Lord, not for light in darkness do we pray,Not that the veil be lifted from our eyes,Nor that the slow ascension of our dayBe otherwise.Not for a clearer vision of the thingsWhereof the fashioning shall make us great,Not for remission of the peril and stingsOf time and fate.Not for a fuller knowledge of the endWhereto we travel, bruised yet unafraid,Nor that the little healing that we lendShall be repaid.Not these, O Lord. We would not break the barsThy wisdom sets about us; we shall climbUnfettered to the secrets of the starsIn Thy good time.We do not crave the high perception swiftWhen to refrain were well, and when fulfil,Nor yet the understanding strong to siftThe good from ill.Not these, O Lord. For these Thou hast revealed,We know the golden season when to reapThe heavy-fruited treasure of the field,The hour to sleep.Not these. We know the hemlock from the rose,The pure from stained, the noble from the baseThe tranquil holy light of truth that glowsOn Pity’s face.We know the paths wherein our feet should press,Across our hearts are written Thy decrees,Yet now, O Lord, be merciful to blessWith more than these.Grant us the will to fashion as we feel,Grant us the strength to labour as we know,Grant us the purpose, ribbed and edged with steel,To strike the blow.Knowledge we ask not—knowledge Thou hast lent,But, Lord, the will—there lies our bitter need,Give us to build above the deep intentThe deed, the deed.
Lord, not for light in darkness do we pray,Not that the veil be lifted from our eyes,Nor that the slow ascension of our dayBe otherwise.Not for a clearer vision of the thingsWhereof the fashioning shall make us great,Not for remission of the peril and stingsOf time and fate.Not for a fuller knowledge of the endWhereto we travel, bruised yet unafraid,Nor that the little healing that we lendShall be repaid.Not these, O Lord. We would not break the barsThy wisdom sets about us; we shall climbUnfettered to the secrets of the starsIn Thy good time.We do not crave the high perception swiftWhen to refrain were well, and when fulfil,Nor yet the understanding strong to siftThe good from ill.Not these, O Lord. For these Thou hast revealed,We know the golden season when to reapThe heavy-fruited treasure of the field,The hour to sleep.Not these. We know the hemlock from the rose,The pure from stained, the noble from the baseThe tranquil holy light of truth that glowsOn Pity’s face.We know the paths wherein our feet should press,Across our hearts are written Thy decrees,Yet now, O Lord, be merciful to blessWith more than these.Grant us the will to fashion as we feel,Grant us the strength to labour as we know,Grant us the purpose, ribbed and edged with steel,To strike the blow.Knowledge we ask not—knowledge Thou hast lent,But, Lord, the will—there lies our bitter need,Give us to build above the deep intentThe deed, the deed.
Lord, not for light in darkness do we pray,Not that the veil be lifted from our eyes,Nor that the slow ascension of our dayBe otherwise.
Not for a clearer vision of the thingsWhereof the fashioning shall make us great,Not for remission of the peril and stingsOf time and fate.
Not for a fuller knowledge of the endWhereto we travel, bruised yet unafraid,Nor that the little healing that we lendShall be repaid.
Not these, O Lord. We would not break the barsThy wisdom sets about us; we shall climbUnfettered to the secrets of the starsIn Thy good time.
We do not crave the high perception swiftWhen to refrain were well, and when fulfil,Nor yet the understanding strong to siftThe good from ill.
Not these, O Lord. For these Thou hast revealed,We know the golden season when to reapThe heavy-fruited treasure of the field,The hour to sleep.
Not these. We know the hemlock from the rose,The pure from stained, the noble from the baseThe tranquil holy light of truth that glowsOn Pity’s face.
We know the paths wherein our feet should press,Across our hearts are written Thy decrees,Yet now, O Lord, be merciful to blessWith more than these.
Grant us the will to fashion as we feel,Grant us the strength to labour as we know,Grant us the purpose, ribbed and edged with steel,To strike the blow.
Knowledge we ask not—knowledge Thou hast lent,But, Lord, the will—there lies our bitter need,Give us to build above the deep intentThe deed, the deed.
Whencethese hods, and bricks of bright red clay,And swart men climbing ladders in the night?Stilled are the clamorous energies of day,The streets are dumb, and, prodigal of light,The lamps but shine upon a city of sleep.A step goes out into the silence; farAcross the quiet roofs the hour is tolledFrom ghostly towers; the indifferent earth may keepThat ragged flotsam shielded from the coldIn earth’s good time: not, moving among men,Shall he compel so fortunate a star.Pavements I know, forsaken now, are strange,Alien walks not beautiful, that then,In the familiar day, are part of allMy breathless pilgrimage, not beautiful, but dear;The monotony of sound has suffered change,The eddies of wanton sound are spent, and clearTo bleak monotonies of silence fall.And, while the city sleeps, in the central poiseOf quiet, lamps are flaming in the night,Blown to long tongues by winds that moan betweenThe growing walls, and throwing misty lightOn swart men bearing bricks of bright red clayIn laden hods; and ever the thin noiseOf trowels deftly fashioning the cleanLong lines that are the shaping of proud thought.Ghost-like they move between the day and day,These men whose labour strictly shall be wroughtInto the captive image of a dream.Their sinews weary not, the plummet fallsTo measured use from steadfast hands apace,And momently the moist and levelled seamKnits brick to brick and momently the wallsBestow the wonder of form on formless space.And whence all these? The hod and plummet-line,The trowels tapping, and the lamps that shineIn long, dust-heavy beams from wall to wall,The mortar and the bricks of bright red clay,Ladder and corded scaffolding, and allThe gear of common traffic—whence are they?And whence the men who use them?When he came,God upon chaos, crying in the nameOf all adventurous vision that the voidShould yield up man, and man, created, roseOut of the deep, the marvel of all things made,Then in immortal wonder was destroyedAll worth of trivial knowledge, and the closeOf man’s most urgent meditation stayedEven as his first thought—“Whence am I sprung?”What proud ecstatic mystery was pentIn that first act for man’s astonishment,From age to unconfessing age, amongHis manifold travel. And in all I seeOf common daily usage is renewedThis primal and ecstatic mysteryOf chaos bidden into many-huedWonders of form, life in the void create,And monstrous silence made articulate.Not the first word of God upon the deepNor the first pulse of life along the dayMore marvellous than these new walls that sweepStarward, these lines that discipline the clay,These lamps swung in the wind that send their lightOn swart men climbing ladders in the night.No trowel-tap but sings anew for menThe rapture of quickening water and continent,No mortared line but witnesses againChaos transfigured into lineament.
Whencethese hods, and bricks of bright red clay,And swart men climbing ladders in the night?Stilled are the clamorous energies of day,The streets are dumb, and, prodigal of light,The lamps but shine upon a city of sleep.A step goes out into the silence; farAcross the quiet roofs the hour is tolledFrom ghostly towers; the indifferent earth may keepThat ragged flotsam shielded from the coldIn earth’s good time: not, moving among men,Shall he compel so fortunate a star.Pavements I know, forsaken now, are strange,Alien walks not beautiful, that then,In the familiar day, are part of allMy breathless pilgrimage, not beautiful, but dear;The monotony of sound has suffered change,The eddies of wanton sound are spent, and clearTo bleak monotonies of silence fall.And, while the city sleeps, in the central poiseOf quiet, lamps are flaming in the night,Blown to long tongues by winds that moan betweenThe growing walls, and throwing misty lightOn swart men bearing bricks of bright red clayIn laden hods; and ever the thin noiseOf trowels deftly fashioning the cleanLong lines that are the shaping of proud thought.Ghost-like they move between the day and day,These men whose labour strictly shall be wroughtInto the captive image of a dream.Their sinews weary not, the plummet fallsTo measured use from steadfast hands apace,And momently the moist and levelled seamKnits brick to brick and momently the wallsBestow the wonder of form on formless space.And whence all these? The hod and plummet-line,The trowels tapping, and the lamps that shineIn long, dust-heavy beams from wall to wall,The mortar and the bricks of bright red clay,Ladder and corded scaffolding, and allThe gear of common traffic—whence are they?And whence the men who use them?When he came,God upon chaos, crying in the nameOf all adventurous vision that the voidShould yield up man, and man, created, roseOut of the deep, the marvel of all things made,Then in immortal wonder was destroyedAll worth of trivial knowledge, and the closeOf man’s most urgent meditation stayedEven as his first thought—“Whence am I sprung?”What proud ecstatic mystery was pentIn that first act for man’s astonishment,From age to unconfessing age, amongHis manifold travel. And in all I seeOf common daily usage is renewedThis primal and ecstatic mysteryOf chaos bidden into many-huedWonders of form, life in the void create,And monstrous silence made articulate.Not the first word of God upon the deepNor the first pulse of life along the dayMore marvellous than these new walls that sweepStarward, these lines that discipline the clay,These lamps swung in the wind that send their lightOn swart men climbing ladders in the night.No trowel-tap but sings anew for menThe rapture of quickening water and continent,No mortared line but witnesses againChaos transfigured into lineament.
Whencethese hods, and bricks of bright red clay,And swart men climbing ladders in the night?
Stilled are the clamorous energies of day,The streets are dumb, and, prodigal of light,The lamps but shine upon a city of sleep.A step goes out into the silence; farAcross the quiet roofs the hour is tolledFrom ghostly towers; the indifferent earth may keepThat ragged flotsam shielded from the coldIn earth’s good time: not, moving among men,Shall he compel so fortunate a star.Pavements I know, forsaken now, are strange,Alien walks not beautiful, that then,In the familiar day, are part of allMy breathless pilgrimage, not beautiful, but dear;The monotony of sound has suffered change,The eddies of wanton sound are spent, and clearTo bleak monotonies of silence fall.
And, while the city sleeps, in the central poiseOf quiet, lamps are flaming in the night,Blown to long tongues by winds that moan betweenThe growing walls, and throwing misty lightOn swart men bearing bricks of bright red clayIn laden hods; and ever the thin noiseOf trowels deftly fashioning the cleanLong lines that are the shaping of proud thought.Ghost-like they move between the day and day,These men whose labour strictly shall be wroughtInto the captive image of a dream.Their sinews weary not, the plummet fallsTo measured use from steadfast hands apace,And momently the moist and levelled seamKnits brick to brick and momently the wallsBestow the wonder of form on formless space.
And whence all these? The hod and plummet-line,The trowels tapping, and the lamps that shineIn long, dust-heavy beams from wall to wall,The mortar and the bricks of bright red clay,Ladder and corded scaffolding, and allThe gear of common traffic—whence are they?And whence the men who use them?When he came,God upon chaos, crying in the nameOf all adventurous vision that the voidShould yield up man, and man, created, roseOut of the deep, the marvel of all things made,Then in immortal wonder was destroyedAll worth of trivial knowledge, and the closeOf man’s most urgent meditation stayedEven as his first thought—“Whence am I sprung?”What proud ecstatic mystery was pentIn that first act for man’s astonishment,From age to unconfessing age, amongHis manifold travel. And in all I seeOf common daily usage is renewedThis primal and ecstatic mysteryOf chaos bidden into many-huedWonders of form, life in the void create,And monstrous silence made articulate.
Not the first word of God upon the deepNor the first pulse of life along the dayMore marvellous than these new walls that sweepStarward, these lines that discipline the clay,These lamps swung in the wind that send their lightOn swart men climbing ladders in the night.No trowel-tap but sings anew for menThe rapture of quickening water and continent,No mortared line but witnesses againChaos transfigured into lineament.
Thelarge report of fame I lack,And shining clasps and crimson scars,For I have held my bivouacAlone amid the untroubled stars.My battle-field has known no dawnBeclouded by a thousand spears;I’ve been no mounting tyrant’s pawnTo buy his glory with my tears.It never seemed a noble thingSome little leagues of land to gainFrom broken men, nor yet to flingAbroad the thunderbolts of pain.Yet I have felt the quickening breathAs peril heavy peril kissed—My weapon was a little faith,And fear was my antagonist.Not a brief hour of cannonade,But many days of bitter strife,Till God of His great pity laidAcross my brow the leaves of life.
Thelarge report of fame I lack,And shining clasps and crimson scars,For I have held my bivouacAlone amid the untroubled stars.My battle-field has known no dawnBeclouded by a thousand spears;I’ve been no mounting tyrant’s pawnTo buy his glory with my tears.It never seemed a noble thingSome little leagues of land to gainFrom broken men, nor yet to flingAbroad the thunderbolts of pain.Yet I have felt the quickening breathAs peril heavy peril kissed—My weapon was a little faith,And fear was my antagonist.Not a brief hour of cannonade,But many days of bitter strife,Till God of His great pity laidAcross my brow the leaves of life.
Thelarge report of fame I lack,And shining clasps and crimson scars,For I have held my bivouacAlone amid the untroubled stars.
My battle-field has known no dawnBeclouded by a thousand spears;I’ve been no mounting tyrant’s pawnTo buy his glory with my tears.
It never seemed a noble thingSome little leagues of land to gainFrom broken men, nor yet to flingAbroad the thunderbolts of pain.
Yet I have felt the quickening breathAs peril heavy peril kissed—My weapon was a little faith,And fear was my antagonist.
Not a brief hour of cannonade,But many days of bitter strife,Till God of His great pity laidAcross my brow the leaves of life.
Time gathers to my name;Along the ways wheredown my feet have passedI see the years with little triumph crowned,Exulting not for perils dared, downcastAnd weary-eyed and desolate for shameOf having been unstirred of all the soundOf the deep music of the men that moveThrough the world’s days in suffering and love.Poor barren years that brooded over-muchOn your own burden, pale and stricken years—Go down to your oblivion, we partWith no reproach or ceremonial tears.Henceforth my hands are lifted to the touchOf hands that labour with me, and my heartHereafter to the world’s heart shall be setAnd its own pain forget.Time gathers to my name—Days dead are dark; the days to be, a flameOf wonder and of promise, and great criesOf travelling people reach me—I must rise.
Time gathers to my name;Along the ways wheredown my feet have passedI see the years with little triumph crowned,Exulting not for perils dared, downcastAnd weary-eyed and desolate for shameOf having been unstirred of all the soundOf the deep music of the men that moveThrough the world’s days in suffering and love.Poor barren years that brooded over-muchOn your own burden, pale and stricken years—Go down to your oblivion, we partWith no reproach or ceremonial tears.Henceforth my hands are lifted to the touchOf hands that labour with me, and my heartHereafter to the world’s heart shall be setAnd its own pain forget.Time gathers to my name—Days dead are dark; the days to be, a flameOf wonder and of promise, and great criesOf travelling people reach me—I must rise.
Time gathers to my name;Along the ways wheredown my feet have passedI see the years with little triumph crowned,Exulting not for perils dared, downcastAnd weary-eyed and desolate for shameOf having been unstirred of all the soundOf the deep music of the men that moveThrough the world’s days in suffering and love.
Poor barren years that brooded over-muchOn your own burden, pale and stricken years—Go down to your oblivion, we partWith no reproach or ceremonial tears.Henceforth my hands are lifted to the touchOf hands that labour with me, and my heartHereafter to the world’s heart shall be setAnd its own pain forget.Time gathers to my name—Days dead are dark; the days to be, a flameOf wonder and of promise, and great criesOf travelling people reach me—I must rise.
Was I not man? Could I not rise aloneAbove the shifting of the things that be,Rise to the crest of all the stars and seeThe ways of all the world as from a throne?Was I not man, with proud imperial willTo cancel all the secrets of high heaven?Should not my sole unbridled purpose fillAll hidden paths with light when once was rivenGod’s veil by my indomitable will?So dreamt I, little man of little vision,Great only in unconsecrated pride;Man’s pity grew from pity to derision,And still I thought, “Albeit they deride,Yet is it mine uncharted ways to dareUnknown to these,And they shall stumble darkly, unawareOf solemn mysteriesWhereof the key is mine alone to bear.”So I forgot my God, and I forgotThe holy sweet communion of men,And moved in desolate places, where are notMeek hands held out with patient healing whenThe hours are heavy with uncharitable pain;No company but vainAnd arrogant thoughts were with me at my side.And ever to myself I lied.Saying “Apart from all men thus I goTo know the things that they may never know.”
Was I not man? Could I not rise aloneAbove the shifting of the things that be,Rise to the crest of all the stars and seeThe ways of all the world as from a throne?Was I not man, with proud imperial willTo cancel all the secrets of high heaven?Should not my sole unbridled purpose fillAll hidden paths with light when once was rivenGod’s veil by my indomitable will?So dreamt I, little man of little vision,Great only in unconsecrated pride;Man’s pity grew from pity to derision,And still I thought, “Albeit they deride,Yet is it mine uncharted ways to dareUnknown to these,And they shall stumble darkly, unawareOf solemn mysteriesWhereof the key is mine alone to bear.”So I forgot my God, and I forgotThe holy sweet communion of men,And moved in desolate places, where are notMeek hands held out with patient healing whenThe hours are heavy with uncharitable pain;No company but vainAnd arrogant thoughts were with me at my side.And ever to myself I lied.Saying “Apart from all men thus I goTo know the things that they may never know.”
Was I not man? Could I not rise aloneAbove the shifting of the things that be,Rise to the crest of all the stars and seeThe ways of all the world as from a throne?Was I not man, with proud imperial willTo cancel all the secrets of high heaven?Should not my sole unbridled purpose fillAll hidden paths with light when once was rivenGod’s veil by my indomitable will?
So dreamt I, little man of little vision,Great only in unconsecrated pride;Man’s pity grew from pity to derision,And still I thought, “Albeit they deride,Yet is it mine uncharted ways to dareUnknown to these,And they shall stumble darkly, unawareOf solemn mysteriesWhereof the key is mine alone to bear.”
So I forgot my God, and I forgotThe holy sweet communion of men,And moved in desolate places, where are notMeek hands held out with patient healing whenThe hours are heavy with uncharitable pain;No company but vainAnd arrogant thoughts were with me at my side.And ever to myself I lied.Saying “Apart from all men thus I goTo know the things that they may never know.”
Then a great change befell;Long time I stoodIn witless hardihoodWith eyes on one sole changeless vision set—The deep disturbèd fretOf men who made brief tarrying in hellOn their earth travelling.It was as though the lives of men should beSee circle-wise, whereof one little spanThrough which all passed was blackened with the wingOf perilous evil, bateless misery.But all beyond, making the whole completeO’er which the travelling feetOf every manMade way or ever he might come to death,Was odorous with the breathOf honey-laden flowers, and aliveWith sacrificial ministrations sweetOf man to man, and swift and holy loves,And large heroic hopes, whereby should thriveMan’s spirit as he movesFrom dawn of life to the great dawn of death.It was as though mine eyes were set aloneUpon that woeful passage of despair,Until I held that life had never knownDominion but in this most troubled placeWhere many a ruined graceAnd many a friendless careRan to and fro in sorrowful unrest.Still in my hand I pressedHope’s fragile chalice, whence I drew deep draughtsThat heartened me that even yet should growOut of this dread confusion, as of broken craftsDriven along ungovernable seas,Prosperous order, and that I should knowAfter long vigil all the mysteriesOf human wonder and of human fate.O fool, O only greatIn pride unhallowed, O most blind of heart!Confusion but more dark confusion bred,Grief nurtured grief, I cried aloud and said,“Through trackless ways the soul of man is hurled,No sign upon the forehead of the skies,No beacon, and no chartAre given to him, and the inscrutable worldBut mocks his scars and fills his mouth with dust.”And lies bore liesAnd lust bore lust,And the world was heavy with flowerless rods,And pride outranThe strength of a manWho had set himself in the place of gods.
Then a great change befell;Long time I stoodIn witless hardihoodWith eyes on one sole changeless vision set—The deep disturbèd fretOf men who made brief tarrying in hellOn their earth travelling.It was as though the lives of men should beSee circle-wise, whereof one little spanThrough which all passed was blackened with the wingOf perilous evil, bateless misery.But all beyond, making the whole completeO’er which the travelling feetOf every manMade way or ever he might come to death,Was odorous with the breathOf honey-laden flowers, and aliveWith sacrificial ministrations sweetOf man to man, and swift and holy loves,And large heroic hopes, whereby should thriveMan’s spirit as he movesFrom dawn of life to the great dawn of death.It was as though mine eyes were set aloneUpon that woeful passage of despair,Until I held that life had never knownDominion but in this most troubled placeWhere many a ruined graceAnd many a friendless careRan to and fro in sorrowful unrest.Still in my hand I pressedHope’s fragile chalice, whence I drew deep draughtsThat heartened me that even yet should growOut of this dread confusion, as of broken craftsDriven along ungovernable seas,Prosperous order, and that I should knowAfter long vigil all the mysteriesOf human wonder and of human fate.O fool, O only greatIn pride unhallowed, O most blind of heart!Confusion but more dark confusion bred,Grief nurtured grief, I cried aloud and said,“Through trackless ways the soul of man is hurled,No sign upon the forehead of the skies,No beacon, and no chartAre given to him, and the inscrutable worldBut mocks his scars and fills his mouth with dust.”And lies bore liesAnd lust bore lust,And the world was heavy with flowerless rods,And pride outranThe strength of a manWho had set himself in the place of gods.
Then a great change befell;Long time I stoodIn witless hardihoodWith eyes on one sole changeless vision set—The deep disturbèd fretOf men who made brief tarrying in hellOn their earth travelling.It was as though the lives of men should beSee circle-wise, whereof one little spanThrough which all passed was blackened with the wingOf perilous evil, bateless misery.But all beyond, making the whole completeO’er which the travelling feetOf every manMade way or ever he might come to death,Was odorous with the breathOf honey-laden flowers, and aliveWith sacrificial ministrations sweetOf man to man, and swift and holy loves,And large heroic hopes, whereby should thriveMan’s spirit as he movesFrom dawn of life to the great dawn of death.
It was as though mine eyes were set aloneUpon that woeful passage of despair,Until I held that life had never knownDominion but in this most troubled placeWhere many a ruined graceAnd many a friendless careRan to and fro in sorrowful unrest.Still in my hand I pressedHope’s fragile chalice, whence I drew deep draughtsThat heartened me that even yet should growOut of this dread confusion, as of broken craftsDriven along ungovernable seas,Prosperous order, and that I should knowAfter long vigil all the mysteriesOf human wonder and of human fate.
O fool, O only greatIn pride unhallowed, O most blind of heart!Confusion but more dark confusion bred,Grief nurtured grief, I cried aloud and said,“Through trackless ways the soul of man is hurled,No sign upon the forehead of the skies,No beacon, and no chartAre given to him, and the inscrutable worldBut mocks his scars and fills his mouth with dust.”
And lies bore liesAnd lust bore lust,And the world was heavy with flowerless rods,And pride outranThe strength of a manWho had set himself in the place of gods.
Soon was I then to gather bitter shameOf spirit; I had been most wildly proud—Yet in my pride had beenSome little courage, formless as a cloud,Unpiloted save by a vagrant wind,But still an earnest of the bonds that tameThe legionary hates, of sacred loves that leanFrom the high soul of man towards his kind.And all my griefHad been for those I watched go to and froIn uncompassioned woeAlong that little span my unbeliefHad fashioned in my vision as all life.Now even this so little virtue waned,For I became caught up into the strifeThat I had pitied, and my soul was stainedAt last by that most venomous despair,Self-pity.I no longer was awareOf any will to heal the world’s unrest,I suffered as it suffered, and I grewTroubled in all my daily trafficking,Not with the large heroic trouble knownBy proud adventurous men who would atoneWith their own passionate pity for the stingAnd anguish of a world of peril and snares,It was the trouble of a soul in thrallTo mean despairs,Driven about a waste where neither fallOf words from lips of love, nor consolationOf grave eyes comforting, nor ministrationOf hand or heart could pierce the deadly wallOf self—of self,—I was a living shame—A broken purpose. I had stood apartWith pride rebellious and defiant heart,And now my pride had perished in the flame.I cried for succour as a little childMight supplicate whose days are undefiled,—For tutored pride and innocence are one.To the gloom has wonA gleam of the sunAnd into the barren desolate waysA scent is blownAs of meadows mownBy cooling rivers in clover days.
Soon was I then to gather bitter shameOf spirit; I had been most wildly proud—Yet in my pride had beenSome little courage, formless as a cloud,Unpiloted save by a vagrant wind,But still an earnest of the bonds that tameThe legionary hates, of sacred loves that leanFrom the high soul of man towards his kind.And all my griefHad been for those I watched go to and froIn uncompassioned woeAlong that little span my unbeliefHad fashioned in my vision as all life.Now even this so little virtue waned,For I became caught up into the strifeThat I had pitied, and my soul was stainedAt last by that most venomous despair,Self-pity.I no longer was awareOf any will to heal the world’s unrest,I suffered as it suffered, and I grewTroubled in all my daily trafficking,Not with the large heroic trouble knownBy proud adventurous men who would atoneWith their own passionate pity for the stingAnd anguish of a world of peril and snares,It was the trouble of a soul in thrallTo mean despairs,Driven about a waste where neither fallOf words from lips of love, nor consolationOf grave eyes comforting, nor ministrationOf hand or heart could pierce the deadly wallOf self—of self,—I was a living shame—A broken purpose. I had stood apartWith pride rebellious and defiant heart,And now my pride had perished in the flame.I cried for succour as a little childMight supplicate whose days are undefiled,—For tutored pride and innocence are one.To the gloom has wonA gleam of the sunAnd into the barren desolate waysA scent is blownAs of meadows mownBy cooling rivers in clover days.
Soon was I then to gather bitter shameOf spirit; I had been most wildly proud—Yet in my pride had beenSome little courage, formless as a cloud,Unpiloted save by a vagrant wind,But still an earnest of the bonds that tameThe legionary hates, of sacred loves that leanFrom the high soul of man towards his kind.And all my griefHad been for those I watched go to and froIn uncompassioned woeAlong that little span my unbeliefHad fashioned in my vision as all life.Now even this so little virtue waned,For I became caught up into the strifeThat I had pitied, and my soul was stainedAt last by that most venomous despair,Self-pity.I no longer was awareOf any will to heal the world’s unrest,I suffered as it suffered, and I grewTroubled in all my daily trafficking,Not with the large heroic trouble knownBy proud adventurous men who would atoneWith their own passionate pity for the stingAnd anguish of a world of peril and snares,It was the trouble of a soul in thrallTo mean despairs,Driven about a waste where neither fallOf words from lips of love, nor consolationOf grave eyes comforting, nor ministrationOf hand or heart could pierce the deadly wallOf self—of self,—I was a living shame—A broken purpose. I had stood apartWith pride rebellious and defiant heart,And now my pride had perished in the flame.I cried for succour as a little childMight supplicate whose days are undefiled,—For tutored pride and innocence are one.
To the gloom has wonA gleam of the sunAnd into the barren desolate waysA scent is blownAs of meadows mownBy cooling rivers in clover days.
I turned me from that place in humble wise,And fingers soft were laid upon mine eyes,And I beheld the fruitful earth, with storeOf odorous treasure, full and golden grain,Ripe orchard bounty, slender stalks that boreTheir flowered beauty with a meek content,The prosperous leaves that loved the sun and rain,Shy creatures unreproved that came and wentIn garrulous joy among the fostering green.And, over all, the changes of the dayAnd ordered year their mutable glory laid—Expectant winter soberly arrayed,The prudent diligent spring whose eyes have seenThe beauty of the roses uncreate,Imperial June, magnificent, elateBeholding all the ripening loves that strayAmong her blossoms, and the golden timeOf the full ear and bounty of the boughs,—And the great hills and solemn chanting seasAnd prodigal meadows, answering to the chimeOf God’s good year, and bearing on their browsThe glory of processional mysteriesFrom dawn to dawn, the woven leaves and lightOf the high noon, the twilight secrecies,And the inscrutable wonder of the starsFlung out along the reaches of the night.And the ancient mightOf the binding barsWaned as I woke to a new desireFor the choric songOf exultant, strongEarth-passionate men with souls of fire.
I turned me from that place in humble wise,And fingers soft were laid upon mine eyes,And I beheld the fruitful earth, with storeOf odorous treasure, full and golden grain,Ripe orchard bounty, slender stalks that boreTheir flowered beauty with a meek content,The prosperous leaves that loved the sun and rain,Shy creatures unreproved that came and wentIn garrulous joy among the fostering green.And, over all, the changes of the dayAnd ordered year their mutable glory laid—Expectant winter soberly arrayed,The prudent diligent spring whose eyes have seenThe beauty of the roses uncreate,Imperial June, magnificent, elateBeholding all the ripening loves that strayAmong her blossoms, and the golden timeOf the full ear and bounty of the boughs,—And the great hills and solemn chanting seasAnd prodigal meadows, answering to the chimeOf God’s good year, and bearing on their browsThe glory of processional mysteriesFrom dawn to dawn, the woven leaves and lightOf the high noon, the twilight secrecies,And the inscrutable wonder of the starsFlung out along the reaches of the night.And the ancient mightOf the binding barsWaned as I woke to a new desireFor the choric songOf exultant, strongEarth-passionate men with souls of fire.
I turned me from that place in humble wise,And fingers soft were laid upon mine eyes,And I beheld the fruitful earth, with storeOf odorous treasure, full and golden grain,Ripe orchard bounty, slender stalks that boreTheir flowered beauty with a meek content,The prosperous leaves that loved the sun and rain,Shy creatures unreproved that came and wentIn garrulous joy among the fostering green.And, over all, the changes of the dayAnd ordered year their mutable glory laid—Expectant winter soberly arrayed,The prudent diligent spring whose eyes have seenThe beauty of the roses uncreate,Imperial June, magnificent, elateBeholding all the ripening loves that strayAmong her blossoms, and the golden timeOf the full ear and bounty of the boughs,—And the great hills and solemn chanting seasAnd prodigal meadows, answering to the chimeOf God’s good year, and bearing on their browsThe glory of processional mysteriesFrom dawn to dawn, the woven leaves and lightOf the high noon, the twilight secrecies,And the inscrutable wonder of the starsFlung out along the reaches of the night.
And the ancient mightOf the binding barsWaned as I woke to a new desireFor the choric songOf exultant, strongEarth-passionate men with souls of fire.
’T was given me to hear. As I beheld—With a new wisdom, tranquil, asking notFor mystic revelation—this glory long forgot,This re-discovered triumph of the earthIn high creative will and beauty’s prideEstablishèd beyond the assaulting years,It came to me, a music that compelledSurrender of all tributary fears,Full-throated, fierce, and rhythmic with the wideBeat of the pilgrim winds and labouring seas,Sent up from all the harbouring ways of earthWherein the travelling feet of men have trod,Mounting the firmamental silencesAnd challenging the golden gates of God.We bear the burden of the yearsClean limbed, clear-hearted, open-browed,Albeit sacramental tearsHave dimmed our eyes, we know the proudContent of men who sweep unbowedBefore the legionary fears;In sorrow we have grown to beThe masters of adversity.Wise of the storied ages we,Of perils dared and crosses borne,Of heroes bound by no decreeOf laws defiled or faiths outworn,Of poets who have held in scornAll mean and tyrannous things that be;We prophesy with lips that spedThe songs of the prophetic dead.Wise of the brief belovèd spanOf this our glad earth-travelling,Of beauty’s bloom and ordered plan,Of love and loves compassioning,Of all the dear delights that springFrom man’s communion with man;We cherish every hour that straysAdown the cataract of the days.We see the clear untroubled skies,We see the summer of the roseAnd laugh, nor grieve that clouds will riseAnd wax with every wind that blows,Nor that the blossoming time will close,For beauty seen of humble eyesImmortal habitation hasThough beauty’s form may pale and pass.Wise of the great unshapen age,To which we move with measured treadAll girt with passionate truth to wageHigh battle for the word unsaid,The song unsung, the cause unled,The freedom that no hope can gauge;Strong-armed, sure-footed, iron-willedWe sift and weave, we break and build.Into one hour we gather allThe years gone down, the years unwroughtUpon our ears brave measures fallAcross uncharted spaces brought,Upon our lips the words are caughtWherewith the dead the unborn call;From love to love, from height to heightWe press and none may curb our might.
’T was given me to hear. As I beheld—With a new wisdom, tranquil, asking notFor mystic revelation—this glory long forgot,This re-discovered triumph of the earthIn high creative will and beauty’s prideEstablishèd beyond the assaulting years,It came to me, a music that compelledSurrender of all tributary fears,Full-throated, fierce, and rhythmic with the wideBeat of the pilgrim winds and labouring seas,Sent up from all the harbouring ways of earthWherein the travelling feet of men have trod,Mounting the firmamental silencesAnd challenging the golden gates of God.We bear the burden of the yearsClean limbed, clear-hearted, open-browed,Albeit sacramental tearsHave dimmed our eyes, we know the proudContent of men who sweep unbowedBefore the legionary fears;In sorrow we have grown to beThe masters of adversity.Wise of the storied ages we,Of perils dared and crosses borne,Of heroes bound by no decreeOf laws defiled or faiths outworn,Of poets who have held in scornAll mean and tyrannous things that be;We prophesy with lips that spedThe songs of the prophetic dead.Wise of the brief belovèd spanOf this our glad earth-travelling,Of beauty’s bloom and ordered plan,Of love and loves compassioning,Of all the dear delights that springFrom man’s communion with man;We cherish every hour that straysAdown the cataract of the days.We see the clear untroubled skies,We see the summer of the roseAnd laugh, nor grieve that clouds will riseAnd wax with every wind that blows,Nor that the blossoming time will close,For beauty seen of humble eyesImmortal habitation hasThough beauty’s form may pale and pass.Wise of the great unshapen age,To which we move with measured treadAll girt with passionate truth to wageHigh battle for the word unsaid,The song unsung, the cause unled,The freedom that no hope can gauge;Strong-armed, sure-footed, iron-willedWe sift and weave, we break and build.Into one hour we gather allThe years gone down, the years unwroughtUpon our ears brave measures fallAcross uncharted spaces brought,Upon our lips the words are caughtWherewith the dead the unborn call;From love to love, from height to heightWe press and none may curb our might.
’T was given me to hear. As I beheld—With a new wisdom, tranquil, asking notFor mystic revelation—this glory long forgot,This re-discovered triumph of the earthIn high creative will and beauty’s prideEstablishèd beyond the assaulting years,It came to me, a music that compelledSurrender of all tributary fears,Full-throated, fierce, and rhythmic with the wideBeat of the pilgrim winds and labouring seas,Sent up from all the harbouring ways of earthWherein the travelling feet of men have trod,Mounting the firmamental silencesAnd challenging the golden gates of God.
We bear the burden of the yearsClean limbed, clear-hearted, open-browed,Albeit sacramental tearsHave dimmed our eyes, we know the proudContent of men who sweep unbowedBefore the legionary fears;In sorrow we have grown to beThe masters of adversity.
Wise of the storied ages we,Of perils dared and crosses borne,Of heroes bound by no decreeOf laws defiled or faiths outworn,Of poets who have held in scornAll mean and tyrannous things that be;We prophesy with lips that spedThe songs of the prophetic dead.
Wise of the brief belovèd spanOf this our glad earth-travelling,Of beauty’s bloom and ordered plan,Of love and loves compassioning,Of all the dear delights that springFrom man’s communion with man;We cherish every hour that straysAdown the cataract of the days.
We see the clear untroubled skies,We see the summer of the roseAnd laugh, nor grieve that clouds will riseAnd wax with every wind that blows,Nor that the blossoming time will close,For beauty seen of humble eyesImmortal habitation hasThough beauty’s form may pale and pass.
Wise of the great unshapen age,To which we move with measured treadAll girt with passionate truth to wageHigh battle for the word unsaid,The song unsung, the cause unled,The freedom that no hope can gauge;Strong-armed, sure-footed, iron-willedWe sift and weave, we break and build.
Into one hour we gather allThe years gone down, the years unwroughtUpon our ears brave measures fallAcross uncharted spaces brought,Upon our lips the words are caughtWherewith the dead the unborn call;From love to love, from height to heightWe press and none may curb our might.
O blessed voices, O compassionate hands,Calling and healing, O great-hearted brothers!I come to you. Ring out across the landsYour benediction, and I too will singWith you, and haply kindle in another’sDark desolate hour the flame you stirred in me.O bountiful earth, in adoration meetI bow to you; O glory of years to be,I too will labour to your fashioning.Go down, go down, unweariable feet,Together we will march towards the waysWherein the marshalled hosts of morning waitIn sleepless watch, with banners wide unfurledAcross the skies in ceremonial state,To greet the men who lived triumphant days,And stormed the secret beauty of the world.
O blessed voices, O compassionate hands,Calling and healing, O great-hearted brothers!I come to you. Ring out across the landsYour benediction, and I too will singWith you, and haply kindle in another’sDark desolate hour the flame you stirred in me.O bountiful earth, in adoration meetI bow to you; O glory of years to be,I too will labour to your fashioning.Go down, go down, unweariable feet,Together we will march towards the waysWherein the marshalled hosts of morning waitIn sleepless watch, with banners wide unfurledAcross the skies in ceremonial state,To greet the men who lived triumphant days,And stormed the secret beauty of the world.
O blessed voices, O compassionate hands,Calling and healing, O great-hearted brothers!I come to you. Ring out across the landsYour benediction, and I too will singWith you, and haply kindle in another’sDark desolate hour the flame you stirred in me.O bountiful earth, in adoration meetI bow to you; O glory of years to be,I too will labour to your fashioning.Go down, go down, unweariable feet,Together we will march towards the waysWherein the marshalled hosts of morning waitIn sleepless watch, with banners wide unfurledAcross the skies in ceremonial state,To greet the men who lived triumphant days,And stormed the secret beauty of the world.
Youfools behind the panes who peerAt the strong black anger of the sky,Come out and feel the storm swing by,Aye, take its blow on your lips, and hearThe wind in the branches cry.No. Leave us to the day’s device,Draw to your blinds and take your ease,Grow peak’d in the face and crook’d in the knees;Your sinews could not pay the priceWhen the storm goes through the trees.
Youfools behind the panes who peerAt the strong black anger of the sky,Come out and feel the storm swing by,Aye, take its blow on your lips, and hearThe wind in the branches cry.No. Leave us to the day’s device,Draw to your blinds and take your ease,Grow peak’d in the face and crook’d in the knees;Your sinews could not pay the priceWhen the storm goes through the trees.
Youfools behind the panes who peerAt the strong black anger of the sky,Come out and feel the storm swing by,Aye, take its blow on your lips, and hearThe wind in the branches cry.
No. Leave us to the day’s device,Draw to your blinds and take your ease,Grow peak’d in the face and crook’d in the knees;Your sinews could not pay the priceWhen the storm goes through the trees.
LADYWOOD, 1912. (TO E. DE S.)
Tothe high hills you took me, where desire,Daughter of difficult life, forgets her lures,And hope’s eternal tasks no longer tire,And only peace endures.Where anxious prayer becomes a worthless thingSubdued by muted praise,And asking nought of God and life we bringThe conflict of long daysInto a moment of immortal poiseAmong the scars and proud unbuilded spires,Where, seeking not the triumphs and the joysSo treasured in the world, we kindle firesThat shall not burn to ash, and are contentTo read anew the eternal argument.Nothing of man’s intolerance we knowHere, far from man, among the fortressed hills,Nor of his querulous hopes.To what may we attain? What matter, soWe feel the unwearied virtue that fulfilsThese cloudy crests and rifts and heathered slopesWith life that is and seeks not to attain,For ever spends nor ever asks again?To the high hills you took me. And we sawThe everlasting ritual of skyAnd earth and the waste places of the air,And momently the change of changeless lawWas beautiful before us, and the cryOf the great winds was as a distant prayerFrom a massed people, and the choric soundOf many waters moaning down the longVeins of the hills was as an undersong;And in that hour we moved on holy ground.To the high hills you took me. Far belowLay pool and tarn locked up in shadowy sleep;Above we watched the clouds unhasting goFrom hidden crest to crest; the neighbour sheepCropped at our side, and swift on darkling wingsThe hawks went sailing down the valley wind,The rock-bird chattered shrilly to its kind;And all these common things were holy things.From ghostly Skiddaw came the wind in flight.By Langdale Pikes to Coniston’s broad brow,From Coniston to proud Helvellyn’s height,The eloquent wind, the wind that even nowWhispers again its story gathered inFor seasons of much traffic in the waysWhere men so straitly spinThe garment of unfathomable days.To the high hills you took me. And we turnedOur feet again towards the friendly vale,And passed the banks whereon the bracken burnedAnd the last foxglove bells were spent and pale,Down to a hallowed spot of English landWhere Rotha dreams its way from mere to mere,Where one with undistracted vision scannedLife’s far horizons, he who sifted clearDust from the grain of being, making songMemorial of simple men and mindsNot bowed to cunning by deliberate wrong,And conversed with the spirit of the winds,And knew the guarded secrets that were sealedIn pool and pine, petal and vagrant wing,Throning the shepherd folding from the field,Robing anew the daffodils of spring.We crossed the threshold of his home and stoodBeside his cottage hearth where once was toldThe day’s adventure drawn from fell and wood,And wisdom’s words and love’s were manifold,Where, in the twilight, gossip poets metTo read again their peers of older time,And quiet eyes of gracious women setA bounty to the glamour of the rhyme.There is a wonder in a simple wordThat reinhabits fond and ghostly ways,And when within the poet’s walls we heardOne white with ninety years recall the daysWhen he upon his mountain paths was seen,We answered her strange bidding and were madeOne with the reverend presence who had beenSteward of kingly charges unbetrayed.And to the little garden-close we went,Where he at eventide was wont to passTo watch the willing day’s last sacrament,And the cool shadows thrown along the grass,To read again the legends of the flowers,Lighten with song th’ obscure heroic plan,To contemplate the process of the hours,And think on that old story which is man.The lichened apple-boughs that once had spentTheir blossoms at his feet, in twisted ageYet knew the wind, and the familiar scentOf heath and fern made sweet his hermitage.And, moving so beneath his cottage-eaves,His song upon our lips, his life a star,A sign, a storied peace among the leaves,Was he not with us then? He was not far.To the high hills you took me. We had seenMuch marvellous traffic in the cloudy ways,Had laughed with the white waters and the green,Had praised and heard the choric chant of praise,Communed anew with the undying dead,Resung old songs, retold old fabulous things,And, stripped of pride, had lost the world and ledA world refashioned as unconquered kings.And the good day was done, and there againWhere in your home of quietness we stood,Far from the sight and sound of travelling men,And watched the twilight climb from Lady-woodAbove the pines, above the visible streams,Beyond the hidden sources of the rills,Bearing the season of uncharted dreamsInto the silent fastness of the hills.Peace on the hills, and in the valleys peace;And Rotha’s moaning music sounding clear;The passing-song of wearied winds that cease,Moving among the reeds of Rydal Mere;The distant gloom of boughs that still unscarredBeside their poet’s grave due vigil keep—With us were these, till night was throned and starredAnd bade us to the benison of sleep.
Tothe high hills you took me, where desire,Daughter of difficult life, forgets her lures,And hope’s eternal tasks no longer tire,And only peace endures.Where anxious prayer becomes a worthless thingSubdued by muted praise,And asking nought of God and life we bringThe conflict of long daysInto a moment of immortal poiseAmong the scars and proud unbuilded spires,Where, seeking not the triumphs and the joysSo treasured in the world, we kindle firesThat shall not burn to ash, and are contentTo read anew the eternal argument.Nothing of man’s intolerance we knowHere, far from man, among the fortressed hills,Nor of his querulous hopes.To what may we attain? What matter, soWe feel the unwearied virtue that fulfilsThese cloudy crests and rifts and heathered slopesWith life that is and seeks not to attain,For ever spends nor ever asks again?To the high hills you took me. And we sawThe everlasting ritual of skyAnd earth and the waste places of the air,And momently the change of changeless lawWas beautiful before us, and the cryOf the great winds was as a distant prayerFrom a massed people, and the choric soundOf many waters moaning down the longVeins of the hills was as an undersong;And in that hour we moved on holy ground.To the high hills you took me. Far belowLay pool and tarn locked up in shadowy sleep;Above we watched the clouds unhasting goFrom hidden crest to crest; the neighbour sheepCropped at our side, and swift on darkling wingsThe hawks went sailing down the valley wind,The rock-bird chattered shrilly to its kind;And all these common things were holy things.From ghostly Skiddaw came the wind in flight.By Langdale Pikes to Coniston’s broad brow,From Coniston to proud Helvellyn’s height,The eloquent wind, the wind that even nowWhispers again its story gathered inFor seasons of much traffic in the waysWhere men so straitly spinThe garment of unfathomable days.To the high hills you took me. And we turnedOur feet again towards the friendly vale,And passed the banks whereon the bracken burnedAnd the last foxglove bells were spent and pale,Down to a hallowed spot of English landWhere Rotha dreams its way from mere to mere,Where one with undistracted vision scannedLife’s far horizons, he who sifted clearDust from the grain of being, making songMemorial of simple men and mindsNot bowed to cunning by deliberate wrong,And conversed with the spirit of the winds,And knew the guarded secrets that were sealedIn pool and pine, petal and vagrant wing,Throning the shepherd folding from the field,Robing anew the daffodils of spring.We crossed the threshold of his home and stoodBeside his cottage hearth where once was toldThe day’s adventure drawn from fell and wood,And wisdom’s words and love’s were manifold,Where, in the twilight, gossip poets metTo read again their peers of older time,And quiet eyes of gracious women setA bounty to the glamour of the rhyme.There is a wonder in a simple wordThat reinhabits fond and ghostly ways,And when within the poet’s walls we heardOne white with ninety years recall the daysWhen he upon his mountain paths was seen,We answered her strange bidding and were madeOne with the reverend presence who had beenSteward of kingly charges unbetrayed.And to the little garden-close we went,Where he at eventide was wont to passTo watch the willing day’s last sacrament,And the cool shadows thrown along the grass,To read again the legends of the flowers,Lighten with song th’ obscure heroic plan,To contemplate the process of the hours,And think on that old story which is man.The lichened apple-boughs that once had spentTheir blossoms at his feet, in twisted ageYet knew the wind, and the familiar scentOf heath and fern made sweet his hermitage.And, moving so beneath his cottage-eaves,His song upon our lips, his life a star,A sign, a storied peace among the leaves,Was he not with us then? He was not far.To the high hills you took me. We had seenMuch marvellous traffic in the cloudy ways,Had laughed with the white waters and the green,Had praised and heard the choric chant of praise,Communed anew with the undying dead,Resung old songs, retold old fabulous things,And, stripped of pride, had lost the world and ledA world refashioned as unconquered kings.And the good day was done, and there againWhere in your home of quietness we stood,Far from the sight and sound of travelling men,And watched the twilight climb from Lady-woodAbove the pines, above the visible streams,Beyond the hidden sources of the rills,Bearing the season of uncharted dreamsInto the silent fastness of the hills.Peace on the hills, and in the valleys peace;And Rotha’s moaning music sounding clear;The passing-song of wearied winds that cease,Moving among the reeds of Rydal Mere;The distant gloom of boughs that still unscarredBeside their poet’s grave due vigil keep—With us were these, till night was throned and starredAnd bade us to the benison of sleep.
Tothe high hills you took me, where desire,Daughter of difficult life, forgets her lures,And hope’s eternal tasks no longer tire,And only peace endures.Where anxious prayer becomes a worthless thingSubdued by muted praise,And asking nought of God and life we bringThe conflict of long daysInto a moment of immortal poiseAmong the scars and proud unbuilded spires,Where, seeking not the triumphs and the joysSo treasured in the world, we kindle firesThat shall not burn to ash, and are contentTo read anew the eternal argument.
Nothing of man’s intolerance we knowHere, far from man, among the fortressed hills,Nor of his querulous hopes.To what may we attain? What matter, soWe feel the unwearied virtue that fulfilsThese cloudy crests and rifts and heathered slopesWith life that is and seeks not to attain,For ever spends nor ever asks again?
To the high hills you took me. And we sawThe everlasting ritual of skyAnd earth and the waste places of the air,And momently the change of changeless lawWas beautiful before us, and the cryOf the great winds was as a distant prayerFrom a massed people, and the choric soundOf many waters moaning down the longVeins of the hills was as an undersong;And in that hour we moved on holy ground.
To the high hills you took me. Far belowLay pool and tarn locked up in shadowy sleep;Above we watched the clouds unhasting goFrom hidden crest to crest; the neighbour sheepCropped at our side, and swift on darkling wingsThe hawks went sailing down the valley wind,The rock-bird chattered shrilly to its kind;And all these common things were holy things.
From ghostly Skiddaw came the wind in flight.By Langdale Pikes to Coniston’s broad brow,From Coniston to proud Helvellyn’s height,The eloquent wind, the wind that even nowWhispers again its story gathered inFor seasons of much traffic in the waysWhere men so straitly spinThe garment of unfathomable days.
To the high hills you took me. And we turnedOur feet again towards the friendly vale,And passed the banks whereon the bracken burnedAnd the last foxglove bells were spent and pale,Down to a hallowed spot of English landWhere Rotha dreams its way from mere to mere,Where one with undistracted vision scannedLife’s far horizons, he who sifted clearDust from the grain of being, making songMemorial of simple men and mindsNot bowed to cunning by deliberate wrong,And conversed with the spirit of the winds,And knew the guarded secrets that were sealedIn pool and pine, petal and vagrant wing,Throning the shepherd folding from the field,Robing anew the daffodils of spring.
We crossed the threshold of his home and stoodBeside his cottage hearth where once was toldThe day’s adventure drawn from fell and wood,And wisdom’s words and love’s were manifold,Where, in the twilight, gossip poets metTo read again their peers of older time,And quiet eyes of gracious women setA bounty to the glamour of the rhyme.
There is a wonder in a simple wordThat reinhabits fond and ghostly ways,And when within the poet’s walls we heardOne white with ninety years recall the daysWhen he upon his mountain paths was seen,We answered her strange bidding and were madeOne with the reverend presence who had beenSteward of kingly charges unbetrayed.
And to the little garden-close we went,Where he at eventide was wont to passTo watch the willing day’s last sacrament,And the cool shadows thrown along the grass,To read again the legends of the flowers,Lighten with song th’ obscure heroic plan,To contemplate the process of the hours,And think on that old story which is man.The lichened apple-boughs that once had spentTheir blossoms at his feet, in twisted ageYet knew the wind, and the familiar scentOf heath and fern made sweet his hermitage.And, moving so beneath his cottage-eaves,His song upon our lips, his life a star,A sign, a storied peace among the leaves,Was he not with us then? He was not far.
To the high hills you took me. We had seenMuch marvellous traffic in the cloudy ways,Had laughed with the white waters and the green,Had praised and heard the choric chant of praise,Communed anew with the undying dead,Resung old songs, retold old fabulous things,And, stripped of pride, had lost the world and ledA world refashioned as unconquered kings.
And the good day was done, and there againWhere in your home of quietness we stood,Far from the sight and sound of travelling men,And watched the twilight climb from Lady-woodAbove the pines, above the visible streams,Beyond the hidden sources of the rills,Bearing the season of uncharted dreamsInto the silent fastness of the hills.
Peace on the hills, and in the valleys peace;And Rotha’s moaning music sounding clear;The passing-song of wearied winds that cease,Moving among the reeds of Rydal Mere;The distant gloom of boughs that still unscarredBeside their poet’s grave due vigil keep—With us were these, till night was throned and starredAnd bade us to the benison of sleep.
I knowthe pools where the grayling rise,I know the trees where the filberts fall,I know the woods where the red fox lies,The twisted elms where the brown owls call.And I’ve seldom a shilling to call my own,And there’s never a girl I’d marry,I thank the Lord I’m a rolling stoneWith never a care to carry.I talk to the stars as they come and goOn every night from July to June,I’m free of the speech of the winds that blow,And I know what weather will sing what tune.I sow no seed and I pay no rent,And I thank no man for his bounties,But I’ve a treasure that’s never spent,I’m lord of a dozen counties.
I knowthe pools where the grayling rise,I know the trees where the filberts fall,I know the woods where the red fox lies,The twisted elms where the brown owls call.And I’ve seldom a shilling to call my own,And there’s never a girl I’d marry,I thank the Lord I’m a rolling stoneWith never a care to carry.I talk to the stars as they come and goOn every night from July to June,I’m free of the speech of the winds that blow,And I know what weather will sing what tune.I sow no seed and I pay no rent,And I thank no man for his bounties,But I’ve a treasure that’s never spent,I’m lord of a dozen counties.
I knowthe pools where the grayling rise,I know the trees where the filberts fall,I know the woods where the red fox lies,The twisted elms where the brown owls call.And I’ve seldom a shilling to call my own,And there’s never a girl I’d marry,I thank the Lord I’m a rolling stoneWith never a care to carry.
I talk to the stars as they come and goOn every night from July to June,I’m free of the speech of the winds that blow,And I know what weather will sing what tune.I sow no seed and I pay no rent,And I thank no man for his bounties,But I’ve a treasure that’s never spent,I’m lord of a dozen counties.
“Old woman by the hedgerowIn gown of withered black,With beads and pins and buttonsAnd ribbons in your pack—How many miles do you go?To Dumbleton and back?”“To Dumbleton and back, sir,And round by Cotsall Hill,I count the miles at morning,At night I count them still,A Jill without a Jack, sir,I travel with a will.”“It’s little men are payingFor such as you can do,You with the grey dust in your hairAnd sharp nails in your shoe,The young folks go a-Maying,But what is May to you?”“I care not what they pay meWhile I can hear the callOf cattle on the hillside,And watch the blossoms fallIn a churchyard where maybeThere’s company for all.”
“Old woman by the hedgerowIn gown of withered black,With beads and pins and buttonsAnd ribbons in your pack—How many miles do you go?To Dumbleton and back?”“To Dumbleton and back, sir,And round by Cotsall Hill,I count the miles at morning,At night I count them still,A Jill without a Jack, sir,I travel with a will.”“It’s little men are payingFor such as you can do,You with the grey dust in your hairAnd sharp nails in your shoe,The young folks go a-Maying,But what is May to you?”“I care not what they pay meWhile I can hear the callOf cattle on the hillside,And watch the blossoms fallIn a churchyard where maybeThere’s company for all.”
“Old woman by the hedgerowIn gown of withered black,With beads and pins and buttonsAnd ribbons in your pack—How many miles do you go?To Dumbleton and back?”
“To Dumbleton and back, sir,And round by Cotsall Hill,I count the miles at morning,At night I count them still,A Jill without a Jack, sir,I travel with a will.”
“It’s little men are payingFor such as you can do,You with the grey dust in your hairAnd sharp nails in your shoe,The young folks go a-Maying,But what is May to you?”
“I care not what they pay meWhile I can hear the callOf cattle on the hillside,And watch the blossoms fallIn a churchyard where maybeThere’s company for all.”
Thejolly men at FeckenhamDon’t count their goods as common men,Their heads are full of silly dreamsFrom half-past ten to half-past ten,They’ll tell you why the stars are bright,And some sheep black and some sheep white.The jolly men at FeckenhamDraw wages of the sun and rain,And count as good as golden coinThe blossoms on the window-pane,And Lord! they love a sinewy taleTold over pots of foaming ale.Now here’s a tale of FeckenhamTold to me by a Feckenham man,Who, being only eighty years,Ran always when the red fox ran,And looked upon the earth with eyesAs quiet as unclouded skies.These jolly men of FeckenhamOne day when summer strode in powerWent down, it seems, among their landsAnd saw their bean fields all in flower—“Wheat-ricks,” they said, “be good to see;What would a rick of blossoms be?”So straight they brought the sickles outAnd worked all day till day was done,And builded them a good square rickOf scented bloom beneath the sun.And was not this I tell to youA fiery-hearted thing to do?
Thejolly men at FeckenhamDon’t count their goods as common men,Their heads are full of silly dreamsFrom half-past ten to half-past ten,They’ll tell you why the stars are bright,And some sheep black and some sheep white.The jolly men at FeckenhamDraw wages of the sun and rain,And count as good as golden coinThe blossoms on the window-pane,And Lord! they love a sinewy taleTold over pots of foaming ale.Now here’s a tale of FeckenhamTold to me by a Feckenham man,Who, being only eighty years,Ran always when the red fox ran,And looked upon the earth with eyesAs quiet as unclouded skies.These jolly men of FeckenhamOne day when summer strode in powerWent down, it seems, among their landsAnd saw their bean fields all in flower—“Wheat-ricks,” they said, “be good to see;What would a rick of blossoms be?”So straight they brought the sickles outAnd worked all day till day was done,And builded them a good square rickOf scented bloom beneath the sun.And was not this I tell to youA fiery-hearted thing to do?
Thejolly men at FeckenhamDon’t count their goods as common men,Their heads are full of silly dreamsFrom half-past ten to half-past ten,They’ll tell you why the stars are bright,And some sheep black and some sheep white.
The jolly men at FeckenhamDraw wages of the sun and rain,And count as good as golden coinThe blossoms on the window-pane,And Lord! they love a sinewy taleTold over pots of foaming ale.
Now here’s a tale of FeckenhamTold to me by a Feckenham man,Who, being only eighty years,Ran always when the red fox ran,And looked upon the earth with eyesAs quiet as unclouded skies.
These jolly men of FeckenhamOne day when summer strode in powerWent down, it seems, among their landsAnd saw their bean fields all in flower—“Wheat-ricks,” they said, “be good to see;What would a rick of blossoms be?”
So straight they brought the sickles outAnd worked all day till day was done,And builded them a good square rickOf scented bloom beneath the sun.And was not this I tell to youA fiery-hearted thing to do?
WhenMarch was master of furrow and fold,And the skies kept cloudy festivalAnd the daffodil pods were tipped with goldAnd a passion was in the plover’s call,A spare old man went hobbling byWith a broken pipe and a tapping stick,And he mumbled—“Blossom before I die,Be quick, you little brown buds, be quick.“I ’ve weathered the world for a count of years—Good old years of shining fire—And death and the devil bring no fears,And I ’ve fed the flame of my last desire;I ’m ready to go, but I ’d pass the gateOn the edge of the world with an old heart sickIf I missed the blossoms. I may not wait—The gate is open—be quick, be quick.”
WhenMarch was master of furrow and fold,And the skies kept cloudy festivalAnd the daffodil pods were tipped with goldAnd a passion was in the plover’s call,A spare old man went hobbling byWith a broken pipe and a tapping stick,And he mumbled—“Blossom before I die,Be quick, you little brown buds, be quick.“I ’ve weathered the world for a count of years—Good old years of shining fire—And death and the devil bring no fears,And I ’ve fed the flame of my last desire;I ’m ready to go, but I ’d pass the gateOn the edge of the world with an old heart sickIf I missed the blossoms. I may not wait—The gate is open—be quick, be quick.”
WhenMarch was master of furrow and fold,And the skies kept cloudy festivalAnd the daffodil pods were tipped with goldAnd a passion was in the plover’s call,A spare old man went hobbling byWith a broken pipe and a tapping stick,And he mumbled—“Blossom before I die,Be quick, you little brown buds, be quick.
“I ’ve weathered the world for a count of years—Good old years of shining fire—And death and the devil bring no fears,And I ’ve fed the flame of my last desire;I ’m ready to go, but I ’d pass the gateOn the edge of the world with an old heart sickIf I missed the blossoms. I may not wait—The gate is open—be quick, be quick.”
Allday long the traffic goesIn Lady Street by dingy rowsOf sloven houses, tattered shops—Fried fish, old clothes and fortune-tellers—Tall trams on silver-shining rails,With grinding wheels and swaying tops,And lorries with their corded bales,And screeching cars. “Buy, buy!” the sellersOf rags and bones and sickening meatCry all day long in Lady Street.And when the sunshine has its wayIn Lady Street, then all the greyDull desolation grows in stateMore dull and grey and desolate,And the sun is a shamefast thing,A lord not comely-housed, a godSeeing what gods must blush to see,A song where it is ill to sing,And each gold ray despiteouslyLies like a gold ironic rod.Yet one grey man in Lady StreetLooks for the sun. He never bentLife to his will, his travelling feetHave scaled no cloudy continent,Nor has the sickle-hand been strong.He lives in Lady Street; a bed,Four cobwebbed walls.But all day longA time is singing in his headOf youth in Gloucester lanes. He hearsThe wind among the barley-blades,The tapping of the woodpeckersOn the smooth beeches, thistle-spadesSlicing the sinewy roots; he seesThe hooded filberts in the copseBeyond the loaded orchard trees,The netted avenues of hops;He smells the honeysuckle thrownAlong the hedge. He lives alone,Alone—yet not alone, for sweetAre Gloucester lanes in Lady Street.Aye, Gloucester lanes. For down belowThe cobwebbed room this grey man pliesA trade, a coloured trade. A showOf many-coloured merchandiseIs in his shop. Brown filberts there,And apples red with Gloucester air,And cauliflowers he keeps, and roundSmooth marrows grown on Gloucester ground,Fat cabbages and yellow plums,And gaudy brave chrysanthemums.And times a glossy pheasant liesAmong his store, not Tyrian dyesMore rich than are the neck-feathers;And times a prize of violets,Or dewy mushrooms satin-skinnedAnd times an unfamiliar windRobbed of its woodland favour stirsGay daffodils this grey man setsAmong his treasure.All day longIn Lady Street the traffic goesBy dingy houses, desolate rowsOf shops that stare like hopeless eyes.Day long the sellers cry their cries,The fortune-tellers tell no wrongOf lives that know not any right,And drift, that has not even the willTo drift, toils through the day untilThe wage of sleep is won at night.But this grey man heeds not at allThe hell of Lady Street. His stallOf many-coloured merchandiseHe makes a shining paradise,As all day long chrysanthemumsHe sells, and red and yellow plumsAnd cauliflowers. In that one spotOf Lady Street the sun is notAshamed to shine and send a rareShower of colour through the air;The grey man says the sun is sweetOn Gloucester lanes in Lady Street.
Allday long the traffic goesIn Lady Street by dingy rowsOf sloven houses, tattered shops—Fried fish, old clothes and fortune-tellers—Tall trams on silver-shining rails,With grinding wheels and swaying tops,And lorries with their corded bales,And screeching cars. “Buy, buy!” the sellersOf rags and bones and sickening meatCry all day long in Lady Street.And when the sunshine has its wayIn Lady Street, then all the greyDull desolation grows in stateMore dull and grey and desolate,And the sun is a shamefast thing,A lord not comely-housed, a godSeeing what gods must blush to see,A song where it is ill to sing,And each gold ray despiteouslyLies like a gold ironic rod.Yet one grey man in Lady StreetLooks for the sun. He never bentLife to his will, his travelling feetHave scaled no cloudy continent,Nor has the sickle-hand been strong.He lives in Lady Street; a bed,Four cobwebbed walls.But all day longA time is singing in his headOf youth in Gloucester lanes. He hearsThe wind among the barley-blades,The tapping of the woodpeckersOn the smooth beeches, thistle-spadesSlicing the sinewy roots; he seesThe hooded filberts in the copseBeyond the loaded orchard trees,The netted avenues of hops;He smells the honeysuckle thrownAlong the hedge. He lives alone,Alone—yet not alone, for sweetAre Gloucester lanes in Lady Street.Aye, Gloucester lanes. For down belowThe cobwebbed room this grey man pliesA trade, a coloured trade. A showOf many-coloured merchandiseIs in his shop. Brown filberts there,And apples red with Gloucester air,And cauliflowers he keeps, and roundSmooth marrows grown on Gloucester ground,Fat cabbages and yellow plums,And gaudy brave chrysanthemums.And times a glossy pheasant liesAmong his store, not Tyrian dyesMore rich than are the neck-feathers;And times a prize of violets,Or dewy mushrooms satin-skinnedAnd times an unfamiliar windRobbed of its woodland favour stirsGay daffodils this grey man setsAmong his treasure.All day longIn Lady Street the traffic goesBy dingy houses, desolate rowsOf shops that stare like hopeless eyes.Day long the sellers cry their cries,The fortune-tellers tell no wrongOf lives that know not any right,And drift, that has not even the willTo drift, toils through the day untilThe wage of sleep is won at night.But this grey man heeds not at allThe hell of Lady Street. His stallOf many-coloured merchandiseHe makes a shining paradise,As all day long chrysanthemumsHe sells, and red and yellow plumsAnd cauliflowers. In that one spotOf Lady Street the sun is notAshamed to shine and send a rareShower of colour through the air;The grey man says the sun is sweetOn Gloucester lanes in Lady Street.
Allday long the traffic goesIn Lady Street by dingy rowsOf sloven houses, tattered shops—Fried fish, old clothes and fortune-tellers—Tall trams on silver-shining rails,With grinding wheels and swaying tops,And lorries with their corded bales,And screeching cars. “Buy, buy!” the sellersOf rags and bones and sickening meatCry all day long in Lady Street.
And when the sunshine has its wayIn Lady Street, then all the greyDull desolation grows in stateMore dull and grey and desolate,And the sun is a shamefast thing,A lord not comely-housed, a godSeeing what gods must blush to see,A song where it is ill to sing,And each gold ray despiteouslyLies like a gold ironic rod.
Yet one grey man in Lady StreetLooks for the sun. He never bentLife to his will, his travelling feetHave scaled no cloudy continent,Nor has the sickle-hand been strong.He lives in Lady Street; a bed,Four cobwebbed walls.
But all day longA time is singing in his headOf youth in Gloucester lanes. He hearsThe wind among the barley-blades,The tapping of the woodpeckersOn the smooth beeches, thistle-spadesSlicing the sinewy roots; he seesThe hooded filberts in the copseBeyond the loaded orchard trees,The netted avenues of hops;He smells the honeysuckle thrownAlong the hedge. He lives alone,Alone—yet not alone, for sweetAre Gloucester lanes in Lady Street.
Aye, Gloucester lanes. For down belowThe cobwebbed room this grey man pliesA trade, a coloured trade. A showOf many-coloured merchandiseIs in his shop. Brown filberts there,And apples red with Gloucester air,And cauliflowers he keeps, and roundSmooth marrows grown on Gloucester ground,Fat cabbages and yellow plums,And gaudy brave chrysanthemums.And times a glossy pheasant liesAmong his store, not Tyrian dyesMore rich than are the neck-feathers;And times a prize of violets,Or dewy mushrooms satin-skinnedAnd times an unfamiliar windRobbed of its woodland favour stirsGay daffodils this grey man setsAmong his treasure.
All day longIn Lady Street the traffic goesBy dingy houses, desolate rowsOf shops that stare like hopeless eyes.Day long the sellers cry their cries,The fortune-tellers tell no wrongOf lives that know not any right,And drift, that has not even the willTo drift, toils through the day untilThe wage of sleep is won at night.But this grey man heeds not at allThe hell of Lady Street. His stallOf many-coloured merchandiseHe makes a shining paradise,As all day long chrysanthemumsHe sells, and red and yellow plumsAnd cauliflowers. In that one spotOf Lady Street the sun is notAshamed to shine and send a rareShower of colour through the air;The grey man says the sun is sweetOn Gloucester lanes in Lady Street.
Here lies the body ofANTHONY CRUNDLE,Farmer, of this parish,Who died in 1849 at the age of 82.“He delighted in music.”R. I. P.And ofSUSAN,For fifty-three years his wife,Who died in 1860, aged 86.