HALLO!

"Hallo, hallo!" impatiently he cried,And I replied,Sleepily, "Hallo—hallo!"No sound then; and I stretchedMy hand for the receiver, all my nervesTingling and listening.My hand clutched nothing, and I litThe candle—strange!I could have sworn it was the shouting wire....But no!Besides, a bare and unfamiliar roomAnd he, why, long-forgotten, maybe dead.Yet all around,Filling the silence up with tiny sound,A million tremulous thin echoings,"Hallo—hallo—Hallo!"

There was a child that screamed,And if it was the gathering tingling dark,Or if it was the tingling silencesBetween few words,Or if the water's drip and quivering drip—Who knows?Or if the child half sleeping suddenly dreamed—Who knows? for she knew not, but was afraid,And then angry with fear,And then it seemed afraid of all the voicesEchoing hers.And then afraid again of that drip, dripOf water somewhere near.Yet a man dying would not with such fearScream out at hell.Easier it were to die than to endure,Unless death brought the instant consciousnessOf all the wrongs of all lost yearsFalling like water, drip after trembling dripUpon the naked anguish of the soul.But death's stupidityIs gentle to the lunatic last wits.Little of terror, little of consciousness,But stupor, a great ease,Narrowing silences,And silence;And then no more the drip, drip of the years,No more the strangeness, agonies and fears;No more the noise, but one imponderable unhauntedHush....I heard the child that criedChattering a moment after in the light,And singing out of such contentment asLamps and familiar voices bring.She needs must singNow that sharp, spiny agony thrust no more,Nor water fell, drip, drip by quivering drip;Her face was bright,Unapprehensive as a day in spring.

Who knows? for she knew not, but was afraid,And then angry with fear,And then it seemed afraid of all the voicesEchoing hers.And then afraid again of that drip, dripOf water somewhere near.

Yet a man dying would not with such fearScream out at hell.Easier it were to die than to endure,Unless death brought the instant consciousnessOf all the wrongs of all lost yearsFalling like water, drip after trembling dripUpon the naked anguish of the soul.

But death's stupidityIs gentle to the lunatic last wits.Little of terror, little of consciousness,But stupor, a great ease,Narrowing silences,And silence;And then no more the drip, drip of the years,No more the strangeness, agonies and fears;No more the noise, but one imponderable unhauntedHush....

I heard the child that criedChattering a moment after in the light,And singing out of such contentment asLamps and familiar voices bring.She needs must singNow that sharp, spiny agony thrust no more,Nor water fell, drip, drip by quivering drip;Her face was bright,Unapprehensive as a day in spring.

Lying beneath a hundred seas of sleepWith all those heavy waves flowing over me,And I unconscious of the rolling nightUntil, slowly, from deep to lesser deepRisen, I felt the wandering seas no longer cover meBut only air and light....It was a sleepSo dark and so bewilderingly deepThat only death's were deeper or completer,And none when I awoke stranger or sweeter.Awake, the strangeness still hung over meAs I with far-strayed senses stared at the light.I—and who was I?Saw—oh, with what unaccustomed eye!The room was strange and everything was strangeLike a strange room entered by wild moonlight;And yet familiar as the light swept over meAnd I rose from the night.Strange—yet stranger I.And as one climbs from water up to landFumbling for weedy steps with foot and hand,So I for yesterdays whereon to climbTo this remote and new-struck isle of time.But I found not myself nor yesterday—Until, slowly, from deep to lesser deepRisen, I felt the seas no longer over meBut only air and light.Yes, like one clutching at a ring I heardThe household noises as they stirred,And holding fast I wondered. What were they?I felt a strange hand lying at my side,Limp and cool. I touched it and knew it mine.A murmur, and I remembered how the wind diedIn the near aspens. ThenStrange things were no more strange.I travelled among common thoughts again;And felt the new forged links of that strong chainThat binds me to myself, and this to-dayTo yesterday. I heard it rattling nearWith a no more astonished ear.And I had lost the strangeness of that sleep,No more the long night rolled its great seas over me.—O, too anxious I!For in this press of things familiarI have lost all that clungRound me awaking of strangeness and such sweetnessNothing now is strangeExcept the man that woke and then was I.

It was a sleepSo dark and so bewilderingly deepThat only death's were deeper or completer,And none when I awoke stranger or sweeter.Awake, the strangeness still hung over meAs I with far-strayed senses stared at the light.

I—and who was I?Saw—oh, with what unaccustomed eye!The room was strange and everything was strangeLike a strange room entered by wild moonlight;And yet familiar as the light swept over meAnd I rose from the night.

Strange—yet stranger I.And as one climbs from water up to landFumbling for weedy steps with foot and hand,So I for yesterdays whereon to climbTo this remote and new-struck isle of time.But I found not myself nor yesterday—

Until, slowly, from deep to lesser deepRisen, I felt the seas no longer over meBut only air and light.Yes, like one clutching at a ring I heardThe household noises as they stirred,And holding fast I wondered. What were they?

I felt a strange hand lying at my side,Limp and cool. I touched it and knew it mine.A murmur, and I remembered how the wind diedIn the near aspens. ThenStrange things were no more strange.I travelled among common thoughts again;

And felt the new forged links of that strong chainThat binds me to myself, and this to-dayTo yesterday. I heard it rattling nearWith a no more astonished ear.And I had lost the strangeness of that sleep,No more the long night rolled its great seas over me.

—O, too anxious I!For in this press of things familiarI have lost all that clungRound me awaking of strangeness and such sweetnessNothing now is strangeExcept the man that woke and then was I.

From that warm height and pure,The peak undreamed of out of heavy airRising to heaven more strange and rare;From that amazed brief sojourn, exquisite, insecure;Fallen from thence to this,From all immortal sunk to mortal sweet,To slow gross joys from joy so fleet,Fallen to mere remembrance of unsustainable bliss....O harsh, O heavy air,Difficult endurance, pain of common things!The slow sun east to westward swings,The flat-faced moon climbs labouring with a senseless stare.From that inconceivable height——O inward eyes that saw and ears that heard,Spiritual swift wings that stirredIn that warm-flushing air and unendurable light;When I was as mere downOn a swift-running youthful wind uptakenOver tall trees, white mountains, shaken,Into the uttermost azure lifted, lifted alone.From that peak can it beThat I am fallen, fallen that was so high?Or was that truly, surely I?Who is it crawls here now, sad, uncontentedly?Fallen from that high content,—Fool, thou that wast content merely with bliss!Happy those lovers that will not kiss;Never to be fulfilled was the heart's endless passion meant.Never on joys attainableTo linger, never on easy near delight—O bitter, unreached infinite,Merciful defeat, availless anguish, hunger unendurable!O who shall be in longing wise,Skilled in refusal, in embracing free,Glad with earth's innocent ecstasy,Yet all the uncomprehended heaven in his eyes!

From that warm height and pure,The peak undreamed of out of heavy airRising to heaven more strange and rare;From that amazed brief sojourn, exquisite, insecure;

Fallen from thence to this,From all immortal sunk to mortal sweet,To slow gross joys from joy so fleet,Fallen to mere remembrance of unsustainable bliss....

O harsh, O heavy air,Difficult endurance, pain of common things!The slow sun east to westward swings,The flat-faced moon climbs labouring with a senseless stare.

From that inconceivable height——O inward eyes that saw and ears that heard,Spiritual swift wings that stirredIn that warm-flushing air and unendurable light;

When I was as mere downOn a swift-running youthful wind uptakenOver tall trees, white mountains, shaken,Into the uttermost azure lifted, lifted alone.

From that peak can it beThat I am fallen, fallen that was so high?Or was that truly, surely I?Who is it crawls here now, sad, uncontentedly?

Fallen from that high content,—Fool, thou that wast content merely with bliss!Happy those lovers that will not kiss;Never to be fulfilled was the heart's endless passion meant.

Never on joys attainableTo linger, never on easy near delight—O bitter, unreached infinite,Merciful defeat, availless anguish, hunger unendurable!

O who shall be in longing wise,Skilled in refusal, in embracing free,Glad with earth's innocent ecstasy,Yet all the uncomprehended heaven in his eyes!

Stay, thou desired one, stay!Brighten the curious darkness of the world.Cold through the chill dark swings the sleeping world,Sense-heavy, dreaming dully of clear day.No moon, no stars, no sound of wind or seas:Wearily sleeping in immense unease,Dreams, dreams the world of day.Stay, thou adored one, stay,Who on the dark hang'st lamps of gold delight,Gold flames amid the purple pit of night.Stay, stay,Who the cool dawn's most lovely grayMak'st lovelier with rose of far away.Stay, thou, who buildest wonder of things mean(More truly so they're seen).Stay—nay, fly not, nay—stay;Youth gone, remain thou yet and yet.Though the world spin in darkness and forgetThe light,Stay thou, whose coming's joy and flight despair.Thou unimaginably more than fair,Brief unsustainable strange dream, stay yet!Lamping the world's close unsustainable darkWith golden unimaginable day.

The shadow of the lantern on the wall,The lantern hanging from the twisted beam,The eye that sees the lantern, shadow and all.The crackle of the sinking fire in the grate,The far train, the slow echo in the coombe,The ear that hears fire, train and echo and all.The loveliness that is the secret shapeOf once-seen, sweet and oft-dreamed loveliness,The brain that builds shape, memory, dream and all....A white moon stares Time's thinning fabric through,And makes substantial insubstantial seem,And shapes immortal mortal as a dream;And eye and brain flicker as shadows doRestlessly dancing on a cloudy wall.

The shadow of the lantern on the wall,The lantern hanging from the twisted beam,The eye that sees the lantern, shadow and all.

The crackle of the sinking fire in the grate,The far train, the slow echo in the coombe,The ear that hears fire, train and echo and all.

The loveliness that is the secret shapeOf once-seen, sweet and oft-dreamed loveliness,The brain that builds shape, memory, dream and all....

A white moon stares Time's thinning fabric through,And makes substantial insubstantial seem,And shapes immortal mortal as a dream;And eye and brain flicker as shadows doRestlessly dancing on a cloudy wall.

Walking at eve I met a little childRunning beside a tragic-featured dame,Who checked his blitheness with a quick "For shame!"And seemed by sharp caprice froward and mild.Scarce heeding her the sweet one ran, beguiledBy the lit street, and his eyes too aflame;Only, at whiles, into his eyes there cameBewilderment and grief with terror wild.So, Beauty, dost thou run with tragic life;So, with the curious world's caress enchanted,Even of ill things thine ecstasy dost make;Yet at the touch of fear and vital strifeThe splendours thy young innocency forsake,And with thy foster-mother's woe thou art haunted.

So, Beauty, dost thou run with tragic life;So, with the curious world's caress enchanted,Even of ill things thine ecstasy dost make;Yet at the touch of fear and vital strifeThe splendours thy young innocency forsake,And with thy foster-mother's woe thou art haunted.

She comes when I am grieving and doth say,"Child, here is that shall drive your grief away."When I am hopeless, kisses me and stirsMy breast with the strong lively courage of hers.Proud—she will humble me with but a word,Or with mild mockery at my folly gird;Fickle—she holds me with her loyal eyes;Remorseful—tells of neighbouring Paradise;Envious—"Be not so mad, so mad," she saith,"Envied and envier both race with Death"She my good Angel is: and who is she?—The soul's divine Physician, Memory.

I have seen that which sweeter isThan happy dreams come true.I have heard that which echo isOf speech past all I ever knew.Vision and echo, come again,Nor let me grieve in easeless pain!It was a hill I saw, that roseLike smoke over the street,Whose greening rampires were uprearedSuddenly almost at my feet;And tall trees nodded tremblinglyMaking the plain day visionary.But ah, the song, the song I heardAnd grieve to hear no more!It was not angel-voice, nor child'sSinging alone and happy, norNote of the wise prophetic thrushAs lonely in the leafless bush.It was not these, and yet I knewThat song; but now, alas,My unpurged ears prove all too grossTo keep the nameless air that wasAnd is not; and my eyes forgetThe vision that I follow yet.Yet though forgetful I did see.And heard, but cannot tell,And on my forehead felt an airUnearthly, on my heart a spell.I have seen that which deathless is,And heard—what I for ever miss!

I have seen that which sweeter isThan happy dreams come true.I have heard that which echo isOf speech past all I ever knew.Vision and echo, come again,Nor let me grieve in easeless pain!

It was a hill I saw, that roseLike smoke over the street,Whose greening rampires were uprearedSuddenly almost at my feet;And tall trees nodded tremblinglyMaking the plain day visionary.

But ah, the song, the song I heardAnd grieve to hear no more!It was not angel-voice, nor child'sSinging alone and happy, norNote of the wise prophetic thrushAs lonely in the leafless bush.

It was not these, and yet I knewThat song; but now, alas,My unpurged ears prove all too grossTo keep the nameless air that wasAnd is not; and my eyes forgetThe vision that I follow yet.

Yet though forgetful I did see.And heard, but cannot tell,And on my forehead felt an airUnearthly, on my heart a spell.I have seen that which deathless is,And heard—what I for ever miss!

It is here—the lime-tree in the garden path,The lilac by the wall, the ivied wallThat was so high, the heavy, close-leaved creeper,The harsh gate jarring on its hinges still,The echoing clean flags—allThe same, the same, and never more the same.That mound was once a hill,The old lime-tree a forest (now as smallAs the poor lilac by the ivied wall),And this neglected narrow greeneryA wilderness, and I its king and keeper;Lying upon the grass I saw the skyAnd all its clouds: the garden edged the sky.The harsh gate jars upon its hinges still.

That mound was once a hill,The old lime-tree a forest (now as smallAs the poor lilac by the ivied wall),And this neglected narrow greeneryA wilderness, and I its king and keeper;Lying upon the grass I saw the skyAnd all its clouds: the garden edged the sky.

The harsh gate jars upon its hinges still.

Gentle as the air that kissesThe splendid and ignoble with one breath,Gentle as obliterating Death—Though you be gentler yet,In days when the old, old things begin to fretThe backward-looking consciousness,Will you forget?Or if remembering, will you forgive?But there is one severer.Stung by your forgivingness so greatShall I forgive you then?—Basest of menWould rise in bitterness and sting again.Not if you should forgetCould I forget:Or if remembering, myself could I forgive?Never! And yet such things have been,And ills as dark forgiven or forgot.But in those black hours when the heart burns hotAnd there's no nerve that's notQuick with the sense of things unheard, unseen—A terrible voice that's mine yet not mine cries,"Can that Eternal RighteousnessRemembering forgive?"

But there is one severer.Stung by your forgivingness so greatShall I forgive you then?—Basest of menWould rise in bitterness and sting again.Not if you should forgetCould I forget:Or if remembering, myself could I forgive?

Never! And yet such things have been,And ills as dark forgiven or forgot.But in those black hours when the heart burns hotAnd there's no nerve that's notQuick with the sense of things unheard, unseen—A terrible voice that's mine yet not mine cries,"Can that Eternal RighteousnessRemembering forgive?"

I came to you quietly when you were lyingIn perfect midnight sleep.Your dark soft hair was all about your pillow,So black upon the white.I could not see your face except the lovelyCurve of the pale cheek;Your head was bent as though your stirless slumberWas sea-like heavy and deep.The wind came gently in at the wide window,Shaking the candle-lightAnd shadows on the wall; and there was silence,Or sound but far and weak.By the bedside your daytime toys were gathered:The bright bell-ringing wheel,Dolls clad in violent yellow and vermilion,Strings of gay-coloured beads....But you were far and far from these beside you,Entranced with other joysIn fresh fields, among other children running:Your voice, I knew, must pealPurely among their high unearthly voicesOver green daisied meads,While I stood watching your scarce-heaving slumberBeside your human toys——And heard, faint from the woods all through the night,The cry of some hurt thing that moaned for light.

Frost in the air and music in the air,And the singing is sweet in the street.She wakes from a dream to a dream—O hark!The singing so faint in the dark.The musicians come and stand at the door,A fiddler and singers three,And one with a bright lamp thrusts at the dark,And the music comes sudden—O hark!She hears the singing as sweet as a dreamAnd the fiddle that climbs to the sky,With head 'neath the curtain she stares out—O hark!The music so strange in the dark.She listens and looks and sees but the sky,While the fiddle is sweet in the porch,And she sings back into the singing darkHark, herald angels, hark!

Frost in the air and music in the air,And the singing is sweet in the street.She wakes from a dream to a dream—O hark!The singing so faint in the dark.

The musicians come and stand at the door,A fiddler and singers three,And one with a bright lamp thrusts at the dark,And the music comes sudden—O hark!

She hears the singing as sweet as a dreamAnd the fiddle that climbs to the sky,With head 'neath the curtain she stares out—O hark!The music so strange in the dark.

She listens and looks and sees but the sky,While the fiddle is sweet in the porch,And she sings back into the singing darkHark, herald angels, hark!

The birds return,The blossom brightens again the cherry bough.The hedges are green againIn the airless lane,And hedge and blossom and bird call, Now, now, now!O birds, return!Who will care if the blossom die on the bough,Or the hedge be bare againIn the screaming lane?For what they were these are not, are not now.The one gone makesAll that remain seem strange and lonely now.She will not walk here againIn the blossoming lane:—And there's a dead bough in every blossoming bough.

The birds return,The blossom brightens again the cherry bough.The hedges are green againIn the airless lane,And hedge and blossom and bird call, Now, now, now!

O birds, return!Who will care if the blossom die on the bough,Or the hedge be bare againIn the screaming lane?For what they were these are not, are not now.

The one gone makesAll that remain seem strange and lonely now.She will not walk here againIn the blossoming lane:—And there's a dead bough in every blossoming bough.

For the last time,The last, last time,The last ...All those last times have I lived through again,And every "last" renews itself in pain—Yes, each returns, and each returns in vain:You return not, the last remains the last,And I remain to castWeak anchors of my love in shifting sandsOf faith:—The anchors drag, nothing I see save death.Together weTalked and were glad. I could not seeThat one black gesture menaced you and me!We kissed, and parted;I left you, and was even merry-hearted....And now my love is thwartedThat reaches back to you and searches round,And dares not look on that harsh turfless mound.And that last timeWe walked together and the air acoldHummed shrill around; the time that youWalked heavily,And I dared not to see,Nor dared you then to speak of what must be.We knew not what the shut days would unfold—Nay, could not know till all the days were told....But that last time we walked together, and—And walk no more together, nor clasp handIn hand, just stiffly as we used to do.Never in dreams,O happy, never in stealing dreamsWe meet; never againI live by night the day's slow-dying pain ...The last, last time,The last—That timeispast; yet in too-golden dayMy heart goes from me whispering,"Where are you—you—you—you?"And comes back easeless to an easeless breast.But at night I restDreamless as derelict ships ride out to seaEmpty, and no bird even on the snapp'd mastPauses: into oblivion her shadow's cast;Into the empty night goes lonely she,And into sleep go—oh, more lonely I.

Together weTalked and were glad. I could not seeThat one black gesture menaced you and me!We kissed, and parted;I left you, and was even merry-hearted....And now my love is thwartedThat reaches back to you and searches round,And dares not look on that harsh turfless mound.

And that last timeWe walked together and the air acoldHummed shrill around; the time that youWalked heavily,And I dared not to see,Nor dared you then to speak of what must be.We knew not what the shut days would unfold—Nay, could not know till all the days were told....But that last time we walked together, and—And walk no more together, nor clasp handIn hand, just stiffly as we used to do.

Never in dreams,O happy, never in stealing dreamsWe meet; never againI live by night the day's slow-dying pain ...The last, last time,The last—That timeispast; yet in too-golden dayMy heart goes from me whispering,"Where are you—you—you—you?"And comes back easeless to an easeless breast.But at night I restDreamless as derelict ships ride out to seaEmpty, and no bird even on the snapp'd mastPauses: into oblivion her shadow's cast;Into the empty night goes lonely she,And into sleep go—oh, more lonely I.

You that wereHalf my life ere life was mine;You that on my shape the signSet of yours;You that my young lips did kissWhen your kiss summed up my bliss....Ah, once moreYou to kiss were all my bliss!You whom ICould forget—strange, could forgetEven for days (ah, now the fretOf my grief!);You who loved me though forgot;Welcomed still, reproaching not....Ah, that nowThat forgetting were forgot!You that nowOn my shoulder as I goPut your hand that wounds me so;You that brushYet my lips with that one lastKiss that bitters all things past....How shall IYet endure that kiss the last?You that areWhere the feet of my blind griefFind you not, nor find relief;You that areWhere my thought flying after youBroken falls and flies anew,Now you're goneMy love accusing aches for you.March 4, 1911.

You that wereHalf my life ere life was mine;You that on my shape the signSet of yours;You that my young lips did kissWhen your kiss summed up my bliss....Ah, once moreYou to kiss were all my bliss!

You whom ICould forget—strange, could forgetEven for days (ah, now the fretOf my grief!);You who loved me though forgot;Welcomed still, reproaching not....Ah, that nowThat forgetting were forgot!

You that nowOn my shoulder as I goPut your hand that wounds me so;You that brushYet my lips with that one lastKiss that bitters all things past....How shall IYet endure that kiss the last?

You that areWhere the feet of my blind griefFind you not, nor find relief;You that areWhere my thought flying after youBroken falls and flies anew,Now you're goneMy love accusing aches for you.

March 4, 1911.

O gone are now those eager great glad days of days, but I rememberYet even yet the light that turned the saddest of sad hours to mirth;I remember how elate I swung upon the thrusting bowsprits,And how the sun in setting burned and made the earth all unlike earth.O gone are now those mighty ships I haunted days and days together,And gone the mighty men that sang as crawled the tall craft out to sea;And fallen ev'n the forest tips and changed the eyes that watched their burning,But still I hear that shout and clang, and still the old spell stirs in me.And as to some poor ship close locked in water dense and dark and vileThe wind comes garrulous from afar and sets the idle masts a-quiver;And ev'n to her so foully docked, swift as the sun's first beam at dawnThe sea-bird comes and like a star wheels by and down along the river;—So to me the full wind blows from far strange waters echoingly,And faint forgotten longings break the fast-sealed pools within my breast;So to me when sunset glows the scream comes of the white sea-bird,And all those ancient raptures wake and wakes again the old unrest.I see again the masts that crowd and part lie trees in living wind,I hear again the shouts and cries and lip-lap of the waveless pool;I see again the smalling cloud of sail that into distance fades,I am again the boy whose eyes with tears of grief and hope are full.

O gone are now those mighty ships I haunted days and days together,And gone the mighty men that sang as crawled the tall craft out to sea;And fallen ev'n the forest tips and changed the eyes that watched their burning,But still I hear that shout and clang, and still the old spell stirs in me.

And as to some poor ship close locked in water dense and dark and vileThe wind comes garrulous from afar and sets the idle masts a-quiver;And ev'n to her so foully docked, swift as the sun's first beam at dawnThe sea-bird comes and like a star wheels by and down along the river;—

So to me the full wind blows from far strange waters echoingly,And faint forgotten longings break the fast-sealed pools within my breast;So to me when sunset glows the scream comes of the white sea-bird,And all those ancient raptures wake and wakes again the old unrest.

I see again the masts that crowd and part lie trees in living wind,I hear again the shouts and cries and lip-lap of the waveless pool;I see again the smalling cloud of sail that into distance fades,I am again the boy whose eyes with tears of grief and hope are full.

Now pipe no more, glad Shepherd,Your joys from this fair hillThrough golden eves and still:There sounds from yon dense quarryA burden harsh and sorry.No piping now, poor Shepherd.Men strive with violent hand,And anger stirs the blandBlithe heaven that ne'er yet trembled,Save with great spirits assembled.No more, no more, sad Shepherd,Let thy bright fingers strayIdly in the old way;No more their nimble glancingSet gleeful spirits a-dancing.Put by thy pipe, O Shepherd!There needs no note of thineFor men deaf, undivine....And lest brute hands should take it,O sorrowful Shepherd, break it!

Now pipe no more, glad Shepherd,Your joys from this fair hillThrough golden eves and still:There sounds from yon dense quarryA burden harsh and sorry.

No piping now, poor Shepherd.Men strive with violent hand,And anger stirs the blandBlithe heaven that ne'er yet trembled,Save with great spirits assembled.

No more, no more, sad Shepherd,Let thy bright fingers strayIdly in the old way;No more their nimble glancingSet gleeful spirits a-dancing.

Put by thy pipe, O Shepherd!There needs no note of thineFor men deaf, undivine....And lest brute hands should take it,O sorrowful Shepherd, break it!

Bugle and battle-cry are still,The long strife's over;Low o'er the corpse-encumbered hillThe sad stars hover.It is in vain, O stars! you lookOn these forsaken:Awhile with blows on blows they shook,Or struck unshaken.Needs now no pity of God or man ...Tears for the living!They have 'scaped the confines of life's planThat holds us grieving.The unperturbed soft moon, the stars,The breeze that lingers,Wake not to ineffectual warsTheir hearts and fingers.Warriors o'ercoming and o'ercome,Alike contented,Have marched now to the last far drum,Praised, unlamented.Bugle and battle-cry are still,The long strife's over;Oh, that with them I had fought my fillAnd found like cover!

Bugle and battle-cry are still,The long strife's over;Low o'er the corpse-encumbered hillThe sad stars hover.

It is in vain, O stars! you lookOn these forsaken:Awhile with blows on blows they shook,Or struck unshaken.

Needs now no pity of God or man ...Tears for the living!They have 'scaped the confines of life's planThat holds us grieving.

The unperturbed soft moon, the stars,The breeze that lingers,Wake not to ineffectual warsTheir hearts and fingers.

Warriors o'ercoming and o'ercome,Alike contented,Have marched now to the last far drum,Praised, unlamented.

Bugle and battle-cry are still,The long strife's over;Oh, that with them I had fought my fillAnd found like cover!

Why, mourner, do you mourn, nor seeThe heavenly Earth's felicity?I mourn for him, my Dearest, lost,Who lived a frail life at my cost.A grief like yours how many have known!Were that a balm to ease my own!Or rather might I not accuseThe Hand that does not even choose,But, taking blindly, took my best,And as indifferently takes the rest ...Like mine? Is there denied to meEven Sorrow's singularity?

Why, mourner, do you mourn, nor seeThe heavenly Earth's felicity?

I mourn for him, my Dearest, lost,Who lived a frail life at my cost.

A grief like yours how many have known!

Were that a balm to ease my own!Or rather might I not accuseThe Hand that does not even choose,But, taking blindly, took my best,And as indifferently takes the rest ...Like mine? Is there denied to meEven Sorrow's singularity?

Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead....How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead?Or though forgetting, sing—and she is dead?O hush,Untimely, truant Thrush!Singeth the Thrush, "I sing that she is dead!"Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead,Singeth the Thrush, "I sing her praise though dead."O hush,Untimely, grievous Thrush!Singeth the Thrush, "I sing your happy dead,I sing her who is living, and no more dead,I sing her joy—she is no longer dead."O hush,Enough, thou heavenly Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead....How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead?Or though forgetting, sing—and she is dead?O hush,Untimely, truant Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, "I sing that she is dead!"Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead,Singeth the Thrush, "I sing her praise though dead."O hush,Untimely, grievous Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, "I sing your happy dead,I sing her who is living, and no more dead,I sing her joy—she is no longer dead."O hush,Enough, thou heavenly Thrush!

No foreign tribute from a stranger-hand,Mother, I bring thee, whom not Heaven's songsWould as an alien reach.... Ah, but how farFrom Heaven's least heavenly is the changing noteAnd changing fancy of these fitful cries!Mother, forgive them, as the best of meHas ever pleaded only for thy pardon,Not for thy praise.Mother, there is a loveMen give to wives and children, lovers, friends;There is a love which some men give to God.Ah! between this, I think, and that last love,Last and too-late-discovered love of God,There shines—and nearer to the love of God—The love a man gives only to his mother,Whose travail of dear thought has never endUntil the End. Oh that my mouth had wordsComfortable as thy kisses to the boyWho loved while he forgot thee! Now I love,Sundered and far, with daily heart's remembranceThe face the wind brings to me, the sun lights,The birds and waters sing; the face of theeWhom I love with a love like love of God.

For so long and so long had I forgot,Serenely busiedWith thousand things; at whiles desire grew hotAnd my soul dizziedWith hapless and insatiable salt thirst.Nor was I humbledSaving with shame that, running with the worstMy feet yet stumbled.Pride and delight of life enchained my heart,My heart enchanted,And oh, soft subtle fingers had their part,And eyes love-haunted.But while my busy mind was thus intent,Or thus surrendered,What was it, oh what strange thing was it sentThrough all that hinderedA thrill that woke the buried soul in me?—It seemed there flutteredA thought—or was it a sudden fear?—of Thee,Remote, unuttered.

Fair Eve, as fair and stillAs fairest thought, climbs the high sheltering hill;As still and fairAs the white cloud asleep in the deep air.As cool, as fair and cool,As starlight swimming in a lonely pool;Subtle and mildAs through her eyes the soul looks of a child.A linnet sings and sings,A shrill swift cleaves the air with blackest wings;White twinkletailsRun frankly in their meadow as day fails.On such a night, a nightThat seems but the full sleep of tired light,I look and waitFor what I know not, looking long and late.Is it for a dream I look,A vision from the Tree of Heaven shook,As sweetness shakenFrom the fresh limes on lonely ways forsaken?A dream of one, maybe,Who comes like sudden wind from oversea?Or most loved swallowWhom all fair days and golden musics follow?—More sudden yet, more strangeThan magic airs on magic hills that range:—Of one who'll steepThe soul in soft forgetfulness ere it sleep.Yes, down the hillside road,Where Eve's unhasty feet so gently trod,Follow His feetWhose leaf-like echoes make even spring more sweet.

Fair Eve, as fair and stillAs fairest thought, climbs the high sheltering hill;As still and fairAs the white cloud asleep in the deep air.

As cool, as fair and cool,As starlight swimming in a lonely pool;Subtle and mildAs through her eyes the soul looks of a child.

A linnet sings and sings,A shrill swift cleaves the air with blackest wings;White twinkletailsRun frankly in their meadow as day fails.

On such a night, a nightThat seems but the full sleep of tired light,I look and waitFor what I know not, looking long and late.

Is it for a dream I look,A vision from the Tree of Heaven shook,As sweetness shakenFrom the fresh limes on lonely ways forsaken?

A dream of one, maybe,Who comes like sudden wind from oversea?Or most loved swallowWhom all fair days and golden musics follow?—

More sudden yet, more strangeThan magic airs on magic hills that range:—Of one who'll steepThe soul in soft forgetfulness ere it sleep.

Yes, down the hillside road,Where Eve's unhasty feet so gently trod,Follow His feetWhose leaf-like echoes make even spring more sweet.

Loose me and let me go!I am not yours.I do not knowYour dark name ev'n, O PowersThat out of the deep riseAnd wave your armsTo weave strange charms.Though the snare of eyesYou weave for me,As a pool liesIn wait for the moon when sheOut of the deep will rise;And though you setLike mist your net;And though my feet you catch,O dark, strange Powers,You may not snatchMy soul, or call it yours.Out of your snare I riseAnd pass your charms,Nor feel your harms.You loose me and I go:O see the armsSpread for me! lo,His lips break your charms.From the deep did He riseAnd round me setHis Love for net.

Loose me and let me go!I am not yours.I do not knowYour dark name ev'n, O PowersThat out of the deep riseAnd wave your armsTo weave strange charms.

Though the snare of eyesYou weave for me,As a pool liesIn wait for the moon when sheOut of the deep will rise;And though you setLike mist your net;

And though my feet you catch,O dark, strange Powers,You may not snatchMy soul, or call it yours.Out of your snare I riseAnd pass your charms,Nor feel your harms.

You loose me and I go:O see the armsSpread for me! lo,His lips break your charms.From the deep did He riseAnd round me setHis Love for net.

O hide me in Thy love, secureFrom this earth-clinging meanness.Lave my uncleannessIn Thy compassionating love!Bury this treachery as deepAs mercy is enrooted.My days ill-fruitedShake till the shrivelled burden fall.Put by those righteous arrows, Lord,Put even Thy justice by Thee;So I come nigh TheeAs came the Magdalen to Thy feet.And like a heavy stone that's castIn a pool, on Thee I throw me,And feel o'erflow meRipples of pity, deep waves of love.

O hide me in Thy love, secureFrom this earth-clinging meanness.Lave my uncleannessIn Thy compassionating love!

Bury this treachery as deepAs mercy is enrooted.My days ill-fruitedShake till the shrivelled burden fall.

Put by those righteous arrows, Lord,Put even Thy justice by Thee;So I come nigh TheeAs came the Magdalen to Thy feet.

And like a heavy stone that's castIn a pool, on Thee I throw me,And feel o'erflow meRipples of pity, deep waves of love.

If ever Thou didst love me, love me now,When round me beat the flattering vans of life,Kissing with rapid breath my lifted brow.Love me, if ever, when the murmur of strife,In each dark byway of my being creeps,When pity and pride, passion and passion's lossWash wavelike round the world's eternal cross,Till 'mid my fears a new-born love indignant leaps.If ever Thou canst love me, love me yet,When sweet, impetuous loves within me stirAnd the frail portals of my spirit fret—The love of love, that makes Heaven heavenlier,The love of earth, of birds, children and light,Love of this bitter, lovely native land....O, love me when sick with all these I standAnd Death's far-rumoured wings beat on the lonely night.

If ever Thou canst love me, love me yet,When sweet, impetuous loves within me stirAnd the frail portals of my spirit fret—The love of love, that makes Heaven heavenlier,The love of earth, of birds, children and light,Love of this bitter, lovely native land....O, love me when sick with all these I standAnd Death's far-rumoured wings beat on the lonely night.

Oh, like a treeLet me grow up to Thee!And like a TreeSend down my roots to Thee.Let my leaves stirIn each sigh of the air,My branches beLively and glad in Thee;Each leaf a prayer,And green fire everywhere ...And all from TheeThe sap within the Tree.And let Thy rainFall—or as joy or painSo that I beYet unforgot of Thee.Then shall I singThe new song of Thy Spring,Every leaf of meWhispering Love in Thee!

Oh, like a treeLet me grow up to Thee!And like a TreeSend down my roots to Thee.

Let my leaves stirIn each sigh of the air,My branches beLively and glad in Thee;

Each leaf a prayer,And green fire everywhere ...And all from TheeThe sap within the Tree.

And let Thy rainFall—or as joy or painSo that I beYet unforgot of Thee.

Then shall I singThe new song of Thy Spring,Every leaf of meWhispering Love in Thee!

What is the soul? Is it the windAmong the branches of the mind?Is it the sea against Time's shoreBreaking and broken evermore?Is it the shore that breaks Time's sea,The verge of vast Eternity?And in the night is it the soulSleep needs must hush, must needs kiss whole?Or does the soul, secure from sleep,Safe its bright sanctities yet keep?And oh, before the body's deathShall the confined soul ne'er gain breath,But ever to this serpent fleshSubdue its alien self afresh?Is it a bird that shuns earth's night,Or makes with song earth's darkness bright?Is it indeed a thought of God,Or merest clod-fellow to clod?A thought of God, and yet subduedTo any passion's apish mood?Itself a God—and yet, O God,As like to earth as clod to clod?

So! the fierce acid licks the silver clean,Unwonted plain the superscription's seenRound the cleared head; the metal, virgin-bright,Shines a mild Moon to the Sun candle-light.And in these floating stains, this evil murk,All your change-crowded, moment-histories lurk,Voluble Silverling! Dost yield me nowYour chance-illumined record, and allowPrying of idle eyes?... you came a boonTo men as weary as any the weak moonShines on but cheers not; you were life in death;Almost a God to give the prize of breath,Almost a God to give the prize of joy,Almost a God—but God! the veriest toyChild's fingers break, from death to buy back life,Turn the keen trouble of grief's eager knife,Or sense-confounded hearts heal of the ancient strife.O Coin that men have toiled for, lacked and mourned,Sold life for and sold honour, won and scorned;O Coin that oft hast been a spinning Fate,Yet impotentherbitterness to abate;O Coin that Love contemns, reckoning nought(But with you, ah, Love's best is sold and bought)—Heart of the harlot, you; the Judas bloodHell's devils leech on; you the Price of God!

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