I'm more than the sun in the sky,While I hold him fast with the golden cordOf a curl, with the eyelash of an eye.
His mother said 'fie,' and his sisters cried 'shame,'His highborn ladies cried 'shame' from their place: 30They said 'fie' when they only heard my name,But fell silent when they saw my face.
Am I so fair, Philip? Philip, did you thinkI was so fair when we played boy and girl,Where blue forget-me-nots bloomed on the brinkOf our stream which the mill-wheel sent a whirl?
If I was fair then sure I'm fairer now,Sitting where a score of servants stand,With a coronet on high days for my browAnd almost a sceptre for my hand. 40
You're but a sailor, Philip, weatherbeaten brown,A stranger on land and at home on the sea,Coasting as best you may from town to town:Coasting along do you often think of me?
I'm a great lady in a sheltered bower,With hands grown white through having nought to do:Yet sometimes I think of you hour after hourTill I nigh wish myself a child with you.
What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do;Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.
What would I give for words, if only words would come;But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb:Oh, merry friends, go your own way, I have never a word to say.
What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears,To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years,To wash the stain ingrain and to make me clean again.
Underneath the growing grass,Underneath the living flowers,Deeper than the sound of showers:There we shall not count the hoursBy the shadows as they pass.
Youth and health will be but vain,Beauty reckoned of no worth:There a very little girthCan hold round what once the earthSeemed too narrow to contain.
Winter is cold-heartedSpring is yea and nay,Autumn is a weather-cockBlown every way:Summer days for meWhen every leaf is on its tree;
When Robin's not a beggar,And Jenny Wren's a bride,And larks hang singing, singing, singing,Over the wheat-fields wide, 10And anchored lilies ride,And the pendulum spiderSwings from side to side,
And blue-black beetles transact business,And gnats fly in a host,And furry caterpillars hastenThat no time be lost,And moths grow fat and thrive,And ladybirds arrive.
Before green apples blush, 20Before green nuts embrown,Why, one day in the countryIs worth a month in town;Is worth a day and a yearOf the dusty, musty, lag-last fashionThat days drone elsewhere.
I dwell alone—I dwell alone, alone,Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,Gilded with flashing boatsThat bring no friend to me:O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,O love-pangs, let me be.
Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stoneAnd spices bear to sea:Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,Love-promising, entreating— 10Ah! sweet, but fleeting—Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.Hush! the wind flags and fails—Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand—Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;Their songs wake singing echoes in my land—They cannot hear me moan.
One latest, solitary swallow fliesAcross the sea, rough autumn-tempest tossed,Poor bird, shall it be lost? 20Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,With no kind eyesTo watch it while it dies,Unguessed, uncared for, free:Set free at last,The short pang past,In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.
Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,Some rent by thunder strokes,Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze; 30Fair fall my fertile trees,That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.
A spider's web blocks all mine avenue;He catches down and foolish painted fliesThat spider wary and wise.Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dewBetwixt boughs green with sap,So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:I will not mar the web,Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb. 40
It shakes—my trees shake—for a wind is rousedIn cavern where it housed:Each white and quivering sail,Of boats among the water leavesHollows and strains in the full-throated gale:Each maiden sings again—Each languid maiden, whom the calmHad lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balmMiles down my river to the seaThey float and wane, 50Long miles away from me.
Perhaps they say: 'She grieves,Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower.'Perhaps they say: 'One hourMore, and we dance among the golden sheaves.'Perhaps they say: 'One hourMore, and we stand,Face to face, hand in hand;Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!'
My trees are not in flower, 60I have no bower,And gusty creaks my tower,And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.
'There's a footstep coming: look out and see,''The leaves are falling, the wind is calling;No one cometh across the lea.'—
'There's a footstep coming; O sister, look.'—'The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes;No one cometh across the brook.'—
'But he promised that he would come:To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow,He must keep his word, and must come home.
'For he promised that he would come: 10His word was given; from earth or heaven,He must keep his word, and must come home.
'Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane;You can slumber, who need not numberHour after hour, in doubt and pain.
'I shall sit here awhile, and watch;Listening, hoping, for one hand gropingIn deep shadow to find the latch.'
After the dark, and before the light,One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping, 20Who had watched and wept the weary night.
After the night, and before the day,One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping—Watching, weeping for one away.
There came a footstep climbing the stair;Some one standing out on the landingShook the door like a puff of air—
Shook the door, and in he passed.Did he enter? In the room centreStood her husband: the door shut fast. 30
'O Robin, but you are cold—Chilled with the night-dew: so lily-white youLook like a stray lamb from our fold.
'O Robin, but you are late:Come and sit near me—sit here and cheer me.'—(Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)
'Lay not down your head on my breast:I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold youIn the shelter that you love best.
'Feel not after my clasping hand: 40I am but a shadow, come from the meadowWhere many lie, but no tree can stand.
'We are trees which have shed their leaves:Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there;Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.
'I could rest if you would not moanHour after hour; I have no powerTo shut my ears where I lie alone.
'I could rest if you would not cry;But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping— 50Watching, weeping so bitterly.'—
'Woe's me! woe's me! for this I have heard.Oh night of sorrow!—oh black to-morrow!Is it thus that you keep your word?
'O you who used so to shelter meWarm from the least wind—why, now the east windIs warmer than you, whom I quake to see.
'O my husband of flesh and blood,For whom my mother I left, and brother,And all I had, accounting it good, 60
'What do you do there, underground,In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow.What do you do there?—what have you found?'—
'What I do there I must not tell:But I have plenty: kind wife, content ye:It is well with us—it is well.
'Tender hand hath made our nest;Our fear is ended, our hope is blendedWith present pleasure, and we have rest.'—
'Oh, but Robin, I'm fain to come, 70If your present days are so pleasant;For my days are so wearisome.
'Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake:Why should I tease you, who cannot please youAny more with the pains I take?'
I nursed it in my bosom while it lived,I hid it in my heart when it was dead;In joy I sat alone, even so I grievedAlone and nothing said.
I shut the door to face the naked truth,I stood alone—I faced the truth alone,Stripped bare of self-regard or forms or ruthTill first and last were shown.
I took the perfect balances and weighed;No shaking of my hand disturbed the poise; 10Weighed, found it wanting: not a word I said,But silent made my choice.
None know the choice I made; I make it still.None know the choice I made and broke my heart,Breaking mine idol: I have braced my willOnce, chosen for once my part.
I broke it at a blow, I laid it cold,Crushed in my deep heart where it used to live.My heart dies inch by inch; the time grows old,Grows old in which I grieve. 20
I have a room whereinto no one entersSave I myself alone:There sits a blessed memory on a throne,There my life centres.
While winter comes and goes—oh tedious comer!—And while its nip-wind blows;While bloom the bloodless lily and warm roseOf lavish summer.
If any should force entrance he might see thereOne buried yet not dead, 30Before whose face I no more bow my headOr bend my knee there;
But often in my worn life's autumn weatherI watch there with clear eyes,And think how it will be in ParadiseWhen we're together.
I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest,Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast,For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.
Two and two my guards behind, two and two before,Two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore;Me, poor dove, that must not coo—eagle that must not soar.
All my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens growScented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blowThat are costly, out of season as the seasons go.
All my walls are lost in mirrors, whereupon I trace 10Self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place,Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.
Then I have an ivory chair high to sit upon,Almost like my father's chair, which is an ivory throne;There I sit uplift and upright, there I sit alone.
Alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end;My father and my mother give me treasures, search and spend—O my father! O my mother! have you ne'er a friend?
As I am a lofty princess, so my father isA lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties, 20Holding in his strong right hand world-kingdoms' balances.
He has quarrelled with his neighbours, he has scourged his foes;Vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes,Long-descended valiant lords whom the vulture knows,
On whose track the vulture swoops, when they ride in stateTo break the strength of armies and topple down the great:Each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate.
My father counting up his strength sets down with equal penSo many head of cattle, head of horses, head of men;These for slaughter, these for breeding, with the how and when. 30
Some to work on roads, canals; some to man his ships;Some to smart in mines beneath sharp overseers' whips;Some to trap fur-beasts in lands where utmost winter nips.
Once it came into my heart, and whelmed me like a flood,That these too are men and women, human flesh and blood;Men with hearts and men with souls, though trodden down like mud.
Our feasting was not glad that night, our music was not gay:On my mother's graceful head I marked a thread of grey,My father frowning at the fare seemed every dish to weigh.
I sat beside them sole princess in my exalted place, 40My ladies and my gentlemen stood by me on the dais:A mirror showed me I look old and haggard in the face;
It showed me that my ladies all are fair to gaze upon,Plump, plenteous-haired, to every one love's secret lore is known,They laugh by day, they sleep by night; ah me, what is a throne?
The singing men and women sang that night as usual,The dancers danced in pairs and sets, but music had a fall,A melancholy windy fall as at a funeral.
Amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept;My ladies loosed my golden chain; meantime I could have wept 50To think of some in galling chains whether they waked or slept.
I took my bath of scented milk, delicately waited on,They burned sweet things for my delight, cedar and cinnamon,They lit my shaded silver lamp, and left me there alone.
A day went by, a week went by. One day I heard it said:'Men are clamouring, women, children, clamouring to be fed;Men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread.'
So two whispered by my door, not thinking I could hear,Vulgar naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear;Fit for cooping in the background, not to stalk so near. 60
But I strained my utmost sense to catch this truth, and mark:'There are families out grazing like cattle in the park.''A pair of peasants must be saved even if we build an ark.'
A merry jest, a merry laugh, each strolled upon his way;One was my page, a lad I reared and bore with day by day;One was my youngest maid as sweet and white as cream in May.
Other footsteps followed softly with a weightier tramp;Voices said: 'Picked soldiers have been summoned from the campTo quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp.'
'Howl and stamp?' one answered: 'They made free to hurl a stone 70At the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown.''There's work then for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown.'
'One I saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head,Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread:Then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out he was dead.'
'After us the deluge,' was retorted with a laugh:'If bread's the staff of life, they must walk without a staff.''While I've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the chaff.'
These passed. The king: stand up. Said my father with a smile:'Daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile, 80She's sad to-day, and who but you her sadness can beguile?'
He too left me. Shall I touch my harp now while I wait,—(I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate—)Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state;
Or shall my woman stand and read some unimpassioned scene,There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between;Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the queen?
Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command:'Charge!' a clash of steel: 'Charge again, the rebels stand.Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand.'
There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher; 91A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire;I heard a cry for faggots, then I heard a yell for fire.
'Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread,You who sat to see us starve,' one shrieking woman said:'Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head.'
Nay, this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth,I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith,I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath;
With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand, 100I will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will standWhere they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.
They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give;I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live;I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive:
Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and showThe lesson I have learned which is death, is life, to know.I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.
Shall I forget on this side of the grave?I promise nothing: you must wait and seePatient and brave.(O my soul, watch with him and he with me.)
Shall I forget in peace of Paradise?I promise nothing: follow, friend, and seeFaithful and wise.(O my soul, lead the way he walks with me.)
Sonnet
Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain,Ah, woe is me for glory that is past:Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last,Glory that at the last bringeth no gain!So saith the sinking heart; and so againIt shall say till the mighty angel-blastIs blown, making the sun and moon aghastAnd showering down the stars like sudden rain.And evermore men shall go fearfullyBending beneath their weight of heaviness;And ancient men shall lie down wearily,And strong men shall rise up in weariness;Yea, even the young shall answer sighinglySaying one to another: How vain it is!
'Whose heart was breaking for a little love.'
Downstairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all;But in my solitary room aboveI turn my face in silence to the wall;My heart is breaking for a little love.Though winter frosts are done,And birds pair every one,And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.
I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown,I find no nest, while nests are in the grove:Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone, 10My heart that breaketh for a little love.While golden in the sunRivulets rise and run,While lilies bud, for springtide is begun.
All love, are loved, save only I; their heartsBeat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof:They cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts,My heart is breaking for a little love.While beehives wake and whirr,And rabbit thins his fur, 20In living spring that sets the world astir.
I deck myself with skills and jewelry,I plume myself like any mated dove:They praise my rustling show, and never seeMy heart is breaking for a little love.While sprouts green lavenderWith rosemary and myrrh,For in quick spring the sap is all astir.
Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth,Perhaps some angels read it as they move, 30And cry one to another full of ruth,'Her heart is breaking for a little love.'Though other things have birth,And leap and sing for mirth,When springtime wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.
Yet saith a saint: 'Take patience for thy scathe;'Yet saith an angel: 'Wait, for thou shalt proveTrue best is last, true life is born of death,O thou, heart-broken for a little love.Then love shall fill they girth, 40And love make fat thy dearth,When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth.'
Life is not sweet. One day it will be sweetTo shut our eyes and die:Nor feel the wild flowers blow, nor birds dart byWith flitting butterfly,Nor grass grow long above our heads and feet,Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high,Nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet,Nor mark the waxing wheat,Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat.
Life is not good. One day it will be good 10To die, then live again;To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the waneOf shrunk leaves dropping in the wood,Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main,Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stoodRich ranks of golden grainOnly dead refuse stubble clothe the plain:Asleep from risk, asleep from pain.
Did any bird come flyingAfter Adam and Eve,When the door was shut against themAnd they sat down to grieve?
I think not Eve's peacockSplendid to see,And I think not Adam's eagle;But a dove may be.
Did any beast come pushingThrough the thorny hedge 10Into the thorny thistly world,Out from Eden's edge?
I think not a lion,Though his strength is such;But an innocent loving lambMay have done as much.
If the dove preached from her boughand the lamb from his sod,The lamb and doveWere preachers sent from God. 20
'While I sit at the doorSick to gaze withinMine eye weepeth soreFor sorrow and sin:As a tree my sin standsTo darken all lands;Death is the fruit it bore.
'How have Eden bowers grownWithout Adam to bend them!How have Eden flowers blown 10Squandering their sweet breathWithout me to tend them!The Tree of Life was ours,Tree twelvefold-fruited,Most lofty tree that flowers,Most deeply rooted:I chose the tree of death.
'Hadst thou but said me nay,Adam, my brother,I might have pined away; 20I, but none other:God might have let thee staySafe in our garden,By putting me awayBeyond all pardon.
'I, Eve, sad motherOf all who must live,I, not anotherPlucked bitterest fruit to giveMy friend, husband, lover— 30O wanton eyes, run over;Who but I should grieve?—Cain hath slain his brother:Of all who must die mother,Miserable Eve!'
Thus she sat weeping,Thus Eve our mother,Where one lay sleepingSlain by his brother.Greatest and least 40Each piteous beastTo hear her voiceForgot his joysAnd set aside his feast.
The mouse paused in his walkAnd dropped his wheaten stalk;Grave cattle wagged their headsIn rumination;The eagle gave a cryFrom his cloud station; 50Larks on thyme bedsForbore to mount or sing;Bees drooped upon the wing;The raven perched on highForgot his ration;The conies in their rock,A feeble nation,Quaked sympathetical;The mocking-bird left off to mock;Huge camels knelt as if 60In deprecation;The kind hart's tears were falling;Chattered the wistful stork;Dove-voices with a dying fallCooed desolationAnswering grief by grief.
Only the serpent in the dustWriggling and crawling,Grinned an evil grin and thrustHis tongue out with its fork. 70
I loved my love from green of SpringUntil sere Autumn's fall;But now that leaves are witheringHow should one love at all?One heart's too smallFor hunger, cold, love, everything.
I loved my love on sunny daysUntil late Summer's wane;But now that frost begins to glazeHow should one love again? 10Nay, love and painWalk wide apart in diverse ways.
I loved my love—alas to seeThat this should be, alas!I thought that this could scarcely be,Yet has it come to pass:Sweet sweet love was,Now bitter bitter grown to me.
The year stood at its equinoxAnd bluff the North was blowing,A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,Green hardy things were growing;I met a maid with shining locksWhere milky kine were lowing.
She wore a kerchief on her neck,Her bare arm showed its dimple,Her apron spread without a speck,Her air was frank and simple. 10
She milked into a wooden pailAnd sang a country ditty,An innocent fond lovers' tale,That was not wise nor witty,Pathetically rustical,Too pointless for the city.
She kept in time without a beatAs true as church-bell ringers,Unless she tapped time with her feet,Or squeezed it with her fingers; 20Her clear unstudied notes were sweetAs many a practised singer's.
I stood a minute out of sight,Stood silent for a minuteTo eye the pail, and creamy whiteThe frothing milk within it;
To eye the comely milking maidHerself so fresh and creamy:'Good day to you,' at last I said;She turned her head to see me: 30'Good day,' she said with lifted head;Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,
And all the while she milked and milkedThe grave cow heavy-laden:I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked,But not a sweeter maiden;
But not a sweeter fresher maidThan this in homely cotton,Whose pleasant face and silky braidI have not yet forgotten. 40
Seven springs have passed since then, as ICount with a sober sorrow;Seven springs have come and passed me by,And spring sets in to-morrow.
I've half a mind to shake myselfFree just for once from London,To set my work upon the shelfAnd leave it done or undone;
To run down by the early train,Whirl down with shriek and whistle, 50And feel the bluff North blow again,And mark the sprouting thistleSet up on waste patch of the laneIts green and tender bristle.
And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,Crisp primrose leaves and others,And watch the lambs leap at their pranksAnd butt their patient mothers.
Alas, one point in all my planMy serious thoughts demur to: 60Seven years have passed for maid and man,Seven years have passed for her too;
Perhaps my rose is overblown,Not rosy or too rosy;Perhaps in farmhouse of her ownSome husband keeps her cosy,Where I should show a face unknown.Good-bye, my wayside posy.
Somewhere or other there must surely beThe face not seen, the voice not heard,The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me!Made answer to my word.
Somewhere or other, may be near or far;Past land and sea, clean out of sight;Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the starThat tracks her night by night.
Somewhere or other, may be far or near;With just a wall, a hedge, between; 10With just the last leaves of the dying yearFallen on a turf grown green.
What can lambkins doAll the keen night through?Nestle by their woolly motherThe careful ewe.
What can nestlings doIn the nightly dew?Sleep beneath their mother's wingTill day breaks anew.
If in a field or treeThere might only be 10Such a warm soft sleeping-placeFound for me!
I wish you were a pleasant wren,And I your small accepted mate;How we'd look down on toilsome men!We'd rise and go to bed at eightOr it may be not quite so late.
Then you should see the nest I'd build,The wondrous nest for you and me;The outside rough perhaps, but filledWith wool and down; ah, you should seeThe cosy nest that it would be. 10
We'd have our change of hope and fear,Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet:I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,Or hop about on active feet,And fetch you dainty bits to eat.
We'd be so happy by the day,So safe and happy through the night,We both should feel, and I should say,It's all one season of delight,And we'll make merry whilst we may. 20
Perhaps some day there'd be an eggWhen spring had blossomed from the snow:I'd stand triumphant on one leg;Like chanticleer I'd almost crowTo let our little neighbours know.
Next you should sit and I would singThrough lengthening days of sunny spring;Till, if you wearied of the task,I'd sit; and you should spread your wingFrom bough to bough; I'd sit and bask. 30
Fancy the breaking of the shell,The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,The untried proud paternal swell;And you with housewife-matron airEnacting choicer bills of fare.
Fancy the embryo coats of down,The gradual feathers soft and sleek;Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,With virgin warblings in their beak,They too go forth to soar and seek. 40
So would it last an April throughAnd early summer fresh with dew:Then should we part and live as twain,Love-time would bring me back to youAnd build our happy nest again.
O happy rose-bud bloomingUpon thy parent tree,Nay, thou art too presuming;For soon the earth entombingThy faded charms shall be,And the chill damp consuming.
O happy skylark springingUp to the broad blue sky,Too fearless in thy winging,Too gladsome in thy singing, 10Thou also soon shalt lieWhere no sweet notes are ringing.
And through life's shine and showerWe shall have joy and pain;But in the summer bower,And at the morning hour,We still shall look in vainFor the same bird and flower.
'The iniquity of the fathers upon the children.'
Oh the rose of keenest thorn!One hidden summer mornUnder the rose I was born.
I do not guess his nameWho wrought my Mother's shame,And gave me life forlorn,But my Mother, Mother, Mother,I know her from all other.My Mother pale and mild,Fair as ever was seen, 10She was but scarce sixteen,Little more than a child,When I was bornTo work her scorn.With secret bitter throes,In a passion of secret woes,She bore me under the rose.
One who my Mother nursedTook me from the first:—'O nurse, let me look upon 20This babe that costs so dear;To-morrow she will be gone:Other mothers may keepTheir babes awake and asleep,But I must not keep her here.'—Whether I know or guess,I know this not the less.
So I was sent awayThat none might spy the truth:And my childhood waxed to youth 30And I left off childish play.I never cared to playWith the village boys and girls;And I think they thought me proud,I found so little to sayAnd kept so from the crowd:But I had the longest curlsAnd I had the largest eyesAnd my teeth were small like pearls;The girls might flout and scout me, 40But the boys would hang about meIn sheepish mooning wise.
Our one-street village stoodA long mile from the town,A mile of windy downAnd bleak one-sided wood,With not a single house.Our town itself was small,With just the common shops,And throve in its small way. 50Our neighbouring gentry rearedThe good old-fashioned crops,And made old-fashioned boastsOf what John Bull would doIf Frenchman Frog appeared,And drank old-fashioned toasts,And made old-fashioned bowsTo my Lady at the Hall.
My Lady at the HallIs grander than they all: 60Hers is the oldest nameIn all the neighbourhood;But the race must die with herThough she's a lofty dame,For she's unmarried still.Poor people say she's goodAnd has an open handAs any in the land,And she's the comforterOf many sick and sad; 70My nurse once said to meThat everything she hadCame of my Lady's bounty:'Though she's greatest in the countyShe's humble to the poor,No beggar seeks her doorBut finds help presently.I pray both night and dayFor her, and you must pray:But she'll never feel distress 80If needy folk can bless.'
I was a little maidWhen here we came to liveFrom somewhere by the sea.Men spoke a foreign tongueThere where we used to beWhen I was merry and young,Too young to feel afraid;The fisher folk would giveA kind strange word to me, 90There by the foreign sea:I don't know where it was,But I remember stillOur cottage on a hill,And fields of flowering grassOn that fair foreign shore.
I liked my old home best,But this was pleasant too:So here we made our nestAnd here I grew. 100And now and then my LadyIn riding past our doorWould nod to Nurse and speak,Or stoop and pat my cheek;And I was always readyTo hold the field-gate wideFor my Lady to go through;My Lady in her veilSo seldom put aside,My Lady grave and pale. 110
I often sat to wonderWho might my parents be,For I knew of something underMy simple-seeming state.Nurse never talked to meOf mother or of father,But watched me early and lateWith kind suspicious cares:Or not suspicious, ratherAnxious, as if she knew 120Some secret I might gatherAnd smart for unawares.Thus I grew.
But Nurse waxed old and grey,Bent and weak with years.There came a certain dayThat she lay upon her bedShaking her palsied head,With words she gasped to sayWhich had to stay unsaid. 130Then with a jerking handHeld out so piteouslyShe gave a ring to meOf gold wrought curiously,A ring which she had wornSince the day I was born,She once had said to me:I slipped it on my finger;Her eyes were keen to lingerOn my hand that slipped it on; 140Then she sighed one rattling sighAnd stared on with sightless eye:—The one who loved me was gone.
How long I stayed aloneWith the corpse I never knew,For I fainted dead as stone:When I came to life once moreI was down upon the floor,With neighbours making adoTo bring me back to life. 150I heard the sexton's wifeSay: 'Up, my lad, and runTo tell it at the Hall;She was my Lady's nurse,And done can't be undone.I'll watch by this poor lamb.I guess my Lady's purseIs always open to such:I'd run up on my crutchA cripple as I am,' 160(For cramps had vexed her much)'Rather than this dear heartLack one to take her part.'
For days day after dayOn my weary bed I layWishing the time would pass;Oh, so wishing that I wasLikely to pass away:For the one friend whom I knewWas dead, I knew no other, 170Neither father nor mother;And I, what should I do?
One day the sexton's wifeSaid: 'Rouse yourself, my dear:My Lady has driven downFrom the Hall into the town,And we think she's coming here.Cheer up, for life is life.'
But I would not look or speak,Would not cheer up at all. 180My tears were like to fall,So I turned round to the wallAnd hid my hollow cheekMaking as if I slept,As silent as a stone,And no one knew I wept.What was my Lady to me,The grand lady from the Hall?She might come, or stay away,I was sick at heart that day: 190The whole world seemed to beNothing, just nothing to me,For aught that I could see.
Yet I listened where I lay:A bustle came below,A clear voice said: 'I know;I will see her first alone,It may be less of a shockIf she's so weak to-day:'—A light hand turned the lock, 200A light step crossed the floor,One sat beside my bed:But never a word she said.
For me, my shyness grewEach moment more and more:So I said never a wordAnd neither looked nor stirred;I think she must have heardMy heart go pit-a-pat:Thus I lay, my Lady sat, 210More than a mortal hour—(I counted one and twoBy the house-clock while I lay):I seemed to have no powerTo think of a thing to say,Or do what I ought to do,Or rouse myself to a choice.
At last she said: 'Margaret,Won't you even look at me?'A something in her voice 220Forced my tears to fall at last,Forced sobs from me thick and fast;Something not of the past,Yet stirring memory;A something new, and yetNot new, too sweet to last,Which I never can forget.
I turned and stared at her:Her cheek showed hollow-pale;Her hair like mine was fair, 230A wonderful fall of hairThat screened her like a veil;But her height was statelier,Her eyes had depth more deep;I think they must have hadAlways a something sad,Unless they were asleep.
While I stared, my Lady tookMy hand in her spare handJewelled and soft and grand, 240And looked with a long long lookOf hunger in my face;As if she tried to traceFeatures she ought to know,And half hoped, half feared, to find.Whatever was in her mindShe heaved a sigh at last,And began to talk to me.
'Your nurse was my dear nurse,And her nursling's dear,' said she: 250'I never knew that she was worseTill her poor life was past'(Here my Lady's tears dropped fast):'I might have been with her,But she had no comforter.She might have told me muchWhich now I shall never know,Never never shall know.'She sat by me sobbing so,And seemed so woe-begone, 260That I laid one hand uponHers with a timid touch,Scarce thinking what I did,Not knowing what to say:That moment her face was hidIn the pillow close by mine,Her arm was flung over me,She hugged me, sobbing soAs if her heart would break,And kissed me where I lay. 270
After this she often cameTo bring me fruit or wine,Or sometimes hothouse flowers.And at nights I lay awakeOften and often thinkingWhat to do for her sake.Wet or dry it was the same:She would come in at all hours,Set me eating and drinkingAnd say I must grow strong; 280At last the day seemed longAnd home seemed scarcely homeIf she did not come.
Well, I grew strong again:In time of primroses,I went to pluck them in the lane;In time of nestling birds,I heard them chirping round the house;And all the herdsWere out at grass when I grew strong, 290And days were waxen long,And there was work for beesAmong the May-bush boughs,And I had shot up tall,And life felt after allPleasant, and not so longWhen I grew strong.
I was going to the HallTo be my Lady's maid:'Her little friend,' she said to me, 300'Almost her child,'She said and smiledSighing painfully;Blushing, with a second flushAs if she blushed to blush.
Friend, servant, child: just thisMy standing at the Hall;The other servants call me 'Miss,'My Lady calls me 'Margaret,'With her clear voice musical. 310She never chides when I forgetThis or that; she never chides.Except when people come to stay,(And that's not often) at the Hall,I sit with her all dayAnd ride out when she rides.She sings to me and makes me sing;Sometimes I read to her,Sometimes we merely sit and talk.She noticed once my ring 320And made me tell its history:That evening in our garden walkShe said she should inferThe ring had been my father's first,Then my mother's, given for meTo the nurse who nursedMy mother in her misery,That so quite certainlySome one might know me, who…Then she was silent, and I too. 330
I hate when people come:The women speak and stareAnd mean to be so civil.This one will stroke my hair,That one will pat my cheekAnd praise my Lady's kindness,Expecting me to speak;I like the proud ones bestWho sit as struck with blindness,As if I wasn't there. 340But if any gentlemanIs staying at the Hall(Though few come prying here),My Lady seems to fearSome downright dreadful evil,And makes me keep my roomAs closely as she can:So I hate when people come,It is so troublesome.In spite of all her care, 350Sometimes to keep aliveI sometimes do contriveTo get out in the groundsFor a whiff of wholesome air,Under the rose you know:It's charming to break bounds,Stolen waters are sweet,And what's the good of feetIf for days they mustn't go?Give me a longer tether, 360Or I may break from it.
Now I have eyes and earsAnd just some little wit:'Almost my Lady's child;'I recollect she smiled,Sighed and blushed together;Then her story of the ringSounds not improbable,She told it me so wellIt seemed the actual thing:— 370Oh, keep your counsel close,But I guess under the rose,In long past summer weatherWhen the world was blossoming,And the rose upon its thorn:I guess not who he wasFlawed honour like a glass,And made my life forlorn,But my Mother, Mother, Mother,Oh, I know her from all other. 380
My Lady, you might trustYour daughter with your fame.Trust me, I would not shameOur honourable name,For I have noble bloodThough I was bred in dustAnd brought up in the mud.I will not press my claim,Just leave me where you will:But you might trust your daughter, 390For blood is thicker than waterAnd you're my mother still.
So my Lady holds her ownWith condescending grace,and fills her lofty placeWith an untroubled faceAs a queen may fill a throne.While I could hint a tale—(But then I am her child)—Would make her quail; 400Would set her in the dust,Lorn with no comforter,Her glorious hair defiledAnd ashes on her cheek:The decent world would thrustIts finger out at her,Not much displeased I thinkTo make a nine days' stir;The decent world would sinkIts voice to speak of her. 410
Now this is what I meanTo do, no more, no less:Never to speak, or showBare sign of what I know.Let the blot pass unseen;Yea, let her never guessI hold the tangled clueShe huddles out of view.Friend, servant, almost child,So be it and nothing more 420On this side of the grave.Mother, in Paradise,You'll see with clearer eyes;Perhaps in this world evenWhen you are like to dieAnd face to face with HeavenYou'll drop for once the lie:But you must drop the mask, not I.
My Lady promisesTwo hundred pounds with me 430Whenever I may wedA man she can approve:And since besides her bountyI'm fairest in the county(For so I've heard it said,Though I don't vouch for this),Her promised pounds may moveSome honest man to seeMy virtues and my beauties;Perhaps the rising grazier, 440Or temperance publican,May claim my wifely duties.Meanwhile I wait their leisureAnd grace-bestowing pleasure,I wait the happy man;But if I hold my headAnd pitch my expectationsJust higher than their level,They must fall back on patience:I may not mean to wed, 450Yet I'll be civil.
Now sometimes in a dreamMy heart goes out of meTo build and scheme,Till I sob after things that seemSo pleasant in a dream:A home such as I seeMy blessed neighbours live inWith father and with mother,All proud of one another, 460Named by one common nameFrom baby in the budTo full-blown workman father;It's little short of Heaven.I'd give my gentle bloodTo wash my special shameAnd drown my private grudge;I'd toil and moil much ratherThe dingiest cottage drudgeWhose mother need not blush, 470Than live here like a ladyAnd see my Mother flushAnd hear her voice unsteadySometimes, yet never dareAsk to share her care.
Of course the servants sneerBehind my back at me;Of course the village girls,Who envy me my curlsAnd gowns and idleness, 480Take comfort in a jeer;Of course the ladies guessJust so much of my historyAs points the emphatic stressWith which they laud my Lady;The gentlemen who catchA casual glimpse of meAnd turn again to see,Their valets on the watchTo speak a word with me, 490All know and sting me wild;Till I am almost readyTo wish that I were dead,No faces more to see,No more words to be said,My Mother safe at lastDisburdened of her child,And the past past.
'All equal before God'—Our Rector has it so, 500And sundry sleepers nod:It may be so; I knowAll are not equal here,And when the sleepers wakeThey make a difference.'All equal in the grave'—That shows an obvious sense:Yet something which I craveNot death itself brings near;Now should death half atone 510For all my past; or makeThe name I bear my own?
I love my dear old NurseWho loved me without gains;I love my mistress even,Friend, Mother, what you will:But I could almost curseMy Father for his pains;And sometimes at my prayerKneeling in sight of Heaven 520I almost curse him still:Why did he set his snareTo catch at unawareMy Mother's foolish youth;Load me with shame that's hers,And her with something worse,A lifelong lie for truth?