The wild October skyRises not so high,The tree's roots that creepInto the earth's body thrust not so deepAs our high and dark thought.Yet thought need not roamFar off to bring you home.The sky is our wild mind,Your roots are round our spirits twined,To ours are your hearts caught.O, never buried dead!The living brain in the headIs not so quick as youBurning our conscious darkness throughWith brightness past our thought.
The wild October skyRises not so high,The tree's roots that creepInto the earth's body thrust not so deepAs our high and dark thought.
Yet thought need not roamFar off to bring you home.The sky is our wild mind,Your roots are round our spirits twined,To ours are your hearts caught.
O, never buried dead!The living brain in the headIs not so quick as youBurning our conscious darkness throughWith brightness past our thought.
At evening when the aspens rustled softAnd the last blackbird by the hedge-nest laughed,And through the leaves the moon's unmeaning faceLooked, and then rose in dark-blue leafless space;Watching the trees and moon she could not bearThe silence and the presence everywhere.The blackbird called the silence and it cameClosing and closing round like smoke round flame.Into her heart it crept and the heart was numb,Even wishes died, and all but fear was dumb—Fear and its phantoms. Then the trees were enlarged,And from their roundness unguessed shapes emerged,Or no shape but the image of her fearCreeping forth from her mind and hovering near.If a bat flitted it was an evil thing;Sadder the trees grew with every shadowy wing—Their shape enlarged, their arms quivered, their thoughtStirring in the leaves a silent anguish wrought."What are they thinking of, the evil trees,Nod-nodding, standing in malignant ease?Something against man's mortal heart was swornOnce, when their dark Powers were conceived and born;And in such fading or such lightless hoursThe world is delivered to these plotting Powers."No physical swift blow she dreaded, notLightning's quick mercy; but her heart grew hotAnd cold and hot with uncomprehended senseOf an assassin spiritual influenceMoving in the unmoving trees....Till, as she stared,Her eyes turned cowards at last, and no more dared.Yet could she never rise and shut the door:Perhaps those Powers would batter at the door,And that were madness. So right through the houseShe set the doors all wide when she could arouseThe body's energy to serve the mind.Then the air would move, and any little windWould cleanse awhile the darkness and diminishHer fear, and the dumb shadow-war would finish.But it was not the trees, the birds, the moon;Birds cease, months fly, green seasons wither soon:Nature was constant all the seasons through,Sinister, watchful, and a thick cloud drewOver the mind when its simplicityChallenged what seemed with thought of what must be....She wondered, seeing how a child could playLightly in a shady field all day:For in that golden, brief, benignant weatherWhen spring and summer calling run togetherAnd the sun's fresh and hot, she saw deep guileIn the sweetness of that unconditioned smile.Sweetness not sweetness was but indifferenceOr wantonness disguised, to her grave sense;And if she could have seen the things she feltShe'd looked for darkness, and lit shapes that kneltAppealing, unregarded, at a highAltar uprising from the pit to the sky....Had the trees consciousness, with flowers and cloudsAnd winds that hung like thin clouds in the woods,And stars and silence:—had they each a mindBending on hers, clear eyes on her eyes blind?In the green dense heights—elm, oak, ash, yew or beechShe scarce saw—was there not a brain in each,An undiscovered centre of quick nervesBy which (like man) the tree lives, masters, serves,Waxes and wanes? Oppressed her mind would shrinkFrom thought, and into her trembling body sink.Something of this had childhood taught her whenSickly she lay and peered again and againAt gray skies and white skies and void bright blue,And watched the sun the bare town-tree boughs through,And then through leafy boughs and once more bare.Or in the west country's heavy hill-drawn airHad felt the green grass pushing within her veins,Tangling and strangling: and the warm spring rainsTapping all night upon her childish head:She shivered, lying lonely on her bed,With all that life all round and she so weak,Longing to speak—yet what was there to speak?And as she grew and health came and love cameAnd life was happier, happier, still the sameInhuman spirit rose whenever sheHeld in her thoughts more than her eyes could see.Behind the happiest hours the dark cloud hungDistant or nearing, and its dullness flungOn the south meadows of her thought, the fairestShrinking in shadow; aspirations rarestFalling, like shot birds in a reedy fen,Slain by the old Enemy of men.Life ebbed while men strove for the means of life;The grudging earth turned labour into strife.The moving hosts within the heavy clodSeemed infinite in malice; frost and flood,Season and inter-season, were conspiredIn smiling or sour mockery; and untiredAnd undelighted, man scratched and scratched on,And what he did, by Nature was undone.She saw men twisted more than rocks or trees,Bruised, numbed, by age and labour and the diseaseOf labour in the cold fields; women wornBy many child-bearings, and their self-scornBecause of time and their lost woman's powers.Bitter was Nature to women; for those hoursOf the spirit's and the body's first delightPassed soon, and the long day, evening, nightOf life uncherished; bitterest when evenThat brief hour was denied, of dancing heaven,Dewy love, and fulfilled desires.But ageOf all ills made her pity and anger rage.To see and smell the calm months bud and bloom,April's first warmth, June's hues and slow perfume,The sweetness drifting by in those long hoursWhile, out of her she nursed, the vital powersWere pressed by pain and pressed by pain renewed,Till, closing the life-long vicissitude,Came starving death with full-heaped summer, andWrung the last pangs that spirit could withstand ...Or to see age in its prison slowly freezeWith impotence more disastrous than disease,While trees flowered on, or all the winter throughUpheld brave arms and with spring flowered anewAbove those living graves and graves of the dead;—'Twas all such bitterness, but she nothing said.She saw men as courageous boats that sailedOn all the seas, and some a far port hailedPerhaps to sail again, or anchor thereForever; some would quietly disappearIn stormless waters, and some in storms be brokenAnd all be hidden and no clear meaning spoken,Nor any trace upon the waters linger.Where the boat went the wind with hasty finger,Savage and sly as aught of land could be,Erased the little wrinkling of the sea.O, in such enmity was man enisled,Such loneliness, by foolish shades beguiled,That it was bravery to see and live,But cowardice to see and to forgive,The wrong of evil, the wrong of death to life,The defeat of innocence, the waste of strife,—The heavy ills of time, injustice, pain—In field and forest and flood rose huge and plain,Brushing her mind with darkness, till she thoughtNot with her brain, but all her nerves were wroughtInto an apprehension burning strong,Unslackening, of mortality's old wrong.But if her eyes she raised to those clear lonelyAltitudes of stars and ether only,Her eyes fell and rebuked her as forbiddenWith human mind to question what was hidden.At summer dusk the broad moon rising highPut gentleness in the vast strength of the sky,Easing its weight; or the hot summer sunMade noonday kind, and the hours lightly run.But in those blazing midnights of the starsGathered and brightening for immortal warsWith spears and darts and arrows of sharp light,She read the indifference of the infinite,The high strife flashing through eternityWhile on the earth stared mortals but as she.O 'twas a living world that rose aroundAnd in her sentience burned a hollow wound.Such easy brightness as the poets see,Or easy gloom, or hues of faerie,She never saw, but into her own heart peeredTo find what spirit indeed it was she feared:—Whether in antique days a divine foeSprung branchlike from dense woods had wrought her woe;Whether in antique days a pagan rite(Herself a pagan still) unfilmed her sightAnd taught her secrets never to be forgot,And by man's generation pardoned not....The same blood in ancestral veins ran fleetAs now made hers a road for pain's quick feet.Into the marrow of her hidden lifeHad poured the agony of their termless strifeWith immaterial and material things;And as a bird an unlearned music singsBecause a million generations sang,So in her breast the old alarum rang,So the old sorrowfulness in her thoughtRenewed, and apprehensions all untaught;As if indeed a creature primitiveStill did she in the world's dim morning live,That wanted human warmth and gentlenessTo make its solitude a little less.Kindness gave solitude the lovely lightShe loved, and made less terrible black midnight.Even as a bird its unlearned music poursThough windows all be blind and shut the doors,And sings on still though no faint sound be heardBut wind and leaves and another lonely bird:So poured she untaught kindness all aroundAnd in that human music comfort found—Music her own and music heard from others,Prime music of all lovers, children, mothers,Precarious music between all men sounding,The horror of silent and dark Powers confounding.Singing that music she could bravely live;Hearing it, find less sorrow to forgive.
At evening when the aspens rustled softAnd the last blackbird by the hedge-nest laughed,And through the leaves the moon's unmeaning faceLooked, and then rose in dark-blue leafless space;Watching the trees and moon she could not bearThe silence and the presence everywhere.The blackbird called the silence and it cameClosing and closing round like smoke round flame.Into her heart it crept and the heart was numb,Even wishes died, and all but fear was dumb—Fear and its phantoms. Then the trees were enlarged,And from their roundness unguessed shapes emerged,Or no shape but the image of her fearCreeping forth from her mind and hovering near.If a bat flitted it was an evil thing;Sadder the trees grew with every shadowy wing—Their shape enlarged, their arms quivered, their thoughtStirring in the leaves a silent anguish wrought."What are they thinking of, the evil trees,Nod-nodding, standing in malignant ease?Something against man's mortal heart was swornOnce, when their dark Powers were conceived and born;And in such fading or such lightless hoursThe world is delivered to these plotting Powers."No physical swift blow she dreaded, notLightning's quick mercy; but her heart grew hotAnd cold and hot with uncomprehended senseOf an assassin spiritual influenceMoving in the unmoving trees....Till, as she stared,Her eyes turned cowards at last, and no more dared.Yet could she never rise and shut the door:Perhaps those Powers would batter at the door,And that were madness. So right through the houseShe set the doors all wide when she could arouseThe body's energy to serve the mind.Then the air would move, and any little windWould cleanse awhile the darkness and diminishHer fear, and the dumb shadow-war would finish.
But it was not the trees, the birds, the moon;Birds cease, months fly, green seasons wither soon:Nature was constant all the seasons through,Sinister, watchful, and a thick cloud drewOver the mind when its simplicityChallenged what seemed with thought of what must be....She wondered, seeing how a child could playLightly in a shady field all day:For in that golden, brief, benignant weatherWhen spring and summer calling run togetherAnd the sun's fresh and hot, she saw deep guileIn the sweetness of that unconditioned smile.Sweetness not sweetness was but indifferenceOr wantonness disguised, to her grave sense;And if she could have seen the things she feltShe'd looked for darkness, and lit shapes that kneltAppealing, unregarded, at a highAltar uprising from the pit to the sky....Had the trees consciousness, with flowers and cloudsAnd winds that hung like thin clouds in the woods,And stars and silence:—had they each a mindBending on hers, clear eyes on her eyes blind?In the green dense heights—elm, oak, ash, yew or beechShe scarce saw—was there not a brain in each,An undiscovered centre of quick nervesBy which (like man) the tree lives, masters, serves,Waxes and wanes? Oppressed her mind would shrinkFrom thought, and into her trembling body sink.
Something of this had childhood taught her whenSickly she lay and peered again and againAt gray skies and white skies and void bright blue,And watched the sun the bare town-tree boughs through,And then through leafy boughs and once more bare.Or in the west country's heavy hill-drawn airHad felt the green grass pushing within her veins,Tangling and strangling: and the warm spring rainsTapping all night upon her childish head:She shivered, lying lonely on her bed,With all that life all round and she so weak,Longing to speak—yet what was there to speak?And as she grew and health came and love cameAnd life was happier, happier, still the sameInhuman spirit rose whenever sheHeld in her thoughts more than her eyes could see.Behind the happiest hours the dark cloud hungDistant or nearing, and its dullness flungOn the south meadows of her thought, the fairestShrinking in shadow; aspirations rarestFalling, like shot birds in a reedy fen,Slain by the old Enemy of men.Life ebbed while men strove for the means of life;The grudging earth turned labour into strife.The moving hosts within the heavy clodSeemed infinite in malice; frost and flood,Season and inter-season, were conspiredIn smiling or sour mockery; and untiredAnd undelighted, man scratched and scratched on,And what he did, by Nature was undone.She saw men twisted more than rocks or trees,Bruised, numbed, by age and labour and the diseaseOf labour in the cold fields; women wornBy many child-bearings, and their self-scornBecause of time and their lost woman's powers.Bitter was Nature to women; for those hoursOf the spirit's and the body's first delightPassed soon, and the long day, evening, nightOf life uncherished; bitterest when evenThat brief hour was denied, of dancing heaven,Dewy love, and fulfilled desires.But ageOf all ills made her pity and anger rage.To see and smell the calm months bud and bloom,April's first warmth, June's hues and slow perfume,The sweetness drifting by in those long hoursWhile, out of her she nursed, the vital powersWere pressed by pain and pressed by pain renewed,Till, closing the life-long vicissitude,Came starving death with full-heaped summer, andWrung the last pangs that spirit could withstand ...Or to see age in its prison slowly freezeWith impotence more disastrous than disease,While trees flowered on, or all the winter throughUpheld brave arms and with spring flowered anewAbove those living graves and graves of the dead;—'Twas all such bitterness, but she nothing said.She saw men as courageous boats that sailedOn all the seas, and some a far port hailedPerhaps to sail again, or anchor thereForever; some would quietly disappearIn stormless waters, and some in storms be brokenAnd all be hidden and no clear meaning spoken,Nor any trace upon the waters linger.Where the boat went the wind with hasty finger,Savage and sly as aught of land could be,Erased the little wrinkling of the sea.O, in such enmity was man enisled,Such loneliness, by foolish shades beguiled,That it was bravery to see and live,But cowardice to see and to forgive,The wrong of evil, the wrong of death to life,The defeat of innocence, the waste of strife,—The heavy ills of time, injustice, pain—In field and forest and flood rose huge and plain,Brushing her mind with darkness, till she thoughtNot with her brain, but all her nerves were wroughtInto an apprehension burning strong,Unslackening, of mortality's old wrong.But if her eyes she raised to those clear lonelyAltitudes of stars and ether only,Her eyes fell and rebuked her as forbiddenWith human mind to question what was hidden.At summer dusk the broad moon rising highPut gentleness in the vast strength of the sky,Easing its weight; or the hot summer sunMade noonday kind, and the hours lightly run.But in those blazing midnights of the starsGathered and brightening for immortal warsWith spears and darts and arrows of sharp light,She read the indifference of the infinite,The high strife flashing through eternityWhile on the earth stared mortals but as she.
O 'twas a living world that rose aroundAnd in her sentience burned a hollow wound.Such easy brightness as the poets see,Or easy gloom, or hues of faerie,She never saw, but into her own heart peeredTo find what spirit indeed it was she feared:—Whether in antique days a divine foeSprung branchlike from dense woods had wrought her woe;Whether in antique days a pagan rite(Herself a pagan still) unfilmed her sightAnd taught her secrets never to be forgot,And by man's generation pardoned not....The same blood in ancestral veins ran fleetAs now made hers a road for pain's quick feet.Into the marrow of her hidden lifeHad poured the agony of their termless strifeWith immaterial and material things;And as a bird an unlearned music singsBecause a million generations sang,So in her breast the old alarum rang,So the old sorrowfulness in her thoughtRenewed, and apprehensions all untaught;As if indeed a creature primitiveStill did she in the world's dim morning live,That wanted human warmth and gentlenessTo make its solitude a little less.
Kindness gave solitude the lovely lightShe loved, and made less terrible black midnight.Even as a bird its unlearned music poursThough windows all be blind and shut the doors,And sings on still though no faint sound be heardBut wind and leaves and another lonely bird:So poured she untaught kindness all aroundAnd in that human music comfort found—Music her own and music heard from others,Prime music of all lovers, children, mothers,Precarious music between all men sounding,The horror of silent and dark Powers confounding.Singing that music she could bravely live;Hearing it, find less sorrow to forgive.
Time like a cloudHas risen from the EastAnd whelmed the sky overEven to the wide-arched West,Darkening the blue,Embrowning the early gold,Until no more the eternal SunLooks simply through.In each man's eyesThe cloud is set,With but the chill lightOf silver January skies.On each man's heartTime's firm shadow falls,And the mind throws but a candle's beamOn the dark walls.But on those wallsMan paints his dreamRejoicing purelyIn the faithful candle's beam:Lives by its beauty,Pictures his heart's delight,And with that only beam outbravesTime's gathering night.O spiritual flame,Calm, faithful, bright!Time may whelm overAll but this candle's light:Shadow but shadow is;Dark though it lies'Tis blazon'd with man's long-dreamed dreams,Pierced by his eyes.
Time like a cloudHas risen from the EastAnd whelmed the sky overEven to the wide-arched West,Darkening the blue,Embrowning the early gold,Until no more the eternal SunLooks simply through.
In each man's eyesThe cloud is set,With but the chill lightOf silver January skies.On each man's heartTime's firm shadow falls,And the mind throws but a candle's beamOn the dark walls.
But on those wallsMan paints his dreamRejoicing purelyIn the faithful candle's beam:Lives by its beauty,Pictures his heart's delight,And with that only beam outbravesTime's gathering night.
O spiritual flame,Calm, faithful, bright!Time may whelm overAll but this candle's light:Shadow but shadow is;Dark though it lies'Tis blazon'd with man's long-dreamed dreams,Pierced by his eyes.
The fire burns lowWhere it has burned ages ago,Sinks and sighsAs it has done to a hundred eyesStaring, staringAt the last cold smokeless glow.Here men satLonely and watched the golden grateTurn at length black;Heard the cooling iron crack:Shadows, shadows,Watching the shadows come and go.And still the hissI hear, the soft fire's sob and kiss,And still it burnsAnd the bright gold to crimson turns,Sinking, sinking,And the fire shadows larger grow.O dark-cheeked fire,Wasting like spent heart's desire,You that were gold,And now crimson will soon be cold—Cold, cold,Like moon-shadows on new snow.Shadows all,They that watched your shadows fall.But now they comeRising around me, grave and dumb....Shadows, shadows,Come as the fire-shadows go.And stay, stay,Though all the fire sink cold as clay,Whispering still,Ancestral wise Familiars—till,Staring, staring,Dawn's wild fires through the casement glow.
The fire burns lowWhere it has burned ages ago,Sinks and sighsAs it has done to a hundred eyesStaring, staringAt the last cold smokeless glow.
Here men satLonely and watched the golden grateTurn at length black;Heard the cooling iron crack:Shadows, shadows,Watching the shadows come and go.
And still the hissI hear, the soft fire's sob and kiss,And still it burnsAnd the bright gold to crimson turns,Sinking, sinking,And the fire shadows larger grow.
O dark-cheeked fire,Wasting like spent heart's desire,You that were gold,And now crimson will soon be cold—Cold, cold,Like moon-shadows on new snow.
Shadows all,They that watched your shadows fall.But now they comeRising around me, grave and dumb....Shadows, shadows,Come as the fire-shadows go.
And stay, stay,Though all the fire sink cold as clay,Whispering still,Ancestral wise Familiars—till,Staring, staring,Dawn's wild fires through the casement glow.
Cherry and pear are white,Their snows lie sprinkled on the land like lightOn darkness shed.Far off and nearThe orchards toss their crowns of delight,And the sun casts downAnother shining crown.The wind tears and throws downPetal by petal the crownOf cherry and pear till the earth is white,And all the brightness is shedIn the orchards far off and near,That tossed by the road and under the green hill;And the wind is fled.Far, far off the windHas shaken downA brightness that was as the brightness of cherry or pearWhen the orchards shine in the sun.—Oh there is no more fairnessSince this rareness,The radiant blossom of English earth—is dead!
Cherry and pear are white,Their snows lie sprinkled on the land like lightOn darkness shed.Far off and nearThe orchards toss their crowns of delight,And the sun casts downAnother shining crown.
The wind tears and throws downPetal by petal the crownOf cherry and pear till the earth is white,And all the brightness is shedIn the orchards far off and near,That tossed by the road and under the green hill;And the wind is fled.
Far, far off the windHas shaken downA brightness that was as the brightness of cherry or pearWhen the orchards shine in the sun.—Oh there is no more fairnessSince this rareness,The radiant blossom of English earth—is dead!
All the night through I drankSleep like water or cool cider;Life flowed over and I sankDown below the night of clouds....Then on a pale horse was riderThrough long brushing woodsWhere the owl in silence broods,Quavers, and is quiet again;Where the grass dark and rankBreathes on the still air its rain.Rain and dark and green and soundClosing slowly roundSwept me as I rode,And rode on until I cameWhere a white cold river flowedUnder woods thin and bareIn the moon's long candle flame.Through the woods the wind crawledLeviathan, and here and thereBranches creaked and old winds howledSick for home.All the night I saw the river,As a girl that sees beside herLove, between fear and fearRiding, and is dumb.The white horse turned to cross the river,But the waters like a wallRose and hung dark over all;And as they fell the river widerWider grew, and sky was bareSave of the sick candle's stare.Death the dividerGlittered cold and dark and deepUnder banks of fear.But that riderTrembling, bright, rode on,Trembling and bright rode onThrough green lanes of sleep.
All the night through I drankSleep like water or cool cider;Life flowed over and I sankDown below the night of clouds....Then on a pale horse was riderThrough long brushing woodsWhere the owl in silence broods,Quavers, and is quiet again;Where the grass dark and rankBreathes on the still air its rain.Rain and dark and green and soundClosing slowly roundSwept me as I rode,And rode on until I cameWhere a white cold river flowedUnder woods thin and bareIn the moon's long candle flame.Through the woods the wind crawledLeviathan, and here and thereBranches creaked and old winds howledSick for home.All the night I saw the river,As a girl that sees beside herLove, between fear and fearRiding, and is dumb.The white horse turned to cross the river,But the waters like a wallRose and hung dark over all;And as they fell the river widerWider grew, and sky was bareSave of the sick candle's stare.Death the dividerGlittered cold and dark and deepUnder banks of fear.But that riderTrembling, bright, rode on,Trembling and bright rode onThrough green lanes of sleep.
When this burning fleshBurns down in Time's slow fire to a glowing ash;When these lips have utteredThe last word, and the ears' last echoes fluttered;And crumbled these firm bonesAs in the chemic air soft blackened stones;When all that was mortal madeOwns its mortality, proud yet afraid;Then when I stumble inThe broad light, from this twilight weak and thin,What of me will change,What of that brightness will be new and strange?Shall I indeed endureNew solitude in that high air and pure,Aching for these fingersOn which my assurèd hand now shuts and lingers?Now when I look backOn manhood's and on childhood's far-stretched track,I see but a little childIn a green sunny world-home; there enisledBy another, cloudy worldOf unsailed waters all around him curled,And he at home contentWith the small sky of wonders over him bent:—Lonely, yet not aloneSince all was friendly being all unknown;To-day yesterday forgetting,And never with to-morrow's sorrow fretting;Not seeing good from illSince but to breathe and run and sleep was well;Asking nor fearing noughtSince the body's nerves and veins held all his thought....Such a child again shall IStray in some valley of infinity,Where infinite finite seemsAnd nothing more immortal than my dreams?Where earthly seasons playStill with their snows and blossoms and night and day,And no unsetting sunBrightens the white cloud and awakes the moon?In such half-life's half-lightTo cloak with mortal an immortal sight?With uninformed desire,Shorn passion, gentle mind, contented fire,Ignorant love; to runBut with the little journeys of the sun,And at evening sleepWith birds and beasts, and stars rocked in the deep?But maybe this man's mindWill leave not its maturity behind,And nothing will forgetOf all that teased or eased it here, while yetA mortal dress it wore;And these quick-darting thoughts and probings soreMore sharply then will turn;And lonelier and yet hungrier the heart burn.O, I would not forgetEarth is too rich, too dark, too sour, too sweet:—Nor be divorcèd quiteFrom the late tingling of the nerves' delight.Less I would never beThan the deep-graving years have made of me—A memory, pulse, mind,Seed and harvest, a reaper and sower blind.I shall no more be IIf I forget the world's joy and agony;If I forget how strongIs the assault of scarce-rebukèd wrong.I shall no more be IIf my ears hear not earth's embittered cryPerpetual; and forgetThe unrighteous shackles on man's ankle set;If no more my heart beatQuicker because on earth is something sweet;I shall no more be IIf the ancestral voices no more sighFamiliar in my brain,And leave me to cold silence and its pain,And the bewildered stareOn an unhomely land in biting air:If the blood no more vexThe heart with the importunities of sex,If indeed marriage bindNo more body to body, mind to mind,And love be powerless, cold,That once by love's strength only was controlled,And that chief spiritual forceBe dam'd back and stretch frozen to its source....To the Heavenly Power I cry,Foiled by these dreams of immortality,"Let all be as Thou wilt,And the foundations in Thy dark mind built;Even infinityBe but imagination's dream of Thee;And let thought still, stillVainly its waves on night's cliff break and spill."But, Heavenly Power," I'd cry,Knowing how, near or far, He still is nigh,"When this burning fleshIs burnt away to a little driven ash,What thing soever shall riseFrom that cold ash unseen to unseen skies,Grant that so much of meShall rise as may remember Thy world, and Thee."
When this burning fleshBurns down in Time's slow fire to a glowing ash;When these lips have utteredThe last word, and the ears' last echoes fluttered;And crumbled these firm bonesAs in the chemic air soft blackened stones;When all that was mortal madeOwns its mortality, proud yet afraid;
Then when I stumble inThe broad light, from this twilight weak and thin,What of me will change,What of that brightness will be new and strange?Shall I indeed endureNew solitude in that high air and pure,Aching for these fingersOn which my assurèd hand now shuts and lingers?
Now when I look backOn manhood's and on childhood's far-stretched track,I see but a little childIn a green sunny world-home; there enisledBy another, cloudy worldOf unsailed waters all around him curled,And he at home contentWith the small sky of wonders over him bent:—
Lonely, yet not aloneSince all was friendly being all unknown;To-day yesterday forgetting,And never with to-morrow's sorrow fretting;Not seeing good from illSince but to breathe and run and sleep was well;Asking nor fearing noughtSince the body's nerves and veins held all his thought....
Such a child again shall IStray in some valley of infinity,Where infinite finite seemsAnd nothing more immortal than my dreams?Where earthly seasons playStill with their snows and blossoms and night and day,And no unsetting sunBrightens the white cloud and awakes the moon?
In such half-life's half-lightTo cloak with mortal an immortal sight?With uninformed desire,Shorn passion, gentle mind, contented fire,Ignorant love; to runBut with the little journeys of the sun,And at evening sleepWith birds and beasts, and stars rocked in the deep?
But maybe this man's mindWill leave not its maturity behind,And nothing will forgetOf all that teased or eased it here, while yetA mortal dress it wore;And these quick-darting thoughts and probings soreMore sharply then will turn;And lonelier and yet hungrier the heart burn.
O, I would not forgetEarth is too rich, too dark, too sour, too sweet:—Nor be divorcèd quiteFrom the late tingling of the nerves' delight.Less I would never beThan the deep-graving years have made of me—A memory, pulse, mind,Seed and harvest, a reaper and sower blind.
I shall no more be IIf I forget the world's joy and agony;If I forget how strongIs the assault of scarce-rebukèd wrong.I shall no more be IIf my ears hear not earth's embittered cryPerpetual; and forgetThe unrighteous shackles on man's ankle set;
If no more my heart beatQuicker because on earth is something sweet;I shall no more be IIf the ancestral voices no more sighFamiliar in my brain,And leave me to cold silence and its pain,And the bewildered stareOn an unhomely land in biting air:
If the blood no more vexThe heart with the importunities of sex,If indeed marriage bindNo more body to body, mind to mind,And love be powerless, cold,That once by love's strength only was controlled,And that chief spiritual forceBe dam'd back and stretch frozen to its source....
To the Heavenly Power I cry,Foiled by these dreams of immortality,"Let all be as Thou wilt,And the foundations in Thy dark mind built;Even infinityBe but imagination's dream of Thee;And let thought still, stillVainly its waves on night's cliff break and spill.
"But, Heavenly Power," I'd cry,Knowing how, near or far, He still is nigh,"When this burning fleshIs burnt away to a little driven ash,What thing soever shall riseFrom that cold ash unseen to unseen skies,Grant that so much of meShall rise as may remember Thy world, and Thee."
Now the long-bearded chilly-fingered winterOver the green fields sweeps his cloak and leavesIts whiteness there. It caught on the wild trees,Shook whiteness on the hedges and left bareSouth-sloping corners and south-fronting smoothBarks of tall beeches swaying 'neath their whitenessSo gently that the whiteness does not fall.The ash copse shows all white between gray poles,The oaks spread arms to catch the wandering snow.But the yews—I wondered to see their dark all white,To see the soft flakes fallen on those grave deeps,Lying there, not burnt up by the yews' slow fire.Could Time so whiten all the trembling senses,The youth, the fairness, the all-challenging strength,And load even Love's grave deeps with his barren snows?Even so. And what remains?The hills of thoughtThat shape Time's snows and melt them and lift upGreen and unchanging to the wandering stars.
Now the long-bearded chilly-fingered winterOver the green fields sweeps his cloak and leavesIts whiteness there. It caught on the wild trees,Shook whiteness on the hedges and left bareSouth-sloping corners and south-fronting smoothBarks of tall beeches swaying 'neath their whitenessSo gently that the whiteness does not fall.The ash copse shows all white between gray poles,The oaks spread arms to catch the wandering snow.But the yews—I wondered to see their dark all white,To see the soft flakes fallen on those grave deeps,Lying there, not burnt up by the yews' slow fire.Could Time so whiten all the trembling senses,The youth, the fairness, the all-challenging strength,And load even Love's grave deeps with his barren snows?Even so. And what remains?The hills of thoughtThat shape Time's snows and melt them and lift upGreen and unchanging to the wandering stars.
The days of these two years like busy antsHave gone, confused and happy and distressed,Rich, yet sad with aching wants,Crowded, yet lonely and unblessed.I stare back as they vanish in a swarm,Seeming how purposeless, how mean and vain,Till creeping joy and brief alarmAre gone and prick me not again.The days are gone, yet still this heart of fireSmouldering, smoulders on with ancient love;And the red embers of desireI would not, oh, nor dare remove!Where is the bosom my head rested on,The arms that caught my boy's head, the soft kiss?Where is the light of your eyes gone?—For now I know what darkness is....It is the loneliness, the loneliness,Since she that brought me here has left me hereWith the sharp need of her to pressSudden upon the nerve of fear;It is the loneliness that wounds me still,Shut from the generations that are past,That with their blood my warm veins fillAnd on my spirit their spirit cast;That haunt me so and yet how strangely keepBeyond communion, alone, alone,Like that huge ancient hill asleep,With to-day's noisy winds o'erblown.There from the hill is sprung a single thorn,Wind-twisted, straining from the earth to the skies,Thin branches pleading with wild mornAnd root that pressed in darkness lies.From the unknown of earth and heaven are broughtHer strength, her weakness, death and bravest life;Shadow and light and wind have wroughtBeauty from change, calm out of strife.That tree upon the unchanging hill am I,Alone upon the dark unwhispering hill:—You in the stirless cold past lie,But I ache warm and lonely still.There's not a storm tossing among my boughs,Nor gentle air drawn under quiet skies,There's not an idle cloud that flowsAcross the mind, nor bird that cries,But says (if I have eyes, or ears to hear),"You in this mortal being are alone."And morn and noon and night-stars clearRepeat, "Alone, alone, alone."Yet the tree in wild storm her dark boughs shakes,Thrusting her roots in the earth, her arms to heaven,Fresh washed with dew when morning breaks;And new light back to the light is given.Is it that I that loved have yet forgot?Is it that I that looked have yet been blind?Longing, have yet remembered notNor heard you whispering in my mind?But at a word you are nearer now than whenWe sat and spoke, or merely looked and thought,Knowing all speech superfluous then,Since what we needed, silence brought;—And your warm bosom my head rested on,The arms that caught my boy's head, the soft kiss,The brown grave eyes that gently shone—Are here again, and brightness is.Two years have gone, but nearer now are you,Being dearer now; and this false lonelinessIs but a dream that cloudlike grew,Then growing cloudlike less and lessPasses away, leaving me like the treeBright with the sun and wind and lingering dew;Homely is all the world for meBeing sweeter with the sense of you.
The days of these two years like busy antsHave gone, confused and happy and distressed,Rich, yet sad with aching wants,Crowded, yet lonely and unblessed.
I stare back as they vanish in a swarm,Seeming how purposeless, how mean and vain,Till creeping joy and brief alarmAre gone and prick me not again.
The days are gone, yet still this heart of fireSmouldering, smoulders on with ancient love;And the red embers of desireI would not, oh, nor dare remove!
Where is the bosom my head rested on,The arms that caught my boy's head, the soft kiss?Where is the light of your eyes gone?—For now I know what darkness is....
It is the loneliness, the loneliness,Since she that brought me here has left me hereWith the sharp need of her to pressSudden upon the nerve of fear;
It is the loneliness that wounds me still,Shut from the generations that are past,That with their blood my warm veins fillAnd on my spirit their spirit cast;
That haunt me so and yet how strangely keepBeyond communion, alone, alone,Like that huge ancient hill asleep,With to-day's noisy winds o'erblown.
There from the hill is sprung a single thorn,Wind-twisted, straining from the earth to the skies,Thin branches pleading with wild mornAnd root that pressed in darkness lies.
From the unknown of earth and heaven are broughtHer strength, her weakness, death and bravest life;Shadow and light and wind have wroughtBeauty from change, calm out of strife.
That tree upon the unchanging hill am I,Alone upon the dark unwhispering hill:—You in the stirless cold past lie,But I ache warm and lonely still.
There's not a storm tossing among my boughs,Nor gentle air drawn under quiet skies,There's not an idle cloud that flowsAcross the mind, nor bird that cries,
But says (if I have eyes, or ears to hear),"You in this mortal being are alone."And morn and noon and night-stars clearRepeat, "Alone, alone, alone."
Yet the tree in wild storm her dark boughs shakes,Thrusting her roots in the earth, her arms to heaven,Fresh washed with dew when morning breaks;And new light back to the light is given.
Is it that I that loved have yet forgot?Is it that I that looked have yet been blind?Longing, have yet remembered notNor heard you whispering in my mind?
But at a word you are nearer now than whenWe sat and spoke, or merely looked and thought,Knowing all speech superfluous then,Since what we needed, silence brought;—
And your warm bosom my head rested on,The arms that caught my boy's head, the soft kiss,The brown grave eyes that gently shone—Are here again, and brightness is.
Two years have gone, but nearer now are you,Being dearer now; and this false lonelinessIs but a dream that cloudlike grew,Then growing cloudlike less and less
Passes away, leaving me like the treeBright with the sun and wind and lingering dew;Homely is all the world for meBeing sweeter with the sense of you.
Just as this wood, cast on the snaky fire,Crushes the curling heads till smoke is thickenedAnd the ash sinks beneath the billet's weight,And then again the hissing heads are quickened:Just as this wood, by fretful fangs new stung,Glows angrily, then whitens in the grateAnd slowly smouldering smoulders away,And dies defeated every famished tongueAnd nothing's left but a memory of heatAnd the sunk crimson telling warmth was sweet:Just as this wood, once green with Spring's swift fireDies to a pinch of ashes cold and gray....Just as this wood——
Just as this wood, cast on the snaky fire,Crushes the curling heads till smoke is thickenedAnd the ash sinks beneath the billet's weight,And then again the hissing heads are quickened:Just as this wood, by fretful fangs new stung,Glows angrily, then whitens in the grateAnd slowly smouldering smoulders away,And dies defeated every famished tongueAnd nothing's left but a memory of heatAnd the sunk crimson telling warmth was sweet:Just as this wood, once green with Spring's swift fireDies to a pinch of ashes cold and gray....Just as this wood——
I rose up with the sunAnd climbed the hill.I saw the white mists runAnd shadows runDown into hollow woods.I went with the white cloudsThat swept the hill.A wind struck the low hedge treesAnd clustering trees,And rocked in each tall elm.The long afternoon was calmWhen down the hillI came, and felt the air cool,The shadows cool;And I walked on footsore,Saying, "But two hours more,Then, the last hill....Surely this road I know,These hills I know,All the unknown is known,"And that barn, black and lone,High on the hill—There the long road ends,The long day ends,And travelling is over." ...Nor thought nor travelling's over.Here on the hillThe black barn is a shivering ruin,A windy cold ruin.I must go on and on,Where often my thought has gone,Up hill, down hill,Beyond this ruin of Time;Forgetting TimeI must follow my thought still.
I rose up with the sunAnd climbed the hill.I saw the white mists runAnd shadows runDown into hollow woods.
I went with the white cloudsThat swept the hill.A wind struck the low hedge treesAnd clustering trees,And rocked in each tall elm.
The long afternoon was calmWhen down the hillI came, and felt the air cool,The shadows cool;And I walked on footsore,
Saying, "But two hours more,Then, the last hill....Surely this road I know,These hills I know,All the unknown is known,
"And that barn, black and lone,High on the hill—There the long road ends,The long day ends,And travelling is over." ...
Nor thought nor travelling's over.Here on the hillThe black barn is a shivering ruin,A windy cold ruin.I must go on and on,
Where often my thought has gone,Up hill, down hill,Beyond this ruin of Time;Forgetting TimeI must follow my thought still.
Let Honour speak, for only Honour canEnd nobly what in nobleness began.Nor hate nor anger may, though just their cause,This strife prolong, if Honour whisper, Pause!Let Honour speak.For Honour keeps the ashes of the dead,Accounts the anguish of all widowhead,All childlessness, all sacrifice, defeat,And all our dead have died for, though to live was sweet.Let Honour speak,Nor weariness nor weakness murmur, Stay!Nor for thisNowEngland'sTo bebetray.All else be dumb, for only Honour canEnd nobly what in nobleness began.
Let Honour speak, for only Honour canEnd nobly what in nobleness began.Nor hate nor anger may, though just their cause,This strife prolong, if Honour whisper, Pause!Let Honour speak.For Honour keeps the ashes of the dead,Accounts the anguish of all widowhead,All childlessness, all sacrifice, defeat,And all our dead have died for, though to live was sweet.Let Honour speak,Nor weariness nor weakness murmur, Stay!Nor for thisNowEngland'sTo bebetray.All else be dumb, for only Honour canEnd nobly what in nobleness began.
So many were there talking that I heardNothing at first quite plain, as I sat down;Until from this man's gibe and that keen word,Another's chilly smile or peevish frown,I caught their talk—but added none of mine.They said how she still fumbled with her fate,How she had banished visitants divine,How long her sleep had been, her sloth how great,How others had drawn near and passed her by,While she luxuriously had dreamed, dreamed on,She, she her own eternal enemy,And wanting brain, brain, brain would be undone.The glasses tinkled as they talked and laughed,And if the door a moment hung ajarThe noises of the street, remotely soft,Crept in as from a world sunken afar.And still they talked, and then well pleased were pleasedTo talk of other things—another's wife,Money that ministers to a mind diseased,And queer extravagant whims of death and life....But I rose up, flushed at the careless slander,Heedless what other laughing things were said,And my bruised thoughts began to lift and wanderFar off, as from that jargoning I fled.I saw the sharp green hills, the silver cloudsAt rest upon the hills, the silver streamsCreeping between prone shoulders of dark woods.I saw wide marshlands laved with level beamsOf the last light; I saw ships on the seaThat foamed hard by, stinging the fretful shore;I smelt old ships on the deserted quayThat English sailors sailed, and will no more;I thought of men I loved, and of dead menI had longed to know—and each heroic ghostRose and moved on, and left me alone againAching for love and splendour glimpsed and lost.God knows what things I thought when anger brokeHer narrow dam and swept my spirit clean.Yet I for very shame not a word spoke,But to my heart's heart caught the things I had seen,AndEngland, England!murmuring, stood and stared,Swept like a lover with sweet influenceIn brain and bone—and happy that I had sparedHer nobleness the indignity of defence.
So many were there talking that I heardNothing at first quite plain, as I sat down;Until from this man's gibe and that keen word,Another's chilly smile or peevish frown,I caught their talk—but added none of mine.They said how she still fumbled with her fate,How she had banished visitants divine,How long her sleep had been, her sloth how great,How others had drawn near and passed her by,While she luxuriously had dreamed, dreamed on,She, she her own eternal enemy,And wanting brain, brain, brain would be undone.The glasses tinkled as they talked and laughed,And if the door a moment hung ajarThe noises of the street, remotely soft,Crept in as from a world sunken afar.And still they talked, and then well pleased were pleasedTo talk of other things—another's wife,Money that ministers to a mind diseased,And queer extravagant whims of death and life....But I rose up, flushed at the careless slander,Heedless what other laughing things were said,And my bruised thoughts began to lift and wanderFar off, as from that jargoning I fled.I saw the sharp green hills, the silver cloudsAt rest upon the hills, the silver streamsCreeping between prone shoulders of dark woods.I saw wide marshlands laved with level beamsOf the last light; I saw ships on the seaThat foamed hard by, stinging the fretful shore;I smelt old ships on the deserted quayThat English sailors sailed, and will no more;I thought of men I loved, and of dead menI had longed to know—and each heroic ghostRose and moved on, and left me alone againAching for love and splendour glimpsed and lost.
God knows what things I thought when anger brokeHer narrow dam and swept my spirit clean.Yet I for very shame not a word spoke,But to my heart's heart caught the things I had seen,AndEngland, England!murmuring, stood and stared,Swept like a lover with sweet influenceIn brain and bone—and happy that I had sparedHer nobleness the indignity of defence.
In thin clear light unshadowed shapes go bySmall on green fields beneath the hueless sky.They do not stay for question, do not hearAny old human speech: their tongue and earSeem only thought, for when I spoke they stirred notAnd their bright minds conversing my ear heard not.—Until I slept or, musing, on a heapOf warm crisp fern lay between sense and sleepDrowsy, still clinging to a strand of thoughtSpider-like frail and all unconscious wrought.For thinking of that unforgettable thing,The war, that spreads a loud and shaggy wingOn things most peaceful, simple, happy and bright,Until the spirit is blind though the eye is light;Thinking of all that evil, envy, hate,The cruelty most dark, most desolate;Thinking of the English dead—"How can you dead,"I muttered, "with your life and young joy shed,How can you but in these new lands of lifeRelume the fiery passion of old strife—Just anger, mortal hate, the natural scornOf men true-born for all things foully born?"For I had thought that not death's touch could stillIn man's clean spirit the hate of good for ill.But now to see their shapes go lightly byOn those vast fields, clear 'neath the hueless sky,With not one furious gesture, and (when seenWith but the broad dark hedgerow space between)No eye's disdain, no thin drawn face of grief,But pondering calm or lightened look and briefSmile almost gay;—yet all seen in the airThat driv'n mist makes unreal everywhere—"So strange," I breathed, "How can you English deadForget them for whose life your life was shed?"It was no voice that answered, yet plain wordLess plain is than the unspoken that I heard,As I lay there on the dry heap of fernAnd watched them pass, mix, disappear and return,And felt their mute speech into empty senses burn:"Earth's is the strife. The Heavenly Powers that sentThe gray globe spinning in the firmament,The Heavenly Powers that soon or late will stayThe spinning, as a child that tires of play,And globe by spent globe put forgot awayIn some vast airless hollow: could they seeOr seeing endure immortal miseryMade out of mortal, and undying hateEarth's perishing agonies perpetuate?O spirits unhappy, if from earth men broughtThe mind's disease, the sickness of mad thought!Sooner the Heavenly Powers would let them lieEternally unrising 'neath a skyArctic and lonely, where death's starven windRaged full-delighted:—sooner would those kindSerenities man's generation castBack into nothingness, than heaven should wasteWith finite anguish infinitely prolongedUntil the Eternal Spring were stained and wronged.O, even the Heavenly Powers at such a breathFrom mortal shores would fade and fade to death."—Was it a voice or but a thought I heard,Mine or another's, in my boughs that stirredWaking the leafy darkness of the mind?Was it a voice, or but a new-roused windThat answered—"O, I know, I know, I know!The oldest rivers into the full sea flowAnd there are lost: so everything is lost,On midnight waves into oblivion tost.Yet—the high passion, the pity, the joy and pride,The righteousness for which these men have died,The courage, the uncounted sacrifice,The love and beauty, all that's beyond all price;That this, the immortal heart of mortal man,Should be—O tell me what, tell me again, again—Petals lost on the river of the yearsWhen April sweetness pauses, fades and disappears!That this high Quarrel should be quenched in deathAs some vexed petty plaint unworthy breath;That the blood and the tears should never riseRenewed, accusing in grave judgment skies ...Tell me again—O, rather tell me notLest that ill telling never be forgot."And then I rose from that warm ferny heapAnd my thoughts climbed from the abyss of sleep.No more in human guise did cloud-shapes pass,Nor sighed with sad intelligence the grass.I saw the hueless sky break into blue,And I remembered how that heaven I knewWhen, a small child, I gazed at the great height,And thought of nothing but the blue and white,Pools of sweet blue swimming in fields of light.And as tired men from mine and stithy turnWhile still the midnight fires unslackened burnFlushing their road, and so reach home and thenDream of old childhood's days and dream again;So I forgot those inward fires and foundOld happiness like dew lying all around.Under the hedge I stood and far belowSaw on the Worcester Plain the swift clouds flowLike ships on seas no greener than the PlainThat shone between October sun and rain;And thinking how time's plenteousness would bringBack and more bright the young delicious Spring,Between wet brambles thrust my hand, and tastedRipe berries on neglected boughs that wasted.
In thin clear light unshadowed shapes go bySmall on green fields beneath the hueless sky.They do not stay for question, do not hearAny old human speech: their tongue and earSeem only thought, for when I spoke they stirred notAnd their bright minds conversing my ear heard not.—Until I slept or, musing, on a heapOf warm crisp fern lay between sense and sleepDrowsy, still clinging to a strand of thoughtSpider-like frail and all unconscious wrought.For thinking of that unforgettable thing,The war, that spreads a loud and shaggy wingOn things most peaceful, simple, happy and bright,Until the spirit is blind though the eye is light;Thinking of all that evil, envy, hate,The cruelty most dark, most desolate;Thinking of the English dead—"How can you dead,"I muttered, "with your life and young joy shed,How can you but in these new lands of lifeRelume the fiery passion of old strife—Just anger, mortal hate, the natural scornOf men true-born for all things foully born?"For I had thought that not death's touch could stillIn man's clean spirit the hate of good for ill.
But now to see their shapes go lightly byOn those vast fields, clear 'neath the hueless sky,With not one furious gesture, and (when seenWith but the broad dark hedgerow space between)No eye's disdain, no thin drawn face of grief,But pondering calm or lightened look and briefSmile almost gay;—yet all seen in the airThat driv'n mist makes unreal everywhere—"So strange," I breathed, "How can you English deadForget them for whose life your life was shed?"
It was no voice that answered, yet plain wordLess plain is than the unspoken that I heard,As I lay there on the dry heap of fernAnd watched them pass, mix, disappear and return,And felt their mute speech into empty senses burn:"Earth's is the strife. The Heavenly Powers that sentThe gray globe spinning in the firmament,The Heavenly Powers that soon or late will stayThe spinning, as a child that tires of play,And globe by spent globe put forgot awayIn some vast airless hollow: could they seeOr seeing endure immortal miseryMade out of mortal, and undying hateEarth's perishing agonies perpetuate?O spirits unhappy, if from earth men broughtThe mind's disease, the sickness of mad thought!Sooner the Heavenly Powers would let them lieEternally unrising 'neath a skyArctic and lonely, where death's starven windRaged full-delighted:—sooner would those kindSerenities man's generation castBack into nothingness, than heaven should wasteWith finite anguish infinitely prolongedUntil the Eternal Spring were stained and wronged.O, even the Heavenly Powers at such a breathFrom mortal shores would fade and fade to death."
—Was it a voice or but a thought I heard,Mine or another's, in my boughs that stirredWaking the leafy darkness of the mind?Was it a voice, or but a new-roused windThat answered—"O, I know, I know, I know!The oldest rivers into the full sea flowAnd there are lost: so everything is lost,On midnight waves into oblivion tost.Yet—the high passion, the pity, the joy and pride,The righteousness for which these men have died,The courage, the uncounted sacrifice,The love and beauty, all that's beyond all price;That this, the immortal heart of mortal man,Should be—O tell me what, tell me again, again—Petals lost on the river of the yearsWhen April sweetness pauses, fades and disappears!That this high Quarrel should be quenched in deathAs some vexed petty plaint unworthy breath;That the blood and the tears should never riseRenewed, accusing in grave judgment skies ...Tell me again—O, rather tell me notLest that ill telling never be forgot."
And then I rose from that warm ferny heapAnd my thoughts climbed from the abyss of sleep.No more in human guise did cloud-shapes pass,Nor sighed with sad intelligence the grass.I saw the hueless sky break into blue,And I remembered how that heaven I knewWhen, a small child, I gazed at the great height,And thought of nothing but the blue and white,Pools of sweet blue swimming in fields of light.And as tired men from mine and stithy turnWhile still the midnight fires unslackened burnFlushing their road, and so reach home and thenDream of old childhood's days and dream again;So I forgot those inward fires and foundOld happiness like dew lying all around.Under the hedge I stood and far belowSaw on the Worcester Plain the swift clouds flowLike ships on seas no greener than the PlainThat shone between October sun and rain;And thinking how time's plenteousness would bringBack and more bright the young delicious Spring,Between wet brambles thrust my hand, and tastedRipe berries on neglected boughs that wasted.
Where is that country? The unresting mindLike a lapwing nears and leaves it and returns.I know those unknown hill-springs where they rise,I know the answer of the elms to the windWhen the wind on their heaving bosom liesAnd sleeps. I know the grouping pines that crownThe long green hill and fling their darkness down,A never-dying shadow; and well I knowHow in the late months the whole wide woodland burnsUnsmoking, and the earth hangs still as still.I know the town, the hamlets and the loneShelterless cottage where the wind's least toneIs magnified, and his far-flung thundering shoutBrings near the incredible end of the world. I know!Even in sleep-walk I should linger aboutThose lanes, those streets sure-footed, and by the unfenced stream go,Hearing the swift waters past the locked mill flow.Where is that country? It lies in my mind,Its trees and grassy shape and white-gashed hillAnd springs and wind and weather; its village stoneAnd solitary stone are in my mind;And every thought familiarly returnsTo find its home, and birdlike circling stillAbove the smouldering beeches of NovemberAnd the bare elms and rattled hedgerows of December.That native country lies deep in my mindFor every thought and true affection's home.And like that mental land are you become,Part of that land, and I the thought that turnsTowards home. And as in that familiar land I findMyself among each tree, spring, road and hill,And at each present step my past footsteps remember;So you in all my inward being lies,In you my history, my earth and stream and skies.Your late fire is it that in my boughs yet burns,Your stone that to my passing footfall cries.
Where is that country? The unresting mindLike a lapwing nears and leaves it and returns.I know those unknown hill-springs where they rise,I know the answer of the elms to the windWhen the wind on their heaving bosom liesAnd sleeps. I know the grouping pines that crownThe long green hill and fling their darkness down,A never-dying shadow; and well I knowHow in the late months the whole wide woodland burnsUnsmoking, and the earth hangs still as still.I know the town, the hamlets and the loneShelterless cottage where the wind's least toneIs magnified, and his far-flung thundering shoutBrings near the incredible end of the world. I know!Even in sleep-walk I should linger aboutThose lanes, those streets sure-footed, and by the unfenced stream go,Hearing the swift waters past the locked mill flow.Where is that country? It lies in my mind,Its trees and grassy shape and white-gashed hillAnd springs and wind and weather; its village stoneAnd solitary stone are in my mind;And every thought familiarly returnsTo find its home, and birdlike circling stillAbove the smouldering beeches of NovemberAnd the bare elms and rattled hedgerows of December.That native country lies deep in my mindFor every thought and true affection's home.And like that mental land are you become,Part of that land, and I the thought that turnsTowards home. And as in that familiar land I findMyself among each tree, spring, road and hill,And at each present step my past footsteps remember;So you in all my inward being lies,In you my history, my earth and stream and skies.Your late fire is it that in my boughs yet burns,Your stone that to my passing footfall cries.