The joyous morning ran and kissed the grassAnd drew his fingers through her sleeping hair,And cried, "Before thy flowers are well awakeRise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake."Before the daisy and the sorrel buyTheir brightness back from that close-folding night,Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake,Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!"Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirredAbove the Roman bones that may not stirThough joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang:The grass stirred as that happy music rang.O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere!The steady shadows shook and thinned and died,The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness,And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.As if she had found wings, light as the wind,The grass flew, bent with the wind, from east to west,Chased by one wild grey cloud, and flashing allHer dews for happiness to hear morning call....But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed,I saw the fading edge of all delight.The sober morning waked the drowsy herds,And there was the old scolding of the birds.
The joyous morning ran and kissed the grassAnd drew his fingers through her sleeping hair,And cried, "Before thy flowers are well awakeRise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake.
"Before the daisy and the sorrel buyTheir brightness back from that close-folding night,Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake,Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!"
Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirredAbove the Roman bones that may not stirThough joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang:The grass stirred as that happy music rang.
O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere!The steady shadows shook and thinned and died,The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness,And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.
As if she had found wings, light as the wind,The grass flew, bent with the wind, from east to west,Chased by one wild grey cloud, and flashing allHer dews for happiness to hear morning call....
But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed,I saw the fading edge of all delight.The sober morning waked the drowsy herds,And there was the old scolding of the birds.
ToMARJORY
ICHILDHOOD CALLSCome over, come over the deepening river,Come over again the dark torrent of years,Come over, come back where the green leaves quiver,And the lilac still blooms and the grey sky clears.Come, come back to the everlasting garden,To that green heaven, and the blue heaven above.Come back to the time when time brought no burdenAnd love was unconscious, knowing not love.IITHE ANSWERO, my feet have worn a trackDeep and old in going back.Thought released turns to its homeAs bees through tangling thickets come.One way of thought leads to the vastDesert of the mind, and there is lost,But backward leads to a dancing lightAnd myself there, stiff with delight.O, well my thought has trodden a wayFrom this brief day to that long day.IIITHE FIRST HOUSEThat is the earliest thing that I remember—The narrow house in the long narrow street,Dark rooms within and darkness out of doorsWhere grasses in the garden lift in the wind,Long grasses clinging round unsteady feet.The sunlight through one narrow passage pours,As through the keyhole into a dusty room,Striking with a golden rod the greening gloom.The tall, tall timber-stacks have yet been kind,Letting the sun fling his rod clear between,Lest there should be no gold upon the green,And no light then for a child to dream upon,And day be of day's brightness all forlorn.I saw those timber piles first dark and tall,And then men clambered up, and stumbled down,Each with a heavy and long timber borneUpon broad shoulders, leather-covered, bent.Hour after hour, day after day they went,Until the piles were gone and a new skyStretched high and white above the garden wall.And then fresh piles crept slowly up and up,The strong men staggering, more cruelly bowed,Till at last they lay idle on the topLooking down from their height on things so small,While I looked wondering and fearful upAt the strong men at rest on the new-built cloud.But there was other gold than the sun's sparse gold—Florence's hair, its brightness lying stillUpon my mind as then upon the grass.Now the grass covers it and I am old,Remembering but her hair and that long grass,And the great wood-stacks threatening to fall—When all dark things will.IVTHE OTHER HOUSEThat other house, in the same crowded street,One red-tiled floor had, answering to my feet,And a bewildering garden all of light and heat.Only that red floor and garden now remain,One glowing firelike in my glowing brain,One with smell, colour, sun and cloud revived again.Yet in the garden the sky was very small,Closed by some darkness beyond the low brown wall;But from the west the gold could long unhindered fall.Of human faces I remember noneAmid the garden; but myself aloneWith creeping-jenny, sunflower, marigold, snapdragon—These all my love, these now all my light,Bringing their kindness to any painful night.The sun brushed all their brightness with his skirt more bright.And I was happy when I knew it not,Dreaming of nothing more than that small plot,And the high sky and sun that floated bright and hot.But what night was, save dark, I did not know.The blind shut out the stars: the moon would goStaring, unstared at, moon and stars unnoted flow.Until one night, into the strange street led,To stare at a strange light from the Factory shed,Wheeling and darting, withdrawn, and sudden again outsped—No one knew why—but I knew darkness then,And saw the stars that hung so still; but whenI lay abed the old starless dark came back again.Night is not night without the stars and moon.I knew them not, or I forgot too soon,And now remember only the glowing sun of noon,The red floor, and yellow flowers, and a lonely child,And a whistle morn and noon and evening shrilled,And darkness when the household murmurs even were stilled.VTHE FIRENear the house flowed, or paused, the black Canal,Edged by the timber piles so black and tall.From the rotten fence I watched the horses pullAlong the footpath, slow and beautiful,Moving with strength and ease, in their great sizeAnd untired movement wonderful to my eyes;Their dull brass clanking as each shaggy footStamped the soft cinder track as fine as soot.The driver lurched old and forbidding by,Not seeing the child that feared to meet his eye.I watched the rope dip, tighten, and the water flashIn falling, and then heard the hiss and splash;I watched the barge drag slowly on and on,Not dreaming how lovely a ship could ride the water upon,Not dreaming how lovely flowing water was,Sung to by trees and fingered by long grass,Or running from the bosom of a hillDown, where it flows so deep that it seems still.But it was by that rotten fence one nightI saw the timber piles break into light,Suddenly leaping into a heavenly flameThat played with the wind and one with the wind became.Pile to pile gave its fire, till they were likeBright angels with flashing swords before they strike,Terrible and lovely. But men those angels fought,Small and humble and patient all night wrought,And all day wrought and night and day again,And night and day, pouring their hissing rain,Until the angels tired and one by one died.Then their black spectres haunted the waterside,Charred ruins, broken-limbed, no more erect,Or heaped black dust, with cold white ashes flecked.But I had seen the angel-quelling men,With blackened and bruised face, the horses thin,The glittering harness, the leaky, bubbling mains,The broad smoke, and the steam from the leaping rains:—O I had seen what I should not forget,Men that defeated ruinous angels and shall still defeat.VITHE KITEIt was a dayAll blue and lifting white,When I went into the fields with FrankTo fly his kite.The fields were aged, bare,Shut between houses everywhere.All the way thereThe wind tugged at the kite to take itUntethered, toss and break it;But Frank held fast, and IWalked with him admiringly;In his light brave and fineHow bright was mine!We tailed the kiteWhile the wind flapped its purple faceAnd yellow head.Frank's yellow headWas scarcely higher, and not so bright."Let go!" he cried, and I let goAnd watched the kiteSwaying and rising soThat I was rooted to the place,Watching the kiteRise into the blue,Lifting its head against the whiteAgainst the sun,Against the heightThat far-off, farther drew;Shivering thereIn that fine airAs we below shivered with delightAnd fear.There it floatedAmong the birds and clouds at easeOf others all unnoted,Swimming above the ranked stiff trees.And I lay down, looking up at the sky,The clouds and birds that floatedBy others still unnoted,And that swaying kiteSpecking the light:Looking up at the sky,The birds and clouds that drewNearer, leaving the blue,Stooping, and then brushing me,With such tenderness touching meThat I had still lain thereIn those fields bare,Forgetting the kite;For every cloud was now a kiteStreaming with light.VIITHE CHAIRThe chair was madeBy hands long dead,Polished by many bodies sitting there,Until the wood-lines flowed as clean as waves.Mine sat restless there,Or propped to stareHugged the low kitchen with fond eyesOr tired eyes that looked at nothing at all.Or watched from the smoke riseThe flame's snake-eyes,Up the black-bearded chimney leap;Then on my shoulder my dull head would drop.And half asleepI heard her creep—Her never-singing lips shut fast,Fearing to wake me by a careless breath.Then, at last,My lids upcast,Our eyes met, I smiled and she smiled,And I shut mine again and truly slept.Was I that childFretful, sick, wild?Was that you moving soft and softBetween the rooms if I but played at sleep?Or if I laughed,Talked, cried, or coughed,You smiled too, just perceptibly,Or your large kind brown eyes said, O poor boy!From the fireside ICould see the narrow skyThrough the barred heavy window panes,Could hear the sparrows quarrelling round the lilac;And hear the heavy rainsChoking in the roof-drains:—Else of the world I nothing heardOr nothing remember now. But most I lovedTo watch when you stirredBusily like a birdAt household doings; with hands flouredMixing a magic with your cakes and tarts.O into me, sick, froward,Yourself you poured;In all those days and weeks when ISat, slept, woke, whimpered, wondered and slept again.Now but a memoryTo bless and harry meRemains of you still swathed with care;Myself your chief care, sitting by the hearthPropped in the pillowed chair,Following you with tired stare,And my hand following the wood linesBy dead hands smoothed and followed many years.VIIITHE SWINGIt was like floating in a blessed dream to roamAcross green meadows, far from home,With only trees and quivering sky to hedge the sight,Dazzling the eyes with strange delight.Such wide, wide fields I had never seen, and never dreamedCould be; and wonderful it seemedTo wander over green and under green and runUnwatched even of the shining sun.One tree there was that held a wrinkled creaking boughFar over the grass, hanging low;And a swing from it hanging drew us near and madeNew brightness beneath that doming shade.For there my sisters swung long hours delightedly,And there delighted clambered I;And all our voices shrilled as one when up we flungAnd into the stinging sharp leaves swung.Then in a garden dense with bramble and sweet flowersWhere honeysuckle a new sweetness pours,We sat and ate and drank. Well I remember howWe were all shaded by one boughBending with red fruit over our uplifted eyes,Teasing our well-watched covetousness.And then we went back happy to the empty swing,But I was tired of everythingExcept the grass and trees and the wide shadows thereWidening slowly everywhere.It was like swinging in a solemn dream to roamIn a strange air, far from home—Until I saw the shadows suddenly wake and move,And float, float down from above.Then I ran quickly back, round the large gloomy trees,O with what shivering unease!And stumbled where they waited, and was far too glad,Finding them, to be afraid or sad.—Then waited an unforgetting year once more to seeSo wide a sky, so great a tree.IXFEARSurely I must have ailedOn that dark night,Or my childish courage failedBecause there was no light;Or terror must have comeWith his chill wing,And made my angel dumb,Or found him slumbering.Because I could not sleepTerror began to wake,Close at my side to creepAnd sting me like a snake.And I was afraid of death,But when I thought of pain—O, language no word hathTo recall that thought again!Into my heart fear crawledAnd wreathed close around,Mortal, convulsive, cold,And I lay bound.Fear set before my eyesUnimaginable pain;Approaching agoniesSprang nimbly into my brain.Just as a thrilling windPlucks every mournful wire,So terror on my wild mindFingered, with ice and fire.O, not death I feared,But the anguish of the body;My dizzying passions heard,Saw my own bosom bloody.I thought of years of woe,Moments prolonged to years,Heard my heart racing so,Redoubling all those fears.Yet still I could not cry,Not a sound the stillness broke;But the dark stirred, and myNegligent angel woke.XTHE STREETSMarlboro' and Waterloo and Trafalgar,Tuileries, Talavera, Valenciennes,Were strange names all, and all familiar;For down their streets I went, early and late(Is there a street where I have never beenOf all those hundreds, narrow, skyless, straight?)—Early and late, they were my woods and meadows;The rain upon their dust my summer smell;Their scant herb and brown sparrows and harsh shadowsWere all my spring. Was there another spring?I knew their noisy desolation well,Drinking it up as a child drinks everything,Knowing no other world than brick and stone,With one rich memory of the earth all bright.Now all is fallen into oblivion—All that I was, in years of school and play,Things that I hated, things that were delight,Are all forgotten, or shut all awayBehind a creaking door that opens slow.But there's a child that walks those streets of war,Hearing his running footsteps as they goEchoed from house to house, and wonderingAt Marlboro', Waterloo and Trafalgar;And at night, when the yellow gas lamps flingUnsteady shadows, singing for company;Yet loving the lighted dark, and any starCaught by sharp roofs in a narrow net of sky.XIWHEN CHILDHOOD DIEDI can recall the dayWhen childhood died.I had grown thin and tallAnd eager-eyed.Such a false happinessHad seized me then;A child, I saw myselfMan among men.Now I see that I wasIgnorant, surprised,As one for the surgeon's knifeAnæsthetized.So that I did not knowWhat loomed before,Nor how, a child, I becameA child no more.The world's sharpened knifeCut round my heart;Then something was takenAnd flung apart.I did not, could not knowWhat had been done.Under some evil dragI lived as oneAt home in the seeming world;Then slowly cameThrough years and years to myselfAnd was no more the same.I know now an ill thing was doneTo a young childBy the world's wary knifeMaimed and defiled.I can recall the dayAlmost without anger or pain,When childhood did not dieBut was slain.XIIALL THAT I WAS I AMHateful it seems now, yet was I not happy?Starved of the things I loved, I did not knowI loved them, and was happy lacking them.If bitterness comes now (and that is hell)It is when I forget that I was happy,Accusing Fate, that sits and nods and laughs,Because I was not born a bird or tree.Let accusation sleep, lest God's own fingerPoint angry from the cloud in which He hides.Who may regret what was, since it has madeHimself himself? All that I was I am,And the old childish joy now lives in meAt sight of a green field or a green tree.
I
CHILDHOOD CALLS
Come over, come over the deepening river,Come over again the dark torrent of years,Come over, come back where the green leaves quiver,And the lilac still blooms and the grey sky clears.
Come, come back to the everlasting garden,To that green heaven, and the blue heaven above.Come back to the time when time brought no burdenAnd love was unconscious, knowing not love.
II
THE ANSWER
O, my feet have worn a trackDeep and old in going back.Thought released turns to its homeAs bees through tangling thickets come.One way of thought leads to the vastDesert of the mind, and there is lost,But backward leads to a dancing lightAnd myself there, stiff with delight.O, well my thought has trodden a wayFrom this brief day to that long day.
III
THE FIRST HOUSE
That is the earliest thing that I remember—The narrow house in the long narrow street,Dark rooms within and darkness out of doorsWhere grasses in the garden lift in the wind,Long grasses clinging round unsteady feet.The sunlight through one narrow passage pours,As through the keyhole into a dusty room,Striking with a golden rod the greening gloom.The tall, tall timber-stacks have yet been kind,Letting the sun fling his rod clear between,Lest there should be no gold upon the green,And no light then for a child to dream upon,And day be of day's brightness all forlorn.I saw those timber piles first dark and tall,And then men clambered up, and stumbled down,Each with a heavy and long timber borneUpon broad shoulders, leather-covered, bent.Hour after hour, day after day they went,Until the piles were gone and a new skyStretched high and white above the garden wall.And then fresh piles crept slowly up and up,The strong men staggering, more cruelly bowed,Till at last they lay idle on the topLooking down from their height on things so small,While I looked wondering and fearful upAt the strong men at rest on the new-built cloud.But there was other gold than the sun's sparse gold—Florence's hair, its brightness lying stillUpon my mind as then upon the grass.Now the grass covers it and I am old,Remembering but her hair and that long grass,And the great wood-stacks threatening to fall—When all dark things will.
IV
THE OTHER HOUSE
That other house, in the same crowded street,One red-tiled floor had, answering to my feet,And a bewildering garden all of light and heat.
Only that red floor and garden now remain,One glowing firelike in my glowing brain,One with smell, colour, sun and cloud revived again.
Yet in the garden the sky was very small,Closed by some darkness beyond the low brown wall;But from the west the gold could long unhindered fall.
Of human faces I remember noneAmid the garden; but myself aloneWith creeping-jenny, sunflower, marigold, snapdragon—
These all my love, these now all my light,Bringing their kindness to any painful night.The sun brushed all their brightness with his skirt more bright.
And I was happy when I knew it not,Dreaming of nothing more than that small plot,And the high sky and sun that floated bright and hot.
But what night was, save dark, I did not know.The blind shut out the stars: the moon would goStaring, unstared at, moon and stars unnoted flow.
Until one night, into the strange street led,To stare at a strange light from the Factory shed,Wheeling and darting, withdrawn, and sudden again outsped—
No one knew why—but I knew darkness then,And saw the stars that hung so still; but whenI lay abed the old starless dark came back again.
Night is not night without the stars and moon.I knew them not, or I forgot too soon,And now remember only the glowing sun of noon,
The red floor, and yellow flowers, and a lonely child,And a whistle morn and noon and evening shrilled,And darkness when the household murmurs even were stilled.
V
THE FIRE
Near the house flowed, or paused, the black Canal,Edged by the timber piles so black and tall.From the rotten fence I watched the horses pullAlong the footpath, slow and beautiful,Moving with strength and ease, in their great sizeAnd untired movement wonderful to my eyes;Their dull brass clanking as each shaggy footStamped the soft cinder track as fine as soot.The driver lurched old and forbidding by,Not seeing the child that feared to meet his eye.I watched the rope dip, tighten, and the water flashIn falling, and then heard the hiss and splash;I watched the barge drag slowly on and on,Not dreaming how lovely a ship could ride the water upon,Not dreaming how lovely flowing water was,Sung to by trees and fingered by long grass,Or running from the bosom of a hillDown, where it flows so deep that it seems still.But it was by that rotten fence one nightI saw the timber piles break into light,Suddenly leaping into a heavenly flameThat played with the wind and one with the wind became.Pile to pile gave its fire, till they were likeBright angels with flashing swords before they strike,Terrible and lovely. But men those angels fought,Small and humble and patient all night wrought,And all day wrought and night and day again,And night and day, pouring their hissing rain,Until the angels tired and one by one died.Then their black spectres haunted the waterside,Charred ruins, broken-limbed, no more erect,Or heaped black dust, with cold white ashes flecked.But I had seen the angel-quelling men,With blackened and bruised face, the horses thin,The glittering harness, the leaky, bubbling mains,The broad smoke, and the steam from the leaping rains:—O I had seen what I should not forget,Men that defeated ruinous angels and shall still defeat.
VI
THE KITE
It was a dayAll blue and lifting white,When I went into the fields with FrankTo fly his kite.
The fields were aged, bare,Shut between houses everywhere.All the way thereThe wind tugged at the kite to take itUntethered, toss and break it;But Frank held fast, and IWalked with him admiringly;In his light brave and fineHow bright was mine!
We tailed the kiteWhile the wind flapped its purple faceAnd yellow head.Frank's yellow headWas scarcely higher, and not so bright."Let go!" he cried, and I let goAnd watched the kiteSwaying and rising soThat I was rooted to the place,Watching the kiteRise into the blue,Lifting its head against the whiteAgainst the sun,Against the heightThat far-off, farther drew;Shivering thereIn that fine airAs we below shivered with delightAnd fear.
There it floatedAmong the birds and clouds at easeOf others all unnoted,Swimming above the ranked stiff trees.And I lay down, looking up at the sky,The clouds and birds that floatedBy others still unnoted,And that swaying kiteSpecking the light:Looking up at the sky,The birds and clouds that drewNearer, leaving the blue,Stooping, and then brushing me,With such tenderness touching meThat I had still lain thereIn those fields bare,Forgetting the kite;For every cloud was now a kiteStreaming with light.
VII
THE CHAIR
The chair was madeBy hands long dead,Polished by many bodies sitting there,Until the wood-lines flowed as clean as waves.
Mine sat restless there,Or propped to stareHugged the low kitchen with fond eyesOr tired eyes that looked at nothing at all.
Or watched from the smoke riseThe flame's snake-eyes,Up the black-bearded chimney leap;Then on my shoulder my dull head would drop.
And half asleepI heard her creep—Her never-singing lips shut fast,Fearing to wake me by a careless breath.
Then, at last,My lids upcast,Our eyes met, I smiled and she smiled,And I shut mine again and truly slept.
Was I that childFretful, sick, wild?Was that you moving soft and softBetween the rooms if I but played at sleep?
Or if I laughed,Talked, cried, or coughed,You smiled too, just perceptibly,Or your large kind brown eyes said, O poor boy!
From the fireside ICould see the narrow skyThrough the barred heavy window panes,Could hear the sparrows quarrelling round the lilac;
And hear the heavy rainsChoking in the roof-drains:—Else of the world I nothing heardOr nothing remember now. But most I loved
To watch when you stirredBusily like a birdAt household doings; with hands flouredMixing a magic with your cakes and tarts.
O into me, sick, froward,Yourself you poured;In all those days and weeks when ISat, slept, woke, whimpered, wondered and slept again.
Now but a memoryTo bless and harry meRemains of you still swathed with care;Myself your chief care, sitting by the hearth
Propped in the pillowed chair,Following you with tired stare,And my hand following the wood linesBy dead hands smoothed and followed many years.
VIII
THE SWING
It was like floating in a blessed dream to roamAcross green meadows, far from home,With only trees and quivering sky to hedge the sight,Dazzling the eyes with strange delight.Such wide, wide fields I had never seen, and never dreamedCould be; and wonderful it seemedTo wander over green and under green and runUnwatched even of the shining sun.
One tree there was that held a wrinkled creaking boughFar over the grass, hanging low;And a swing from it hanging drew us near and madeNew brightness beneath that doming shade.For there my sisters swung long hours delightedly,And there delighted clambered I;And all our voices shrilled as one when up we flungAnd into the stinging sharp leaves swung.
Then in a garden dense with bramble and sweet flowersWhere honeysuckle a new sweetness pours,We sat and ate and drank. Well I remember howWe were all shaded by one boughBending with red fruit over our uplifted eyes,Teasing our well-watched covetousness.
And then we went back happy to the empty swing,But I was tired of everythingExcept the grass and trees and the wide shadows thereWidening slowly everywhere.It was like swinging in a solemn dream to roamIn a strange air, far from home—Until I saw the shadows suddenly wake and move,And float, float down from above.Then I ran quickly back, round the large gloomy trees,O with what shivering unease!And stumbled where they waited, and was far too glad,Finding them, to be afraid or sad.—Then waited an unforgetting year once more to seeSo wide a sky, so great a tree.
IX
FEAR
Surely I must have ailedOn that dark night,Or my childish courage failedBecause there was no light;Or terror must have comeWith his chill wing,And made my angel dumb,Or found him slumbering.Because I could not sleepTerror began to wake,Close at my side to creepAnd sting me like a snake.And I was afraid of death,But when I thought of pain—O, language no word hathTo recall that thought again!Into my heart fear crawledAnd wreathed close around,Mortal, convulsive, cold,And I lay bound.Fear set before my eyesUnimaginable pain;Approaching agoniesSprang nimbly into my brain.Just as a thrilling windPlucks every mournful wire,So terror on my wild mindFingered, with ice and fire.O, not death I feared,But the anguish of the body;My dizzying passions heard,Saw my own bosom bloody.I thought of years of woe,Moments prolonged to years,Heard my heart racing so,Redoubling all those fears.Yet still I could not cry,Not a sound the stillness broke;But the dark stirred, and myNegligent angel woke.
X
THE STREETS
Marlboro' and Waterloo and Trafalgar,Tuileries, Talavera, Valenciennes,Were strange names all, and all familiar;
For down their streets I went, early and late(Is there a street where I have never beenOf all those hundreds, narrow, skyless, straight?)—
Early and late, they were my woods and meadows;The rain upon their dust my summer smell;Their scant herb and brown sparrows and harsh shadows
Were all my spring. Was there another spring?I knew their noisy desolation well,Drinking it up as a child drinks everything,
Knowing no other world than brick and stone,With one rich memory of the earth all bright.Now all is fallen into oblivion—
All that I was, in years of school and play,Things that I hated, things that were delight,Are all forgotten, or shut all away
Behind a creaking door that opens slow.But there's a child that walks those streets of war,Hearing his running footsteps as they go
Echoed from house to house, and wonderingAt Marlboro', Waterloo and Trafalgar;And at night, when the yellow gas lamps fling
Unsteady shadows, singing for company;Yet loving the lighted dark, and any starCaught by sharp roofs in a narrow net of sky.
XI
WHEN CHILDHOOD DIED
I can recall the dayWhen childhood died.I had grown thin and tallAnd eager-eyed.
Such a false happinessHad seized me then;A child, I saw myselfMan among men.
Now I see that I wasIgnorant, surprised,As one for the surgeon's knifeAnæsthetized.
So that I did not knowWhat loomed before,Nor how, a child, I becameA child no more.
The world's sharpened knifeCut round my heart;Then something was takenAnd flung apart.
I did not, could not knowWhat had been done.Under some evil dragI lived as one
At home in the seeming world;Then slowly cameThrough years and years to myselfAnd was no more the same.
I know now an ill thing was doneTo a young childBy the world's wary knifeMaimed and defiled.
I can recall the dayAlmost without anger or pain,When childhood did not dieBut was slain.
XII
ALL THAT I WAS I AM
Hateful it seems now, yet was I not happy?Starved of the things I loved, I did not knowI loved them, and was happy lacking them.If bitterness comes now (and that is hell)It is when I forget that I was happy,Accusing Fate, that sits and nods and laughs,Because I was not born a bird or tree.Let accusation sleep, lest God's own fingerPoint angry from the cloud in which He hides.Who may regret what was, since it has madeHimself himself? All that I was I am,And the old childish joy now lives in meAt sight of a green field or a green tree.
Thinking of these, of beautiful brief things,Of things that are of sense and spirit made,Of meadow flowers, dense hedges and dark bushesWith roses trailing over nests of thrushes;Of dews so pure and bright and flush'd and cool,And like the flowers as brief as beautiful;Thinking of the tall grass and daisies tallAnd whispered music of the waving bents;Of these that like a simple child I loveSince they are life and life is flowers and grass;Thinking of trees, and water at their feetAnswering the trees with murmur childlike sweet;Thinking of those high thoughts that passed like the windYet left their brightness lying on the mind,As the white blossoms the raw airs shake downThat lie awhile yet lovely on the chill grass;Thinking of the dark, where all these end like cloud,And the stars watch like Knights to Honour vowed,Of those too lovely colours of the East,And the too tender loveliness of grey:Thinking of all, I was as one that stands'Neath the bewildering shock of breaking seas;Mortal-immortal things had lost their power,I knew no more than sweetness in the flower;No more than colour in the changing light,No more than order in the stars of night;A breathing tree was but gaunt wood and leaves;All these had lost their old power over me.I had forgotten that ever such things were:Immortal-mortal, I had been but blind ...O the wild sweetness of the renewing senseThat swept me and drove all but sweetness hence!... As beautiful as brief—ah! lovelier,Being but mortal. Yet I had great fear—That I should die ere these sweet things were dead,Or live on knowing the wild sweetness fled.
Thinking of these, of beautiful brief things,Of things that are of sense and spirit made,Of meadow flowers, dense hedges and dark bushesWith roses trailing over nests of thrushes;
Of dews so pure and bright and flush'd and cool,And like the flowers as brief as beautiful;Thinking of the tall grass and daisies tallAnd whispered music of the waving bents;
Of these that like a simple child I loveSince they are life and life is flowers and grass;Thinking of trees, and water at their feetAnswering the trees with murmur childlike sweet;
Thinking of those high thoughts that passed like the windYet left their brightness lying on the mind,As the white blossoms the raw airs shake downThat lie awhile yet lovely on the chill grass;
Thinking of the dark, where all these end like cloud,And the stars watch like Knights to Honour vowed,Of those too lovely colours of the East,And the too tender loveliness of grey:
Thinking of all, I was as one that stands'Neath the bewildering shock of breaking seas;Mortal-immortal things had lost their power,I knew no more than sweetness in the flower;
No more than colour in the changing light,No more than order in the stars of night;A breathing tree was but gaunt wood and leaves;All these had lost their old power over me.
I had forgotten that ever such things were:Immortal-mortal, I had been but blind ...O the wild sweetness of the renewing senseThat swept me and drove all but sweetness hence!
... As beautiful as brief—ah! lovelier,Being but mortal. Yet I had great fear—That I should die ere these sweet things were dead,Or live on knowing the wild sweetness fled.
Winter was weary. All his snows were failing—Still from his stiff grey head he shook the rimeUpon the grasses, bushes and broad hedges,But all was lost in the new touch of Time.And the bright-globèd hedges were all ruddy,As though warm sunset glowed perpetual.The myriad swinging tassels of first hazel,From purple to pale gold, were swinging allIn the soft wind, no more afraid of Winter.Nor chaffinch, wren, nor lark was now afraid.And Winter heard, or (ears too hard of hearing)Snuffed the South-West that in his cold hair played.And his hands trembled. Then with voice a-quaverHe called the East Wind, and the black East ran,Roofing the sky with iron, and in the darknessWinter crept out and chilled the earth again.And while men slept the still pools were frozen,Mosses were white, with ice the long grasses bowed;The hawthorn buds and the greening honeysuckleFroze, and the birds were dumb under that cloud.And men and beasts were dulled, and children evenLess merry, under that low iron dome.Early the patient rooks and starlings gathered;Any warm narrow place for men was home.And Winter laughed, but the third night grew weary,And slept all heavy, till the East Wind thought him dead.Then the returning South West in his nostrilsBreathed, and his snows melted. And his headUplifting, he saw all the laughing valley,Heard the unloosened waters leaping downBroadening over the meadows; saw the sun runningFrom hill to hill and glittering upon the town.All day he stared. But his head drooped at evening,Bent and slow he stumbled into the whiteCavern of a great chalk hill, hedged with tall bushes,And in its darkness found a darker nightAmong the broken cliff and falling water,Freezing or falling quietly everywhere;Locked in a long, long sleep, his brain undreaming,With only water moving anywhere.Old men at night dreamed that they saw him going,And looked, and dared not look, lest he should turn.And young men felt the air beating on their bodies,And the young women woke from dreams that burn.And children going through the fields at morningSaw the unloosened waters leaping down,And broke the hazel boughs and wore the tasselsAbove their eyes—a pale and shaking crown.
Winter was weary. All his snows were failing—Still from his stiff grey head he shook the rimeUpon the grasses, bushes and broad hedges,But all was lost in the new touch of Time.
And the bright-globèd hedges were all ruddy,As though warm sunset glowed perpetual.The myriad swinging tassels of first hazel,From purple to pale gold, were swinging all
In the soft wind, no more afraid of Winter.Nor chaffinch, wren, nor lark was now afraid.And Winter heard, or (ears too hard of hearing)Snuffed the South-West that in his cold hair played.
And his hands trembled. Then with voice a-quaverHe called the East Wind, and the black East ran,Roofing the sky with iron, and in the darknessWinter crept out and chilled the earth again.
And while men slept the still pools were frozen,Mosses were white, with ice the long grasses bowed;The hawthorn buds and the greening honeysuckleFroze, and the birds were dumb under that cloud.
And men and beasts were dulled, and children evenLess merry, under that low iron dome.Early the patient rooks and starlings gathered;Any warm narrow place for men was home.
And Winter laughed, but the third night grew weary,And slept all heavy, till the East Wind thought him dead.Then the returning South West in his nostrilsBreathed, and his snows melted. And his head
Uplifting, he saw all the laughing valley,Heard the unloosened waters leaping downBroadening over the meadows; saw the sun runningFrom hill to hill and glittering upon the town.
All day he stared. But his head drooped at evening,Bent and slow he stumbled into the whiteCavern of a great chalk hill, hedged with tall bushes,And in its darkness found a darker night
Among the broken cliff and falling water,Freezing or falling quietly everywhere;Locked in a long, long sleep, his brain undreaming,With only water moving anywhere.
Old men at night dreamed that they saw him going,And looked, and dared not look, lest he should turn.And young men felt the air beating on their bodies,And the young women woke from dreams that burn.
And children going through the fields at morningSaw the unloosened waters leaping down,And broke the hazel boughs and wore the tasselsAbove their eyes—a pale and shaking crown.
IDARK AND STRANGEWhen first Love came, then was I but a boySwept with delirium of undreamt joy.Now Love comes to a man serious with changeOf life and death—and makes the world dark and strange.IIWILD HEARTWild heart, wild heart,Where does the wind find home?Wild heart, wild heart,Where does the wild blood rest?Home, home,Rest, rest—Unto you I comeAnd catch you to my breast.Wild heart, wild heart,There the wind will sleep.Wild heart, wild heart,And the blood gently flow.Come, come,Unresting restWithin my heart's cave deepWhere thoughts like bright stars glow.Wild heart, wild heart,Here, here is your home.Wild heart, wild heart,With that winged star I come.Home, home,Rest in unrest—Unto you, wild heart, I come.My wild heart is your home.IIIHOME FOR LOVEBecause the earth is vast and darkAnd wet and cold;Because man's heart wants warmth and lightLest it grow old;Therefore the house was built—wall, roofAnd brick and beam,By a lost hand following the lostDelight of a dream,And room and stair show how that handGroped in eager doubt,With needless weight of teasing timberMatching his thought—Such fond superfluousness of strengthIn wall and woodAs his half-wise, half-fearful eyeDeemed only good.His brain he built into the house,Laboured his bones;He burnt his heart into the brickAnd red hearth-stones.It is his blood that makes the houseStill warm, safe, bright,Honest as aim and eye and hand,As clean, as light.Because the earth is vast and darkThe house was built—Now with another heart and fireTo be fulfilled.IVTHE ALDEHow near I walked to Love,How long, I cannot tell.I was like the Alde that flowsQuietly through green level lands,So quietly, it knowsTheir shape, their greenness and their shadows well;And then undreamingly for miles it goesAnd silently, beside the sea.Seamews circle over,The winter wildfowl wings,Long and green the grasses waveBetween the river and the sea.The sea's cry, wild or grave,From, bank to low bank of the river rings;But the uncertain river though it craveThe sea, knows not the sea.Was that indeed salt wind?Came that noise from fallingWild waters on a stony shore?Oh, what is this new troubling tideOf eager waves that pourAround and over, leaping, parting, recalling?...How near I moved (as day to same day wore)And silently, beside the sea!VAGAINST THE COLD PALE SKYAgainst the cold pale skyThe elm tree company rose high.All the fine hues of dayThat flowered so bold had died away.Only chill blue, faint green,And deepening dark blue were seen.There swinging on a boughThat hung or floated broad and low.The lamp of evening, brightWith more than planetary light,Was beautiful and free—A white bird swaying on the tree.You watched and I watched,Our eyes and hearts so surely matched.We saw the white bird leap, leapShining in his journey steepThrough that vast cold sky.Our hearts knew his unuttered cry—A cry of free delightSpreading over the clustering night.Pole Hill grave and starkStared at the valley's tidal dark,The Darent glimmered wan;But that eager planet winging on,And singing on, went highInto the deeps and heights of sky.And our thoughts rising tooBrightened the mortal darkness throughTrembled and danced and sangTill the mute invisible heavens rang.VITHE DARK FIRELove me not lessYet ease me of this fever,That in my wondering heartBurns, sinks, burns again ever.Is it your loveIn me so fiercely burning,Or my love leaping to youThen requickened returning?Come not to me,Bring not your body nearer,Though you overleapt the milesI could not behold you clearer.I could not clasp youThan in my thought more surely;Breast to breast, heart to heartMight cling no more securely.I do not know you,Seeing you, more than unseeing.What you are that you areHere in my spiritual being.Leave me you cannot,Nor can I remove meFrom the sevenfold dark fireYou have lit here since you love me.Yet love unsureNo wilder could be burning.Come, go, come, go,There's neither leaving nor returning.Love me, love me more.O, not my heart shall quaverIf the dark fire more deepSinks and is sevenfold sevenfold graver.VIITHE KESTRELIn a great western wind we climbed the hillAnd saw the clouds run up, ride high and sink;And there were shadows running at our feetTill it seemed the very earth could not be still,Nor could our hearts be still, nor could we thinkOur hearts could ever be still, our thought less fleetThan the dizzy clouds, less than the flying wind.Eastward the valley and the dark steep hillAnd other hills and valleys lost behindIn mist and light. The hedges were not yet bareThough the wind picked at them as he went by.The woods were fire, a fire that dense or clearBurned steady, but could not burn up the shadowsRooted where the trees' roots entangled lie,In darkness; or a flame burned solitaryIn the middle of the highest of brown meadows,Burned solitary and unconsuming whereA red tree stooped to its black shadow andThe kestrel's shadow hunted the kestrel up the hill.We climbed, and as we stood (where yet we standAnd of the visioned sun and shadow still drink)Happiness like a shadow chased our thoughtThat tossed on free wings up and down the world;Till by that wild swift-darting shadow caughtOur free spirits their free pinions furled.Then as the kestrel began once more the heavens to climbA new-winged spirit rose clear above the hills of time.VIIITHE IMAGEI am a river flowing round your hill,Holding your image in my lingering water,With imaged white clouds rising round your head;And I am happy to bear your image still.Though a loud ruffling wind may break and scatterThat happiness, I know it is not fled.But when the wind is gone or gentled soThat only the least quivering quivers on,Your image recomposes in my breastWith those high clouds, quiet and white as snow—Spiritual company; and when day's goneAnd those white clouds have stepped into the west;And the dark blue filling the heavens deepIs bright with stars that sing above your head,Their light lies in the deep of my dark eyesWith your dark shape, a shadow of your sleep ...I am happy still, watching the bright stars treadAround your shadow that in my bosom lies.IXPERVERSITIESINow come,And I that moment will forget you.Sit hereAnd in your eyes I shall not see you.Speak, speakThat I no more may hear your music.Into my arms,Till I've forgotten I ever met you.I shall not have you when I hold youBody to body,Though your firm flesh, though your strong fingersBe knit to these.On a wild hill I shall be chasingThe thought of you;False will be those true things I told you:I shall forget you.No, do not come.Where the wind hunts, there shall I find you.In cool gray cloudWhere the sun slips through I shall see you,Or where the treesAre silenced, and darken in their branches.Your coming wouldLoosen, when my thought still would bind you.Against my shoulder your warm shoulderWhen last you leaned—Think, were you nearer then and dearer,Or I more glad?O eternal love, your body brings youNo nearer.Trust me, be bold, be even a little bolderAnd do not come.XPERVERSITIESIIYet when I am alone my eyes say, Come.My hands cannot be still.In that first moment all my senses ache,Cells, that were empty fill,The clay walls shake,And unimprisoned thought runs where it will.Runs and is glad and listens and doubts, and gloomsBecause you are not here.Then once more rises and is clear againAs sense is never clear,And happy, though in vainThese eyes wait and these arms to bring you near.Yet spite of thought my arms and eyes say, Come,Pained with such discontent.For though thought have you all my senses ache—O, it was not meantMy body should never wakeBut on thought's tranquil bosom rest content.XITHE VALLEYBetween the beechen hill and the green downThe valley pastures sink;And the green river runs through their warm greenNorthward into the sea.Dark is the beechen hill these winter days,The trees swallow the lightAnd make an evening there when morning shinesAnd the down heaves to the south.Only when the sun's low a fire creeps throughThe dark of the beechen hill;While the green down, misty from head to foot,Grows huge and dim with sleep.Then in the valley by the yet shining river,Under the noisy elms,I know how like twin shadows over meRising high, east and west,Are Love's dark hills, quiet, unchanging, vast,Sleeping beneath the stars;While I with those stars in my bosom shiningMove northward to the sea.XIITHE DARK NIGHT OF THE MINDI could not love if my thought loved not too,Nor could my body touch the body of you,Unless first in the dark night of the mindLove had fulfilled what Love had well designed.Was it in thought or flesh we walked, when lowThe sun dropped, and the white scar on the hillSank into the dark trees?Could we indeed so quietly goBody by body into that heavenly glow?The elms that rose so vast above the millNear leafless were and still;But from the branches with such loud uneaseBlack flocking starlings mixed their warring criesThat seemed the greater noise of the creaking mill;And every branch and extreme twig was blackWith birds that whistled and heard and whistled back,Filling with noise as late with wings the skies.Was it their noise we heard,Or clamour of other thoughts in our quiet mind that stirred?Then through the climbing hazel hedge new thinnedBy the early and rapacious wind,We saw the silver birches gleam with lightOf frozen masts in seas all wild and green.O, were they truly trees, or some unseenThought taking on an image dark and bright?And did those bodies see them, or the mind?And did those bodies face once more the hillTo bathe in night, or on a darker roadOur spirits unseeing unwearying rise and riseWhere these feet never trod?From that familiar outer darkness IWould rise to the inner, deeper, darker skyAnd find you in my spirit—or find you not,O, never, never, if not in my thought.
I
DARK AND STRANGE
When first Love came, then was I but a boySwept with delirium of undreamt joy.Now Love comes to a man serious with changeOf life and death—and makes the world dark and strange.
II
WILD HEART
Wild heart, wild heart,Where does the wind find home?Wild heart, wild heart,Where does the wild blood rest?Home, home,Rest, rest—Unto you I comeAnd catch you to my breast.
Wild heart, wild heart,There the wind will sleep.Wild heart, wild heart,And the blood gently flow.Come, come,Unresting restWithin my heart's cave deepWhere thoughts like bright stars glow.
Wild heart, wild heart,Here, here is your home.Wild heart, wild heart,With that winged star I come.Home, home,Rest in unrest—Unto you, wild heart, I come.My wild heart is your home.
III
HOME FOR LOVE
Because the earth is vast and darkAnd wet and cold;Because man's heart wants warmth and lightLest it grow old;
Therefore the house was built—wall, roofAnd brick and beam,By a lost hand following the lostDelight of a dream,
And room and stair show how that handGroped in eager doubt,With needless weight of teasing timberMatching his thought—
Such fond superfluousness of strengthIn wall and woodAs his half-wise, half-fearful eyeDeemed only good.
His brain he built into the house,Laboured his bones;He burnt his heart into the brickAnd red hearth-stones.
It is his blood that makes the houseStill warm, safe, bright,Honest as aim and eye and hand,As clean, as light.
Because the earth is vast and darkThe house was built—Now with another heart and fireTo be fulfilled.
IV
THE ALDE
How near I walked to Love,How long, I cannot tell.I was like the Alde that flowsQuietly through green level lands,So quietly, it knowsTheir shape, their greenness and their shadows well;And then undreamingly for miles it goesAnd silently, beside the sea.
Seamews circle over,The winter wildfowl wings,Long and green the grasses waveBetween the river and the sea.The sea's cry, wild or grave,From, bank to low bank of the river rings;But the uncertain river though it craveThe sea, knows not the sea.
Was that indeed salt wind?Came that noise from fallingWild waters on a stony shore?Oh, what is this new troubling tideOf eager waves that pourAround and over, leaping, parting, recalling?...How near I moved (as day to same day wore)And silently, beside the sea!
V
AGAINST THE COLD PALE SKY
Against the cold pale skyThe elm tree company rose high.All the fine hues of dayThat flowered so bold had died away.Only chill blue, faint green,And deepening dark blue were seen.
There swinging on a boughThat hung or floated broad and low.The lamp of evening, brightWith more than planetary light,Was beautiful and free—A white bird swaying on the tree.
You watched and I watched,Our eyes and hearts so surely matched.We saw the white bird leap, leapShining in his journey steepThrough that vast cold sky.Our hearts knew his unuttered cry—
A cry of free delightSpreading over the clustering night.Pole Hill grave and starkStared at the valley's tidal dark,The Darent glimmered wan;But that eager planet winging on,
And singing on, went highInto the deeps and heights of sky.And our thoughts rising tooBrightened the mortal darkness throughTrembled and danced and sangTill the mute invisible heavens rang.
VI
THE DARK FIRE
Love me not lessYet ease me of this fever,That in my wondering heartBurns, sinks, burns again ever.
Is it your loveIn me so fiercely burning,Or my love leaping to youThen requickened returning?
Come not to me,Bring not your body nearer,Though you overleapt the milesI could not behold you clearer.
I could not clasp youThan in my thought more surely;Breast to breast, heart to heartMight cling no more securely.
I do not know you,Seeing you, more than unseeing.What you are that you areHere in my spiritual being.
Leave me you cannot,Nor can I remove meFrom the sevenfold dark fireYou have lit here since you love me.
Yet love unsureNo wilder could be burning.Come, go, come, go,There's neither leaving nor returning.
Love me, love me more.O, not my heart shall quaverIf the dark fire more deepSinks and is sevenfold sevenfold graver.
VII
THE KESTREL
In a great western wind we climbed the hillAnd saw the clouds run up, ride high and sink;And there were shadows running at our feetTill it seemed the very earth could not be still,Nor could our hearts be still, nor could we thinkOur hearts could ever be still, our thought less fleetThan the dizzy clouds, less than the flying wind.Eastward the valley and the dark steep hillAnd other hills and valleys lost behindIn mist and light. The hedges were not yet bareThough the wind picked at them as he went by.The woods were fire, a fire that dense or clearBurned steady, but could not burn up the shadowsRooted where the trees' roots entangled lie,In darkness; or a flame burned solitaryIn the middle of the highest of brown meadows,Burned solitary and unconsuming whereA red tree stooped to its black shadow andThe kestrel's shadow hunted the kestrel up the hill.We climbed, and as we stood (where yet we standAnd of the visioned sun and shadow still drink)Happiness like a shadow chased our thoughtThat tossed on free wings up and down the world;Till by that wild swift-darting shadow caughtOur free spirits their free pinions furled.Then as the kestrel began once more the heavens to climbA new-winged spirit rose clear above the hills of time.
VIII
THE IMAGE
I am a river flowing round your hill,Holding your image in my lingering water,With imaged white clouds rising round your head;And I am happy to bear your image still.Though a loud ruffling wind may break and scatterThat happiness, I know it is not fled.
But when the wind is gone or gentled soThat only the least quivering quivers on,Your image recomposes in my breastWith those high clouds, quiet and white as snow—Spiritual company; and when day's goneAnd those white clouds have stepped into the west;
And the dark blue filling the heavens deepIs bright with stars that sing above your head,Their light lies in the deep of my dark eyesWith your dark shape, a shadow of your sleep ...I am happy still, watching the bright stars treadAround your shadow that in my bosom lies.
IX
PERVERSITIES
I
Now come,And I that moment will forget you.Sit hereAnd in your eyes I shall not see you.Speak, speakThat I no more may hear your music.Into my arms,Till I've forgotten I ever met you.
I shall not have you when I hold youBody to body,Though your firm flesh, though your strong fingersBe knit to these.On a wild hill I shall be chasingThe thought of you;False will be those true things I told you:I shall forget you.
No, do not come.Where the wind hunts, there shall I find you.In cool gray cloudWhere the sun slips through I shall see you,Or where the treesAre silenced, and darken in their branches.Your coming wouldLoosen, when my thought still would bind you.
Against my shoulder your warm shoulderWhen last you leaned—Think, were you nearer then and dearer,Or I more glad?O eternal love, your body brings youNo nearer.Trust me, be bold, be even a little bolderAnd do not come.
X
PERVERSITIES
II
Yet when I am alone my eyes say, Come.My hands cannot be still.In that first moment all my senses ache,Cells, that were empty fill,The clay walls shake,And unimprisoned thought runs where it will.
Runs and is glad and listens and doubts, and gloomsBecause you are not here.Then once more rises and is clear againAs sense is never clear,And happy, though in vainThese eyes wait and these arms to bring you near.
Yet spite of thought my arms and eyes say, Come,Pained with such discontent.For though thought have you all my senses ache—O, it was not meantMy body should never wakeBut on thought's tranquil bosom rest content.
XI
THE VALLEY
Between the beechen hill and the green downThe valley pastures sink;And the green river runs through their warm greenNorthward into the sea.
Dark is the beechen hill these winter days,The trees swallow the lightAnd make an evening there when morning shinesAnd the down heaves to the south.
Only when the sun's low a fire creeps throughThe dark of the beechen hill;While the green down, misty from head to foot,Grows huge and dim with sleep.
Then in the valley by the yet shining river,Under the noisy elms,I know how like twin shadows over meRising high, east and west,
Are Love's dark hills, quiet, unchanging, vast,Sleeping beneath the stars;While I with those stars in my bosom shiningMove northward to the sea.
XII
THE DARK NIGHT OF THE MIND
I could not love if my thought loved not too,Nor could my body touch the body of you,Unless first in the dark night of the mindLove had fulfilled what Love had well designed.
Was it in thought or flesh we walked, when lowThe sun dropped, and the white scar on the hillSank into the dark trees?Could we indeed so quietly goBody by body into that heavenly glow?
The elms that rose so vast above the millNear leafless were and still;But from the branches with such loud uneaseBlack flocking starlings mixed their warring criesThat seemed the greater noise of the creaking mill;And every branch and extreme twig was blackWith birds that whistled and heard and whistled back,Filling with noise as late with wings the skies.Was it their noise we heard,Or clamour of other thoughts in our quiet mind that stirred?
Then through the climbing hazel hedge new thinnedBy the early and rapacious wind,We saw the silver birches gleam with lightOf frozen masts in seas all wild and green.O, were they truly trees, or some unseenThought taking on an image dark and bright?And did those bodies see them, or the mind?And did those bodies face once more the hillTo bathe in night, or on a darker roadOur spirits unseeing unwearying rise and riseWhere these feet never trod?
From that familiar outer darkness IWould rise to the inner, deeper, darker skyAnd find you in my spirit—or find you not,O, never, never, if not in my thought.