VIIIAUTUMN DAWN

24 July 1913

AND this is morning. Would you thinkThat this was the morning, when the landIs full of heavy eyes that blinkHalf-opened, and the tall trees standToo tired to shake away the dropsOf passing night that cling aroundTheir branches and weigh down their tops:And the grey sky leans on the ground?The thrush sings once or twice, but stopsAffrighted by the silent sound.The sheep, scarce moving, munches, moans.The slow herd mumbles, thick with phlegm.The grey road-mender, hacking stones,Is now become as one of them.Old mother Earth has rubbed her eyesAnd stayed, so senseless, lying down.Old mother is too tired to riseAnd lay aside her grey nightgown,And come with singing and with strengthIn loud exuberance of day,Swift-darting. She is tired at length,Done up, past bearing, you would say.She’ll come no more in lust of strife,In hedges’ leap, and wild birds’ cries,In winds that cut you like a knife,In days of laughter and swift skies,That palpably pulsate with life,With life that kills, with life that dies.But in a morning such as thisIs neither life nor death to see,Only that state which some call bliss,Grey hopeless immortality.Earth is at length bedrid. She isSupinest of the things that be:And stilly, heavy with long years,Brings forth such days in dumb regret,Immortal days, that rise in tears,And cannot, though they strive to, set.* * * * * * *The mists do move. The wind takes breath.The sun appeareth over there,And with red fingers hastenethFrom Earth’s grey bed the clothes to tear,And strike the heavy mist’s dank tent.And Earth uprises with a sigh.She is astir. She is not spent.And yet she lives and yet can die.The grey road-mender from the ditchLooks up. He has not looked before.The stunted tree sways like the witchIt was: ’tis living witch once more.The winds are washen. In the deepDew of the morn they’ve washed. The skiesAre changing dress. The clumsy sheepBound, and earth’s many bosoms rise,And earth’s green tresses spring and leapAbout her brow. The earth has eyes,The earth has voice, the earth has breath,As o’er the land and through the air,With wingéd sandals, Life and DeathSpeed hand in hand—that winsome pair!

16 September 1913

STILL stand the downs so wise and wide?Still shake the trees their tresses grey?I thought their beauty might have diedSince I had been away.I might have known the things I love,The winds, the flocking birds’ full cry,The trees that toss, the downs that move,Were longer things than I.Lo, earth that bows before the wind,With wild green children overgrown,And all her bosoms, many-whinned,Receive me as their own.The birds are hushed and fled: the cowsHave ceased at last to make long moan.They only think to browse and browseUntil the night is grown.The wind is stiller than it was,And dumbness holds the closing day.The earth says not a word, becauseIt has no word to say.The dear soft grasses under footAre silent to the listening ear.Yet beauty never can be mute,And some will always hear.

STILL stand the downs so wise and wide?Still shake the trees their tresses grey?I thought their beauty might have diedSince I had been away.

I might have known the things I love,The winds, the flocking birds’ full cry,The trees that toss, the downs that move,Were longer things than I.

Lo, earth that bows before the wind,With wild green children overgrown,And all her bosoms, many-whinned,Receive me as their own.

The birds are hushed and fled: the cowsHave ceased at last to make long moan.They only think to browse and browseUntil the night is grown.

The wind is stiller than it was,And dumbness holds the closing day.The earth says not a word, becauseIt has no word to say.

The dear soft grasses under footAre silent to the listening ear.Yet beauty never can be mute,And some will always hear.

18 September 1913

ISEE the vision of the ValeRise teeming to the rampart Down,The fields and, far below, the paleRed-roofédness of Swindon town.But though I see all things remote,I cannot see them with the eyesWith which ere now the man from CoateLooked down and wondered and was wise.He knew the healing balm of night,The strong and sweeping joy of day,The sensible and dear delightOf life, the pity of decay.And many wondrous words he wrote,And something good to man he showed,About the entering in of Coate,There, on the dusty Swindon road.

ISEE the vision of the ValeRise teeming to the rampart Down,The fields and, far below, the paleRed-roofédness of Swindon town.

But though I see all things remote,I cannot see them with the eyesWith which ere now the man from CoateLooked down and wondered and was wise.

He knew the healing balm of night,The strong and sweeping joy of day,The sensible and dear delightOf life, the pity of decay.

And many wondrous words he wrote,And something good to man he showed,About the entering in of Coate,There, on the dusty Swindon road.

19 September 1913

THERE’S still a horse on Granham hill,And still the Kennet moves, and stillFour Miler sways and is not still.But where is her interpreter?The downs are blown into dismay,The stunted trees seem all astray,Looking for someone clad in greyAnd carrying a golf-club thing;Who, them when he had lived among,Gave them what they desired, a tongue.Their words he gave them to be sungPerhaps were few, but they were true.The trees, the downs, on either hand,Still stand, as he said they would stand.But look, the rain in all the landMakes all things dim with tears of him.And recently the Kennet croons,And winds are playing widowed tunes.—He has not left our “toun o’ touns,”But taken it away with him!

THERE’S still a horse on Granham hill,And still the Kennet moves, and stillFour Miler sways and is not still.But where is her interpreter?

The downs are blown into dismay,The stunted trees seem all astray,Looking for someone clad in greyAnd carrying a golf-club thing;

Who, them when he had lived among,Gave them what they desired, a tongue.Their words he gave them to be sungPerhaps were few, but they were true.

The trees, the downs, on either hand,Still stand, as he said they would stand.But look, the rain in all the landMakes all things dim with tears of him.

And recently the Kennet croons,And winds are playing widowed tunes.—He has not left our “toun o’ touns,”But taken it away with him!

October 1913

(Scene:A valley with a wood on one side and a road running up to a distant hill: as it might be, the valley to the east of West Woods, that runs up to Oare Hill, only much larger.Time:Autumn. Four wise men are marching hillward along the road.)

One Wise Man

I wonder where the valley ends?On, comrades, on.

Another Wise Man

The rain-red road,Still shining sinuously, bendsLeagues upwards.

A Third Wise Man

To the hill, O friends,To seek the star that once has glowedBefore us; turning not to rightNor left, nor backward once looking.Till we have clomb—and with the nightWe see the King.

All the Wise Men

The King! The King!

The Third Wise Man

Long is the road but—

A Fourth Wise Man

Brother, see,There, to the left, a very aisleComposed of every sort of tree—

The First Wise Man

Still onward—

The Fourth Wise Man

Oak and beech and birch,Like a church, but homelier than church,The black trunks for its walls of tile;Its roof, old leaves; its floor, beech nuts;The squirrels its congregation—

The Second Wise Man

Tuts!For still we journey—

The Fourth Wise Man

But the sun weavesA water-web across the grass,Binding their tops. You must not passThe water cobweb.

The Third Wise Man

Hush! I say.Onward and upward till the day—

The Fourth Wise Man

Brother, that tree has crimson leaves.You’ll never see its like again.Don’t miss it. Look, it’s bright with rain—

The First Wise Man

O prating tongue. On, on.

The Fourth Wise Man

And thereA toad-stool, nay, a goblin stool.No toad sat on a thing so fair.Wait, while I pluck—and there’s—and here’sA whole ring ... what?... berries?

(The Fourth Wise Man drops behind, botanizing.)

The Wisest of the remaining Three Wise Men

O fool!Fool, fallen in this vale of tearsHis hand had touched the plough: his eyesLooked back: no more with us, his peers,He’ll climb the hill and front the skiesAnd see the Star, the King, the Prize.But we, the seekers, we who seeBeyond the mists of transiency—Our feet down in the valley stillAre set, our eyes are on the hill.Last night the star of God has shone,And so we journey, up and on,With courage clad, with swiftness shod,All thoughts of earth behind us cast,Until we see the lights of God,—And what will be the crown at last?All Three Wise MenOn, on.

All Three Wise Men

On, on.

(They pass on: it is already evening when the Other Wise Man limps along the road, still botanizing.)

The Other Wise Man

A vale of tears, they said!A valley made of woes and fears,To be passed by with muffled headQuickly. I have not seen the tears,Unless they take the rain for tears,And certainly the place is wet.Rain laden leaves are ever lickingYour cheeks and hands ... I can’t get on.There’s a toad-stool that wants picking.There, just there, a little up,What strange things to look uponWith pink hood and orange cup!And there are acorns, yellow—green ...They said the King was at the end.They must have beenWrong. For here, here, I intendTo search for him, for surely hereAre all the wares of the old year,And all the beauty and bright prize,And all God’s colours meetly showed,Green for the grass, blue for the skies,Red for the rain upon the road;And anything you like for trees,But chiefly yellow brown and gold,Because the year is growing oldAnd loves to paint her children these.I tried to follow ... but, what do you think?The mushrooms here are pink!And there’s old clover with black pollsBlack-headed clover, black as coals,And toad-stools, sleek as ink!And there are such heaps of little turnsOff the road, wet with old rain:Each little vegetable laneOf moss and old decaying ferns,Beautiful in decay,Snatching a beauty from whatever mayBe their lot, dark-red and luscious: till there pass’dOver the many-coloured earth a greyFilm. It was evening coming down at last.And all things hid their faces, covering upTheir peak or hood or bonnet or bright cupIn greyness, and the beauty faded fast,With all the many-coloured coat of day.Then I looked up, and lo! the sunset skyHad taken the beauty from the autumn earth.Such colour, O such colour, could not die.The trees stood black against such revelryOf lemon-gold and purple and crimson dye.And even as the trees, so IStood still and worshipped, though by evening’s birthI should have capped the hills and seen the King.The King? The King?I must be miles away from my journey’s end;The others must be now nearingThe summit, glad. By now they wendTheir way far, far, ahead, no doubt.I wonder if they’ve reached the end.If they have, I have not heard them shout.

1 December 1913

WE swing ungirded hips,And lightened are our eyes,The rain is on our lips,We do not run for prize.We know not whom we trustNor whitherward we fare,But we run because we mustThrough the great wide air.The waters of the seasAre troubled as by storm.The tempest strips the treesAnd does not leave them warm.Does the tearing tempest pause?Do the tree-tops ask it why?So we run without a cause’Neath the big bare sky.The rain is on our lips,We do not run for prize.But the storm the water whipsAnd the wave howls to the skies.The winds arise and strike itAnd scatter it like sand,And we run because we like itThrough the broad bright land.

The waters of the seasAre troubled as by storm.The tempest strips the treesAnd does not leave them warm.Does the tearing tempest pause?Do the tree-tops ask it why?So we run without a cause’Neath the big bare sky.

The rain is on our lips,We do not run for prize.But the storm the water whipsAnd the wave howls to the skies.The winds arise and strike itAnd scatter it like sand,And we run because we like itThrough the broad bright land.

THE heat came down and sapped away my powers.The laden heat came down and drowned my brain,Till through the weight of overcoming hoursI felt the rain.Then suddenly I saw what more to seeI never thought: old things renewed, retrieved.The rain that fell in England fell on me,And I believed.

THE heat came down and sapped away my powers.The laden heat came down and drowned my brain,Till through the weight of overcoming hoursI felt the rain.

Then suddenly I saw what more to seeI never thought: old things renewed, retrieved.The rain that fell in England fell on me,And I believed.

THESE things are silent. Though it may be toldOf luminous deeds that lighten land and sea,Strong sounding actions with broad minstrelsyOf praise, strange hazards and adventures bold,We hold to the old things that grow not old:Blind, patient, hungry, hopeless (without feeOf all our hunger and unhope are we),To the first ultimate instinct, to God we hold.They flicker, glitter, flicker. But we bide,We, the blind weavers of an intense fate,Asking but this—that we may be denied:Desiring only desire insatiate,Unheard, unnamed, unnoticed, crucifiedTo our unutterable faith, we wait.

They flicker, glitter, flicker. But we bide,We, the blind weavers of an intense fate,Asking but this—that we may be denied:Desiring only desire insatiate,Unheard, unnamed, unnoticed, crucifiedTo our unutterable faith, we wait.

WE are the homeless, even as you,Who hope and never can begin.Our hearts are wounded through and throughLike yours, but our hearts bleed within.We too make music, but our tones’Scape not the barrier of our bones.We have no comeliness like you.We toil, unlovely, and we spin.We start, return: we wind, undo:We hope, we err, we strive, we sin,We love: your love’s not greater, butThe lips of our love’s might stay shut.We have the evil spirits tooThat shake our soul with battle-din.But we have an eviller spirit than youWe have a dumb spirit within:The exceeding bitter agonyBut not the exceeding bitter cry.

We have no comeliness like you.We toil, unlovely, and we spin.We start, return: we wind, undo:We hope, we err, we strive, we sin,We love: your love’s not greater, butThe lips of our love’s might stay shut.

We have the evil spirits tooThat shake our soul with battle-din.But we have an eviller spirit than youWe have a dumb spirit within:The exceeding bitter agonyBut not the exceeding bitter cry.

AHUNDRED thousand million mites we goWheeling and tacking o’er the eternal plain,Some black with death—and some are white with woe.Who sent us forth? Who takes us home again?And there is sound of hymns of praise—to whom?And curses—on whom curses?—snap the air.And there is hope goes hand in hand with gloom.And blood and indignation and despair.And there is murmuring of the multitudeAnd blindness and great blindness, until someStep forth and challenge blind VicissitudeWho tramples on them: so that fewer come.And nations, ankle-deep in love or hate,Throw darts or kisses all the unwitting hourBeside the ominous unseen tide of fate;And there is emptiness and drink and power.And some are mounted on swift steeds of thoughtAnd some drag sluggish feet of stable toil.Yet all, as though they furiously sought,Twist turn and tussle, close and cling and coil.A hundred thousand million mites we swayWrithing and tossing on the eternal plain,Some black with death—but most are bright with Day!Who sent us forth? Who brings us home again?

AHUNDRED thousand million mites we goWheeling and tacking o’er the eternal plain,Some black with death—and some are white with woe.Who sent us forth? Who takes us home again?

And there is sound of hymns of praise—to whom?And curses—on whom curses?—snap the air.And there is hope goes hand in hand with gloom.And blood and indignation and despair.

And there is murmuring of the multitudeAnd blindness and great blindness, until someStep forth and challenge blind VicissitudeWho tramples on them: so that fewer come.

And nations, ankle-deep in love or hate,Throw darts or kisses all the unwitting hourBeside the ominous unseen tide of fate;And there is emptiness and drink and power.

And some are mounted on swift steeds of thoughtAnd some drag sluggish feet of stable toil.Yet all, as though they furiously sought,Twist turn and tussle, close and cling and coil.

A hundred thousand million mites we swayWrithing and tossing on the eternal plain,Some black with death—but most are bright with Day!Who sent us forth? Who brings us home again?

THAT’s what I am: a thing of no desire,With no path to discover and no pleaTo offer up, so be my altar fireMay burn before the hearth continuously,To beFor wayward men a steadfast light to see.They know me in the morning of their days,But ere noontide forsake me, to discernNew lore and hear new riddles. But moonraysBring them back footsore, humble, bent, a-burnTo turnAnd warm them by my fire which they did spurn.They flock together like tired birds. “We soughtFull many stars in many skies to see.But ever knowledge disappointment brought.Thy light alone, Lord, burneth steadfastly.”Ah me!Then it is I who fain would wayward be.

THAT’s what I am: a thing of no desire,With no path to discover and no pleaTo offer up, so be my altar fireMay burn before the hearth continuously,To beFor wayward men a steadfast light to see.

They know me in the morning of their days,But ere noontide forsake me, to discernNew lore and hear new riddles. But moonraysBring them back footsore, humble, bent, a-burnTo turnAnd warm them by my fire which they did spurn.

They flock together like tired birds. “We soughtFull many stars in many skies to see.But ever knowledge disappointment brought.Thy light alone, Lord, burneth steadfastly.”Ah me!Then it is I who fain would wayward be.

THOU trod’st the shifting sand path where man’s race is.The print of thy soft sandals is still clear.I too have trodden it those prints a-near,But the sea washes out my tired foot-traces.And all that thou hast healed and holpen hereI yearned to heal and help and wipe the tearAway. But still I trod unpeopled spaces.I had no twelve to follow my pure paces.For I had thy misgivings and thy fear,Thy crown of scorn, thy suffering’s sharp spear,Thy hopes, thy longings—only not thy dearLove (for my crying love would no man hear),Thy will to love, but not thy love’s sweet graces,That deep firm foothold which no sea erases.I think that thou wast I in bygone placesIn an intense eliminated year.Now born again in days that are more drearI wander unfulfilled: and see strange faces.

WHEN he was young and beautiful and boldWe hated him, for he was very strong.But when he came back home again, quite old,And wounded too, we could not hate him long.For kingliness and conquest pranced he forthLike some high-stepping charger bright with foam.And south he strode and east and west and northWith need of crowns and never need of home.Enraged we heard high tidings of his strengthAnd cursed his long forgetfulness. We sworeThat should he come back home some eve at length.We would deny him, we would bar the door!And then he came. The sound of those tired feet!And all our home and all our hearts are his,Where bitterness, grown weary, turns to sweet,And envy, purged by longing, pity is.And pillows rest beneath the withering cheek,And hands are laid the battered brows above,And he whom we had hated, waxen weak,First in his weakness learns a little love.

WHEN he was young and beautiful and boldWe hated him, for he was very strong.But when he came back home again, quite old,And wounded too, we could not hate him long.

For kingliness and conquest pranced he forthLike some high-stepping charger bright with foam.And south he strode and east and west and northWith need of crowns and never need of home.

Enraged we heard high tidings of his strengthAnd cursed his long forgetfulness. We sworeThat should he come back home some eve at length.We would deny him, we would bar the door!

And then he came. The sound of those tired feet!And all our home and all our hearts are his,Where bitterness, grown weary, turns to sweet,And envy, purged by longing, pity is.

And pillows rest beneath the withering cheek,And hands are laid the battered brows above,And he whom we had hated, waxen weak,First in his weakness learns a little love.

IF I have suffered painIt is because I would.I willed it. ’Tis no goodTo murmur or complain.I have not served the lawThat keeps the earth so fairAnd gives her clothes to wearRaiment of joy and awe.For all that bow to blessThat law shall sure abide.But man shall not abide,And hence his gloriousness.Lo, evening earth doth lieAll-beauteous and all peace.Man only does not ceaseFrom striving and from cry.Sun sets in peace: and soonThe moon will shower her peace.O law-abiding moon,You hold your peace in fee!Man, leastways, will not beDown-bounden to these laws.Man’s spirit sees no causeTo serve such laws as these.There yet are many seasFor man to wander in.He yet must find out sin,If aught of pleasance thereRemain for him to store,His rovings to increase,In quest of many a shoreForbidden still to fare.Peace sleeps the earth upon,And sweet peace on the hill.The waves that whimper stillAt their long law-serving(O flowing sad complaint!)Come on and are back drawn.Man only owns no king,Man only is not faint.You see, the earth is bound.You see, the man is free.For glorious libertyHe suffers and would die.Grudge not then sufferingOr chastisemental cry.O let his pain abound,Earth’s truant and earth’s king!

IF I have suffered painIt is because I would.I willed it. ’Tis no goodTo murmur or complain.I have not served the lawThat keeps the earth so fairAnd gives her clothes to wearRaiment of joy and awe.

For all that bow to blessThat law shall sure abide.But man shall not abide,And hence his gloriousness.Lo, evening earth doth lieAll-beauteous and all peace.Man only does not ceaseFrom striving and from cry.

Sun sets in peace: and soonThe moon will shower her peace.O law-abiding moon,You hold your peace in fee!Man, leastways, will not beDown-bounden to these laws.Man’s spirit sees no causeTo serve such laws as these.

There yet are many seasFor man to wander in.He yet must find out sin,If aught of pleasance thereRemain for him to store,His rovings to increase,In quest of many a shoreForbidden still to fare.

Peace sleeps the earth upon,And sweet peace on the hill.The waves that whimper stillAt their long law-serving(O flowing sad complaint!)Come on and are back drawn.Man only owns no king,Man only is not faint.

You see, the earth is bound.You see, the man is free.For glorious libertyHe suffers and would die.Grudge not then sufferingOr chastisemental cry.O let his pain abound,Earth’s truant and earth’s king!

YOU are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,And no man claimed the conquest of your land.But gropers both through fields of thought confinedWe stumble and we do not understand.You only saw your future bigly planned,And we, the tapering paths of our own mind,And in each other’s dearest ways we stand,And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.When it is peace, then we may view againWith new-won eyes each other’s truer formAnd wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warmWe’ll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,When it is peace. But until peace, the stormThe darkness and the thunder and the rain.

When it is peace, then we may view againWith new-won eyes each other’s truer formAnd wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warmWe’ll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,When it is peace. But until peace, the stormThe darkness and the thunder and the rain.

ALL the hills and vales alongEarth is bursting into song,And the singers are the chapsWho are going to die perhaps.O sing, marching men,Till the valleys ring again.Give your gladness to earth’s keeping,So be glad, when you are sleeping.Cast away regret and rue,Think what you are marching to.Little live, great pass.Jesus Christ and BarabbasWere found the same day.This died, that went his way.So sing with joyful breath.For why, you are going to death.Teeming earth will surely storeAll the gladness that you pour.Earth that never doubts nor fears,Earth that knows of death, not tears,Earth that bore with joyful easeHemlock for Socrates,Earth that blossomed and was glad’Neath the cross that Christ had,Shall rejoice and blossom tooWhen the bullet reaches you.Wherefore, men marchingOn the road to death, sing!Pour your gladness on earth’s head,So be merry, so be dead.From the hills and valleys earthShouts back the sound of mirth,Tramp of feet and lilt of songRinging all the road along.All the music of their going,Ringing swinging glad song-throwing,Earth will echo still, when footLies numb and voice mute.On, marching men, onTo the gates of death with song,Sow your gladness for earth’s reaping,So you may be glad, though sleeping,Strew your gladness on earth’s bed,So be merry, so be dead.

Cast away regret and rue,Think what you are marching to.Little live, great pass.Jesus Christ and BarabbasWere found the same day.This died, that went his way.So sing with joyful breath.For why, you are going to death.Teeming earth will surely storeAll the gladness that you pour.

Earth that never doubts nor fears,Earth that knows of death, not tears,Earth that bore with joyful easeHemlock for Socrates,Earth that blossomed and was glad’Neath the cross that Christ had,Shall rejoice and blossom tooWhen the bullet reaches you.Wherefore, men marchingOn the road to death, sing!Pour your gladness on earth’s head,So be merry, so be dead.

From the hills and valleys earthShouts back the sound of mirth,Tramp of feet and lilt of songRinging all the road along.All the music of their going,Ringing swinging glad song-throwing,Earth will echo still, when footLies numb and voice mute.On, marching men, onTo the gates of death with song,Sow your gladness for earth’s reaping,So you may be glad, though sleeping,Strew your gladness on earth’s bed,So be merry, so be dead.

HE trod the oft-remembered lane(Now smaller-seeming than beforeWhen first he left his father’s doorFor newer things), but still quite plain(Though half-benighted now) upstoodOld landmarks, ghosts across the laneThat brought the Bygone back again:Shorn haystacks and the rooky wood;The guide post, too, which once he clombTo read the figures: fourteen milesTo Swindon, four to Clinton Stiles,And only half a mile to home:And far away the one homestead, where—Behind the day now not quite setSo that he saw in silhouetteIts chimneys still stand black and bare—He noticed that the trees were notSo big as when he journeyed lastThat way. For greatly now he passedStriding above the hedges, hotWith hopings, as he passed by whereA lamp before him glanced and stayedAcross his path, so that his shadeSeemed like a giant’s moving there.The dullness of the sunken sunHe marked not, nor how dark it grew,Nor that strange flapping bird that flewAbove: he thought but of the One....He topped the crest and crossed the fence,Noticed the garden that it grewAs erst, noticed the hen-house too(The kennel had been altered since).It seemed so unchanged and so still.(Could it but be the past arisenFor one short night from out of prison?)He reached the big-bowed window-sill,Lifted the window sash with care,Then, gaily throwing aside the blind,Shouted. It was a shock to findThat he was not remembered there.At once he felt not all his pain,But murmuringly apologised,Turned, once more sought the undersizedBlown trees, and the long lanky lane,Wondering and pondering on, past whereA lamp before him glanced and stayedAcross his path, so that his shadeSeemed like a giant’s moving there.

HE trod the oft-remembered lane(Now smaller-seeming than beforeWhen first he left his father’s doorFor newer things), but still quite plain

(Though half-benighted now) upstoodOld landmarks, ghosts across the laneThat brought the Bygone back again:Shorn haystacks and the rooky wood;The guide post, too, which once he clombTo read the figures: fourteen milesTo Swindon, four to Clinton Stiles,And only half a mile to home:

And far away the one homestead, where—Behind the day now not quite setSo that he saw in silhouetteIts chimneys still stand black and bare—

He noticed that the trees were notSo big as when he journeyed lastThat way. For greatly now he passedStriding above the hedges, hot

With hopings, as he passed by whereA lamp before him glanced and stayedAcross his path, so that his shadeSeemed like a giant’s moving there.

The dullness of the sunken sunHe marked not, nor how dark it grew,Nor that strange flapping bird that flewAbove: he thought but of the One....

He topped the crest and crossed the fence,Noticed the garden that it grewAs erst, noticed the hen-house too(The kennel had been altered since).

It seemed so unchanged and so still.(Could it but be the past arisenFor one short night from out of prison?)He reached the big-bowed window-sill,

Lifted the window sash with care,Then, gaily throwing aside the blind,Shouted. It was a shock to findThat he was not remembered there.

At once he felt not all his pain,But murmuringly apologised,Turned, once more sought the undersizedBlown trees, and the long lanky lane,

Wondering and pondering on, past whereA lamp before him glanced and stayedAcross his path, so that his shadeSeemed like a giant’s moving there.

ACROSS my past imaginingsHas dropped a blindness silent and slow.My eye is bent on other thingsThan those it once did see and know.I may not think on those dear lands(O far away and long ago!)Where the old battered signpost standsAnd silently the four roads goEast, west, south and north,And the cold winter winds do blow.And what the evening will bring forthIs not for me nor you to know.

ACROSS my past imaginingsHas dropped a blindness silent and slow.My eye is bent on other thingsThan those it once did see and know.

I may not think on those dear lands(O far away and long ago!)Where the old battered signpost standsAnd silently the four roads go

East, west, south and north,And the cold winter winds do blow.And what the evening will bring forthIs not for me nor you to know.

FROM morn to midnight, all day through,I laugh and play as others do,I sin and chatter, just the sameAs others with a different name.And all year long upon the stageI dance and tumble and do rageSo vehemently, I scarcely seeThe inner and eternal me.I have a temple I do notVisit, a heart I have forgot,A self that I have never met,A secret shrine—and yet, and yetThis sanctuary of my soulUnwitting I keep white and wholeUnlatched and lit, if Thou should’st careTo enter or to tarry there.With parted lips and outstretched handsAnd listening ears Thy servant stands,Call Thou early, call Thou late,To Thy great service dedicate.

FROM morn to midnight, all day through,I laugh and play as others do,I sin and chatter, just the sameAs others with a different name.

And all year long upon the stageI dance and tumble and do rageSo vehemently, I scarcely seeThe inner and eternal me.

I have a temple I do notVisit, a heart I have forgot,A self that I have never met,A secret shrine—and yet, and yetThis sanctuary of my soulUnwitting I keep white and wholeUnlatched and lit, if Thou should’st careTo enter or to tarry there.

With parted lips and outstretched handsAnd listening ears Thy servant stands,Call Thou early, call Thou late,To Thy great service dedicate.

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