When I had dreamed and dreamed what woman's beauty was,And how that beauty seen from unseen surely flowed,I turned and dreamed again, but sleeping now no more:My eyes shut and my mind with inward vision glowed."I did not think!" I cried, seeing that wavering shapeThat steadied and then wavered, as a cherry bough in JuneLifts and falls in the wind—each fruit a fruit of light;And then she stood as clear as an unclouded moon.As clear and still she stood, moonlike remotely near;I saw and heard her breathe, I years and years away.Her light streamed through the years, I saw her clear and still,Shape and spirit together mingling night with day.Water falling, falling with the curve of timeOver green-hued rock, then plunging to its poolFar, far below, a falling spear of light;Water falling golden from the sun but moonlike cool:Water has the curve of her shoulder and breast,Water falls as straight as her body rose,Water her brightness has from neck to still feet,Water crystal-cold as her cold body flows.But not water has the colour I saw when I dreamed,Nor water such strength has. I joyed to beholdHow the blood lit her body with lamps of fireAnd made the flesh glow that like water gleamed cold.A flame in her arms and in each finger flame,And flame in her bosom, flame above, below,The curve of climbing flame in her waist and her thighs;From foot to head did flame into red flame flow.I knew how beauty seen from unseen must rise,How the body's joy for more than body's use was made.I knew then how the body is the body of the mind,And how the mind's own fire beneath the cool skin played.O shape that once to have seen is to see evermore,Falling stream that falls to the deeps of the mind,Fire that once lit burns while aught burns in the world,Foot to head a flame moving in the spirit's wind!If these eyes could see what these eyes have not seen—The inward vision clear—how should I look for joy,Knowing that beauty's self rose visible in the worldOver age that darkens, and griefs that destroy?
When I had dreamed and dreamed what woman's beauty was,And how that beauty seen from unseen surely flowed,I turned and dreamed again, but sleeping now no more:My eyes shut and my mind with inward vision glowed.
"I did not think!" I cried, seeing that wavering shapeThat steadied and then wavered, as a cherry bough in JuneLifts and falls in the wind—each fruit a fruit of light;And then she stood as clear as an unclouded moon.
As clear and still she stood, moonlike remotely near;I saw and heard her breathe, I years and years away.Her light streamed through the years, I saw her clear and still,Shape and spirit together mingling night with day.
Water falling, falling with the curve of timeOver green-hued rock, then plunging to its poolFar, far below, a falling spear of light;Water falling golden from the sun but moonlike cool:
Water has the curve of her shoulder and breast,Water falls as straight as her body rose,Water her brightness has from neck to still feet,Water crystal-cold as her cold body flows.
But not water has the colour I saw when I dreamed,Nor water such strength has. I joyed to beholdHow the blood lit her body with lamps of fireAnd made the flesh glow that like water gleamed cold.
A flame in her arms and in each finger flame,And flame in her bosom, flame above, below,The curve of climbing flame in her waist and her thighs;From foot to head did flame into red flame flow.
I knew how beauty seen from unseen must rise,How the body's joy for more than body's use was made.I knew then how the body is the body of the mind,And how the mind's own fire beneath the cool skin played.
O shape that once to have seen is to see evermore,Falling stream that falls to the deeps of the mind,Fire that once lit burns while aught burns in the world,Foot to head a flame moving in the spirit's wind!
If these eyes could see what these eyes have not seen—The inward vision clear—how should I look for joy,Knowing that beauty's self rose visible in the worldOver age that darkens, and griefs that destroy?
They were like dreams that in a drowsy hourA sad old God had dreamed in loneliness of power.They were like dreams that in his drowsy mindRose slowly and then, darkening, made him wise and blind—So that he saw no more the level sun,Nor the small solid shadow of unclouded noon.The dark green heights rose slowly from the greenOf the dark water till the sky was narrowly seen;Only at night the lifting walls were still,And stars were bright and calm above each calm dark hill.... I could not think but that a God grown oldSaw in a dream or waking all this round of boldAnd wavelike hills, and knew them but a thought,Or but a wave uptost and poised awhile then caughtBack to the sea with waves a million moreThat rise and pause and break at last upon the shore.A God, a God saw first those hills that ISaw now immense upholding the starry crowded sky:His breath the mist that clung their shoulders round,His slow unconscious sigh that easeless floating sound.Ere mine his thought failed under each rough heightAnd then was brave, seeing the stars climb calm and bright.Ere they were named he named them in his mood,Like varying children of one giant warring brood—Broad-Foot, Cloud-Gatherer, Long-Back, Winter-Head,Bravery and Bright-Face and that long Home of the Dead;And their still waters glittering in his glanceNamed Buckler, Silver Dish, Two Eyes and Shining Lance,Names unrecorded, but the circling windRemembers and repeats them to the listening mind....That mind was mine. At Shining Lance I staredBetween Long-Back and Winter-Head as the new sun baredThe Lake and heights of shadow and the wan goldDeepened and new warmth came into the light's sharp cold.And the near trees shivered no more but shookTheir music over Shining Lance; and the excited brookFreshened in the sun's eye and tossed his sprayHigh and sparkling, and then sprang dancing, dancing away.But Winter-Head and Long-Back, gravely bright,Stood firm as if for ever and a day and a night—As they were more than a wave before 'tis caughtBack to the tossing tide, more than a flying thought,More than a dream that an old God once dreamedWhen visionary not at all visionary seemed.
They were like dreams that in a drowsy hourA sad old God had dreamed in loneliness of power.They were like dreams that in his drowsy mindRose slowly and then, darkening, made him wise and blind—So that he saw no more the level sun,Nor the small solid shadow of unclouded noon.The dark green heights rose slowly from the greenOf the dark water till the sky was narrowly seen;Only at night the lifting walls were still,And stars were bright and calm above each calm dark hill.... I could not think but that a God grown oldSaw in a dream or waking all this round of boldAnd wavelike hills, and knew them but a thought,Or but a wave uptost and poised awhile then caughtBack to the sea with waves a million moreThat rise and pause and break at last upon the shore.A God, a God saw first those hills that ISaw now immense upholding the starry crowded sky:His breath the mist that clung their shoulders round,His slow unconscious sigh that easeless floating sound.Ere mine his thought failed under each rough heightAnd then was brave, seeing the stars climb calm and bright.Ere they were named he named them in his mood,Like varying children of one giant warring brood—Broad-Foot, Cloud-Gatherer, Long-Back, Winter-Head,Bravery and Bright-Face and that long Home of the Dead;And their still waters glittering in his glanceNamed Buckler, Silver Dish, Two Eyes and Shining Lance,Names unrecorded, but the circling windRemembers and repeats them to the listening mind....That mind was mine. At Shining Lance I staredBetween Long-Back and Winter-Head as the new sun baredThe Lake and heights of shadow and the wan goldDeepened and new warmth came into the light's sharp cold.And the near trees shivered no more but shookTheir music over Shining Lance; and the excited brookFreshened in the sun's eye and tossed his sprayHigh and sparkling, and then sprang dancing, dancing away.But Winter-Head and Long-Back, gravely bright,Stood firm as if for ever and a day and a night—As they were more than a wave before 'tis caughtBack to the tossing tide, more than a flying thought,More than a dream that an old God once dreamedWhen visionary not at all visionary seemed.
Gray were the rushesBeside the budless bushes,Green-patched the pond.The lark had left soaringThough yet the sun was pouringHis gold here and beyond.Bramble-branches held me,But had they not compelled meYet had I lingered thereHearing the frogs and thenWatching the water-henThat stared back at my stare.There amid the bushesWere blackbird's nests and thrush's,Soon to be hiddenIn leaves on green leaves thickening,Boughs over long boughs quickeningSwiftly, unforbidden.The lark had left singingBut song all round was ringing,As though the rushesWere sighingly repeatingAnd mingling that most sweet thingWith the sweet note of thrushes.That sweetness rose all round me,But more than sweetness bound me,A spirit stirred;Shadowy and cold it neared me,Then shrank as if it feared me—But 'twas I that feared.
Gray were the rushesBeside the budless bushes,Green-patched the pond.The lark had left soaringThough yet the sun was pouringHis gold here and beyond.
Bramble-branches held me,But had they not compelled meYet had I lingered thereHearing the frogs and thenWatching the water-henThat stared back at my stare.
There amid the bushesWere blackbird's nests and thrush's,Soon to be hiddenIn leaves on green leaves thickening,Boughs over long boughs quickeningSwiftly, unforbidden.
The lark had left singingBut song all round was ringing,As though the rushesWere sighingly repeatingAnd mingling that most sweet thingWith the sweet note of thrushes.
That sweetness rose all round me,But more than sweetness bound me,A spirit stirred;Shadowy and cold it neared me,Then shrank as if it feared me—But 'twas I that feared.
The wind has thrownThe boldest of trees down.Now disgraced it lies,Naked in spring beneath the drifting skies,Naked and still.It was the windSo furious and blindThat scourged half England through,Ruining the fairest where most fair it grewBy dell and hill.And springing here,The black clouds dragging near,Against this lonely elmThrust all his strength to maim and overwhelmIn one wild shock.As in the deepSatisfaction of dark sleepThe tree her dream dreamed on,And woke to feel the wind's arms round her thrownAnd her head rock.And the wind raughtHer ageing boughs and caughtHer body fast again.Then in one agony of age, grief, pain,She fell and died.Her noble height,Branches that loved the light,Her music and cool shade,Her memories and all of her is deadOn the hill side.But the wind stooped.With madness tired, and droopedIn the soft valley and slept.While morning strangely round the hush'd tree creptAnd called in vain.The birds fed whereThe roots uptorn and bareThrust shameful at the sky;And pewits round the tree would dip and cryWith the old pain."Ten o'clock's gone!"Said sadly every one.And mothers looking thoughtOf sons and husbands far away that fought:—And looked again.[A]Ten o'clockis the name of a tall tree that crowned the eastern Cotswolds.
The wind has thrownThe boldest of trees down.Now disgraced it lies,Naked in spring beneath the drifting skies,Naked and still.
It was the windSo furious and blindThat scourged half England through,Ruining the fairest where most fair it grewBy dell and hill.
And springing here,The black clouds dragging near,Against this lonely elmThrust all his strength to maim and overwhelmIn one wild shock.
As in the deepSatisfaction of dark sleepThe tree her dream dreamed on,And woke to feel the wind's arms round her thrownAnd her head rock.
And the wind raughtHer ageing boughs and caughtHer body fast again.Then in one agony of age, grief, pain,She fell and died.
Her noble height,Branches that loved the light,Her music and cool shade,Her memories and all of her is deadOn the hill side.
But the wind stooped.With madness tired, and droopedIn the soft valley and slept.While morning strangely round the hush'd tree creptAnd called in vain.
The birds fed whereThe roots uptorn and bareThrust shameful at the sky;And pewits round the tree would dip and cryWith the old pain.
"Ten o'clock's gone!"Said sadly every one.And mothers looking thoughtOf sons and husbands far away that fought:—And looked again.
[A]Ten o'clockis the name of a tall tree that crowned the eastern Cotswolds.
Is it because Spring now is comeThat my heart leaps in its bed of dust?Is it with sorrow or strange pleasureTo watch the green time's gathering treasure?Or is there some too sharp distasteIn all this quivering green and gold?Something that makes bare boughs yet barer,And the eye's pure delight the rarer?Not that the new found Spring is sour....The blossom swings on the cherry branch,From Wear to Thames I have seen this greennessCover the six-months-winter meanness.And windflowers and yellow gillyflowersPierce the astonished earth with light:And most-loved wallflower's bloody petalShakes over that long frosty battle.But this leaping, sinking heartFinds question in grass, bud and blossom—Too deeply into the earth is prying,Too sharply hears old voices crying.There is in blossom, bud and grassSomething that's neither sorrow nor joy,Something that sighs like autumn sighing,And in each living thing is dying.It is myself that whispers and staresDown from the hill and in the wood,And in the untended orchard's shiningSees the light through thin leaves declining.Let me forget what I have beenWhat I can never be again.Let me forget my winter's meannessIn this fond, flushing world of greenness.Let me forget the world that isThe changing image of my thought,Nor see in thicket and hedge and meadowMyself, a grave perplexèd shadow;And O, forget that gloomy shadeThat breathes his cloud 'twixt earth and light ...All, all forget but sun and blossom,And the bird that bears heaven in his bosom.
Is it because Spring now is comeThat my heart leaps in its bed of dust?Is it with sorrow or strange pleasureTo watch the green time's gathering treasure?
Or is there some too sharp distasteIn all this quivering green and gold?Something that makes bare boughs yet barer,And the eye's pure delight the rarer?
Not that the new found Spring is sour....The blossom swings on the cherry branch,From Wear to Thames I have seen this greennessCover the six-months-winter meanness.
And windflowers and yellow gillyflowersPierce the astonished earth with light:And most-loved wallflower's bloody petalShakes over that long frosty battle.
But this leaping, sinking heartFinds question in grass, bud and blossom—Too deeply into the earth is prying,Too sharply hears old voices crying.
There is in blossom, bud and grassSomething that's neither sorrow nor joy,Something that sighs like autumn sighing,And in each living thing is dying.
It is myself that whispers and staresDown from the hill and in the wood,And in the untended orchard's shiningSees the light through thin leaves declining.
Let me forget what I have beenWhat I can never be again.Let me forget my winter's meannessIn this fond, flushing world of greenness.
Let me forget the world that isThe changing image of my thought,Nor see in thicket and hedge and meadowMyself, a grave perplexèd shadow;
And O, forget that gloomy shadeThat breathes his cloud 'twixt earth and light ...All, all forget but sun and blossom,And the bird that bears heaven in his bosom.
When the south-west wind cameThe air grew bright and sweet, as though a flameHad cleansed the world of winter. The low skyAs the wind lifted it rose trembling vast and high,And white clouds sallied byAs children in their pleasure goChasing the sun beneath the orchard's shadow and snow.Nothing, nothing was the same!Not the dull brick, not the stained London stone,Not the delighted trees that lost their moan—Their moan that daily vexed me with such painUntil I hated to see trees again;Nor man nor woman was the sameNor could be stones again,Such light and colour with the south-west came.As I drank all that brightness up I sawA dark globe lapt in fold on fold of gloom,With all her hosts asleep in that cold tomb,Sealed by an iron law.And there amid the hills,Locked in an icy hollow lay the bonesOf one that ghostly and enormous sleptObscure 'neath wrinkled ice and bedded stones.But as spring water the old dry channel fills,Came the south-west wind filling all the air.Then Time rose up, ghostly, enormous, stark,With cold gray light in cold gray eyes, and darkDark clouds caught round him, feet to rigid chin.The wind ran flushed and glorious in,Godlike from hill to frozen hill-top stepp'd,And swiftly upon that bony stature swept.Then a long breath and then quick breaths I heard,In those black caves of stillness music stirred,Those icy heights were riven:From crown to clearing hollow grass was green;And godlike from flushed hill to hill-top leaptTime, youthful, quick, serene,Dew flashing from his limbs, light from his eyesTo the sheeny skies.A lark's song climbed from earth and dropped from heaven,Far off the tide clung to the shoreNow silent nevermore.... Into what vision'd wonder was I swept,Upon what unimaginable joyance had I leapt!
When the south-west wind cameThe air grew bright and sweet, as though a flameHad cleansed the world of winter. The low skyAs the wind lifted it rose trembling vast and high,And white clouds sallied byAs children in their pleasure goChasing the sun beneath the orchard's shadow and snow.Nothing, nothing was the same!Not the dull brick, not the stained London stone,Not the delighted trees that lost their moan—Their moan that daily vexed me with such painUntil I hated to see trees again;Nor man nor woman was the sameNor could be stones again,Such light and colour with the south-west came.As I drank all that brightness up I sawA dark globe lapt in fold on fold of gloom,With all her hosts asleep in that cold tomb,Sealed by an iron law.And there amid the hills,Locked in an icy hollow lay the bonesOf one that ghostly and enormous sleptObscure 'neath wrinkled ice and bedded stones.But as spring water the old dry channel fills,Came the south-west wind filling all the air.Then Time rose up, ghostly, enormous, stark,With cold gray light in cold gray eyes, and darkDark clouds caught round him, feet to rigid chin.The wind ran flushed and glorious in,Godlike from hill to frozen hill-top stepp'd,And swiftly upon that bony stature swept.Then a long breath and then quick breaths I heard,In those black caves of stillness music stirred,Those icy heights were riven:From crown to clearing hollow grass was green;And godlike from flushed hill to hill-top leaptTime, youthful, quick, serene,Dew flashing from his limbs, light from his eyesTo the sheeny skies.A lark's song climbed from earth and dropped from heaven,Far off the tide clung to the shoreNow silent nevermore.... Into what vision'd wonder was I swept,Upon what unimaginable joyance had I leapt!
Came the same cuckoo's cryAll day across the mead.Flitted the butterflyAll day dittering over my head.Came a bleak crawk-cawBetween tall broad trees.Came shadows, floating, drifting slowly downLarge leaves from darker trees.Rose the lark with the rising sun,Rose the mist after the lark,O wild and sweet the clamour begunRound the heels of the limping dark.Rose after white cloud white cloud,Nodded green cloud to green;The stiff and dark earth stirred, breathing aloud,And dew shook from the green.Remained the eyes that stared,Ears that ached to hear;Remained the nerve of being, bared,Stung with delight and fear.Beauty flushed, ran and returned,Like a music rose and fell;Staring and blind and deaf I listened and burned—A wilder music fell.
Came the same cuckoo's cryAll day across the mead.Flitted the butterflyAll day dittering over my head.Came a bleak crawk-cawBetween tall broad trees.Came shadows, floating, drifting slowly downLarge leaves from darker trees.
Rose the lark with the rising sun,Rose the mist after the lark,O wild and sweet the clamour begunRound the heels of the limping dark.Rose after white cloud white cloud,Nodded green cloud to green;The stiff and dark earth stirred, breathing aloud,And dew shook from the green.
Remained the eyes that stared,Ears that ached to hear;Remained the nerve of being, bared,Stung with delight and fear.Beauty flushed, ran and returned,Like a music rose and fell;Staring and blind and deaf I listened and burned—A wilder music fell.
O cover me, long gentle grasses,Cover me with your seeding heads,Cover me with your shaking limbs,Cover me with your light soft hands,Cover me as the delicious long wind passesOver you and me, green grasses.'Tis of your blood I would be drinking,To your soft shrilling listening now,And your thin fingers peering throughAt the deep forests of the sky.O satisfy my peevish thought past thinking,My sense with your sense linking.Already are your brown roots creepingAround the roots of my mind's mind,Into the darkness hidden withinThe rayed dark of unconsciousness;And your long stems in a bright wind are leapingOver me uneasily sleeping.O cover me, long gentle grasses,As one day over a quiet fleshYou will shake, shake and dance and sing;And body too still and spirit astirWill hear you in every firm bright wind that passesOver you, loved green grasses.
O cover me, long gentle grasses,Cover me with your seeding heads,Cover me with your shaking limbs,Cover me with your light soft hands,Cover me as the delicious long wind passesOver you and me, green grasses.
'Tis of your blood I would be drinking,To your soft shrilling listening now,And your thin fingers peering throughAt the deep forests of the sky.O satisfy my peevish thought past thinking,My sense with your sense linking.
Already are your brown roots creepingAround the roots of my mind's mind,Into the darkness hidden withinThe rayed dark of unconsciousness;And your long stems in a bright wind are leapingOver me uneasily sleeping.
O cover me, long gentle grasses,As one day over a quiet fleshYou will shake, shake and dance and sing;And body too still and spirit astirWill hear you in every firm bright wind that passesOver you, loved green grasses.
So fair, that all the morning achesWith such monotony!So brief, that sadness breaksThe brittle spell.Nothing so fair, nothing so brief:The sun leaps up and falls.The wind tosses every leaf:Every leaf dies.Blossom, a white cloud in the air,Is blown like a cloud away.Must all be brief, being fair?Nothing remain?Yes, night and that high regimentOf stars that wheel and march,Ever their bright lines bentTo a secret thought;Moving immutable, bright and grave,Fair beyond all things fair;Though all else vanish, saveImagination's dream.
So fair, that all the morning achesWith such monotony!So brief, that sadness breaksThe brittle spell.
Nothing so fair, nothing so brief:The sun leaps up and falls.The wind tosses every leaf:Every leaf dies.
Blossom, a white cloud in the air,Is blown like a cloud away.Must all be brief, being fair?Nothing remain?
Yes, night and that high regimentOf stars that wheel and march,Ever their bright lines bentTo a secret thought;
Moving immutable, bright and grave,Fair beyond all things fair;Though all else vanish, saveImagination's dream.
IEve goes slowlyDancing lightlyClad with shadow up the hills;Birds their singingCease at last, and silenceFalling like fine rain the valley fills.Not a bat's cryStirs the stillnessPerfect as broad water sleeping,Not a moth's wingsFlit in the gathering darkness,Not a mouselike moonray ev'n comes creeping.Then a light shinesFrom the casement,Wreathed with jasmine boughs and stars,Palely goldenAs the late eve's primrose,Glimmers through green leafy prison bars.IIOnly joy nowCome in silence,Come before your look's forgot;Come and hearkenWhile the lonely shadowBroadens on the hill and then is not.Now the hour is,Here the place is,Here am I who saw thee here.Evening darkensAll is still and marvellous,Now the sharp stars in the deep sky peer.Come and fill meAs the wind fillsLeafy wide boughs of a tree;Come and windlikeCleanse my slumbrous branches,Come and moonlike bathe the leaves of me.IIIEve has gone andNight follows,Every bush is now a ghost;Every tree loomsLofty large and sombre;All day's simple friendliness is lost.See the poplarsBlack in blackness,In all their leaves there is no sigh.'Neath that darklingCedar who dare wanderNow, or under the vast oak would lie!...Till that tinglingSilence brokenEvery clod renews its breath;Birds, leaves, grassesHeave as one, then sleep onFull of sweeter sleep and unlike death.IVOnly joy nowCome like musicFalling clear from strings of light;Come like shadowDrinking up late sunrays,Come like moonrays sweeping the round night.See how night isOpening flowerlike:Open so thy bosom to me.See how earth fallsEaseful into silence:Let my moth-wing'd thought so fall on thee.While the lamp's beamPrimrose goldenNow is like a shifting spearBorne in battle,Seen awhile then hidden,Bold then beaten—now long lost, and here!
I
Eve goes slowlyDancing lightlyClad with shadow up the hills;Birds their singingCease at last, and silenceFalling like fine rain the valley fills.
Not a bat's cryStirs the stillnessPerfect as broad water sleeping,Not a moth's wingsFlit in the gathering darkness,Not a mouselike moonray ev'n comes creeping.
Then a light shinesFrom the casement,Wreathed with jasmine boughs and stars,Palely goldenAs the late eve's primrose,Glimmers through green leafy prison bars.
II
Only joy nowCome in silence,Come before your look's forgot;Come and hearkenWhile the lonely shadowBroadens on the hill and then is not.
Now the hour is,Here the place is,Here am I who saw thee here.Evening darkensAll is still and marvellous,Now the sharp stars in the deep sky peer.
Come and fill meAs the wind fillsLeafy wide boughs of a tree;Come and windlikeCleanse my slumbrous branches,Come and moonlike bathe the leaves of me.
III
Eve has gone andNight follows,Every bush is now a ghost;Every tree loomsLofty large and sombre;All day's simple friendliness is lost.
See the poplarsBlack in blackness,In all their leaves there is no sigh.'Neath that darklingCedar who dare wanderNow, or under the vast oak would lie!...
Till that tinglingSilence brokenEvery clod renews its breath;Birds, leaves, grassesHeave as one, then sleep onFull of sweeter sleep and unlike death.
IV
Only joy nowCome like musicFalling clear from strings of light;Come like shadowDrinking up late sunrays,Come like moonrays sweeping the round night.
See how night isOpening flowerlike:Open so thy bosom to me.See how earth fallsEaseful into silence:Let my moth-wing'd thought so fall on thee.
While the lamp's beamPrimrose goldenNow is like a shifting spearBorne in battle,Seen awhile then hidden,Bold then beaten—now long lost, and here!
The tall slaves bow if that capricious KingBut glances as he passes;Their dark hoods drawing over abashed facesThey bow humbly, unappealingly.The dark robes round their shuddering bodies cling,They bow and but whisper as he passes.They have not learned to look into his eyes,If he insults to answer,To stand with head erect and angry arching bosom:They bow humbly, unappealingly,As though he mastered earth and the violet inky skies,And whisper piteously for only answer.So they stand, tall slaves, ashamed of their great height,And if he comes raving,Shouting from the west, furious and moody,They bow more humbly, unappealingly,Ashamed to remember how they lived in that calm light;They droop until he passes, tired of raving.Only when he's gone they lift their darkened brows,Light comes back to their eyes,Their leaves caress the light, the light laves their branches,They move loverlike, appealingly;Slaves now no more the poplars lift and shake their boughs,And there's a heaven of evening in their eyes.
The tall slaves bow if that capricious KingBut glances as he passes;Their dark hoods drawing over abashed facesThey bow humbly, unappealingly.The dark robes round their shuddering bodies cling,They bow and but whisper as he passes.
They have not learned to look into his eyes,If he insults to answer,To stand with head erect and angry arching bosom:They bow humbly, unappealingly,As though he mastered earth and the violet inky skies,And whisper piteously for only answer.
So they stand, tall slaves, ashamed of their great height,And if he comes raving,Shouting from the west, furious and moody,They bow more humbly, unappealingly,Ashamed to remember how they lived in that calm light;They droop until he passes, tired of raving.
Only when he's gone they lift their darkened brows,Light comes back to their eyes,Their leaves caress the light, the light laves their branches,They move loverlike, appealingly;Slaves now no more the poplars lift and shake their boughs,And there's a heaven of evening in their eyes.
In the hush of early evenThe clouds came flocking over,Till the last wind fell from heavenAnd no bird cried.Darkly the clouds were flocking,Shadows moved and deepened,Then paused; the poplar's rockingCeased; the light hung stillLike a painted thing, and deadly.Then from the cloud's side flickeredSharp lightning, thrusting madlyAt the cowering fields.Thrice the fierce cloud lighten'd,Down the hill slow thunder trembled;Day in her cave grew frightened,Crept away, and died.
In the hush of early evenThe clouds came flocking over,Till the last wind fell from heavenAnd no bird cried.
Darkly the clouds were flocking,Shadows moved and deepened,Then paused; the poplar's rockingCeased; the light hung still
Like a painted thing, and deadly.Then from the cloud's side flickeredSharp lightning, thrusting madlyAt the cowering fields.
Thrice the fierce cloud lighten'd,Down the hill slow thunder trembled;Day in her cave grew frightened,Crept away, and died.
Here in the shade of the treeThe hours go bySilent and swift,Lightly as birds fly.Then the deep clouds broaden and drift,Or the cloudless darkness and the worn moon.Waking, the dreamer knows he is old,And the day that he dreamed was goneIs gone.
Here in the shade of the treeThe hours go bySilent and swift,Lightly as birds fly.Then the deep clouds broaden and drift,Or the cloudless darkness and the worn moon.Waking, the dreamer knows he is old,And the day that he dreamed was goneIs gone.
Within the greenhouse dim and dampThe heat floats like a cloud.Pale rose-leaves droop from the rust roofWith rust-edged roses bowed.As I go inOut flies the startled wren.By the tall dark fir tree he singsMorn after morn still,Shy and bold he flits and singsTinily sweet and shrill.As I go outHis song follows me about ...About the orchard under treesBeaded with cherries bright,Past the rat-haunted HoneybourneAnd up those hills of light:As up I goHis notes more sweetly flow.Or down those dark hills when night's thereFull of dark thoughts and deep,A thin clear soundless music comesLike stars in broken sleep.When I come downAll those dark thoughts are flown.And now that sweetness is more sweet,Here where the aeroplanesLabouring and groaning in the heightLift their lifeless vans:—Sweet, sweet to hearThe far off wren singing clear.
Within the greenhouse dim and dampThe heat floats like a cloud.Pale rose-leaves droop from the rust roofWith rust-edged roses bowed.As I go inOut flies the startled wren.
By the tall dark fir tree he singsMorn after morn still,Shy and bold he flits and singsTinily sweet and shrill.As I go outHis song follows me about ...
About the orchard under treesBeaded with cherries bright,Past the rat-haunted HoneybourneAnd up those hills of light:As up I goHis notes more sweetly flow.
Or down those dark hills when night's thereFull of dark thoughts and deep,A thin clear soundless music comesLike stars in broken sleep.When I come downAll those dark thoughts are flown.
And now that sweetness is more sweet,Here where the aeroplanesLabouring and groaning in the heightLift their lifeless vans:—Sweet, sweet to hearThe far off wren singing clear.
In these green fields, in this green spring,In this green world of burning sweetThat drives its sour from everythingAnd burns the Arctic with new heat,That seems so slow and flies so fleetOn half-seen wing;In this green world the birds are allWith motion mad, are wild with song;The grass leaps like a sudden wallFlung up against a foe that longStrode round and wrought his frosty wrong.The bright winds call,The bright winds answer; the clouds riseWhite from the grave, shaking their head,Strewing the grave-clothes through the skies,In languid drifting shadow shedUpon the fields where, slowly spread,Each shadow dies.In every wood is green and gold,The unbridged river runs all greenWith queenly swan-clouds floating boldDown to the mill's swift guillotine.Beyond the mill each murdered queenFloats white and cold.—If I could rise up in a cloudAnd look down on the new earth in flight,Shadow-like cast my thought's thin shroudBack upon these fields of light;And hear the winds of day and nightMeet, singing loud!
In these green fields, in this green spring,In this green world of burning sweetThat drives its sour from everythingAnd burns the Arctic with new heat,That seems so slow and flies so fleetOn half-seen wing;
In this green world the birds are allWith motion mad, are wild with song;The grass leaps like a sudden wallFlung up against a foe that longStrode round and wrought his frosty wrong.The bright winds call,
The bright winds answer; the clouds riseWhite from the grave, shaking their head,Strewing the grave-clothes through the skies,In languid drifting shadow shedUpon the fields where, slowly spread,Each shadow dies.
In every wood is green and gold,The unbridged river runs all greenWith queenly swan-clouds floating boldDown to the mill's swift guillotine.Beyond the mill each murdered queenFloats white and cold.
—If I could rise up in a cloudAnd look down on the new earth in flight,Shadow-like cast my thought's thin shroudBack upon these fields of light;And hear the winds of day and nightMeet, singing loud!
Over the pool of sleepThe night mists creep,Then faint thin light and then clear day,Noontide, and lingering afternoon;Then that Wanderer, the MoonWandering her old wild way.How many spirits followHer in that dark hollow!Like a lost lamb she roams on highThrough the cold and soundless sky,And stares down into her deepReflection in the pool of sleep.How many followHer in that lone hollow!She sees them not nor would she hearThough both shape and sound were clear,But stares, stares into the poolOf her fear and beauty full.Far in strange gay skiesShe pales and dies,Forgetting that bright transitoryReflection of astonished glory,Nor heeds the spirits that followHer into day's bright hollow.
Over the pool of sleepThe night mists creep,Then faint thin light and then clear day,Noontide, and lingering afternoon;Then that Wanderer, the MoonWandering her old wild way.
How many spirits followHer in that dark hollow!Like a lost lamb she roams on highThrough the cold and soundless sky,And stares down into her deepReflection in the pool of sleep.
How many followHer in that lone hollow!She sees them not nor would she hearThough both shape and sound were clear,But stares, stares into the poolOf her fear and beauty full.
Far in strange gay skiesShe pales and dies,Forgetting that bright transitoryReflection of astonished glory,Nor heeds the spirits that followHer into day's bright hollow.
There is a garden where the seeded stems of thin long grass are bowedBeneath July's slow rains and heat and tired children's trailing feet;And the trees' neglected branches droop and make a cloud beneath the cloud,And in that dark the crimson dew of raspberries shines more sweet than sweet.The flower of the tall acacia's gone, the acacia's flower is white no more,The aspen lifts his pithless arms, the aspen leaves are close and still;The wind that tossed the clouds along, gray clouds and white like feathers bore,Lets even a feather faintly fall and smoke spread hugely where it will.But though the acacia's flower is gone and raspberries bear bright fruit untasted,Beauty lives there, oh rich and rare, past the sum of eager June.The lime tree's pyramid of flower and leaf and yellow flower unwastedRises at eve and bars the breast wild-heaving of the timid moon.Now the tall pear-trees unrebuked lift their green fingers to the sky;Their lower boughs are crossed like arms of templars in long stony sleep.Their arms are crossed as though the wind, returning from wild war on high,Had touched them with an angry breath, or whispered from his cavern deep.A foxglove lifts her bells and bells silent above the singing grass,Still the old marigold her light sprinkles like riches to the poor.Snapdragon still his changeling blossom shakes with the burden of the bees,And the strong bindweed creeps and winds and springs on high a conqueror.Would now her eyes grieve to behold snapdragon, foxglove, marigoldDaily diminish in their sweet and bindweed wreathing over all—Weed and grass and weed and grass, friendless, melancholy, cold,Wreathing the earth like wreathing snow from bare wall to low greening wall?Old were her eyes that lingered on old trees and grass and flowers trim.She smelt the ripe pears when they drooped and fell and broke upon the path.Old were her thoughts of things of old; her present thoughts were few and dim;Her eyes saw not the things she saw; she listened, to no living breath.Her youth and prime and autumn time bloomed in her thought all light and sweet:No wallflower more of sweet could hold, of sunny light no marigold.Fruit on her mind's boughs ripened full, in summer's and calm autumn's heat:Then fell, for there came none to pick; but winter came, and she was old.Now if her sons come they will find—not her: her empty garden only,The wallflower done and snapdragon still swinging with the greedy bees,Marigold glittering in the grass, scant foxglove ringing faintly, lonely,Close red fruit beading the long boughs and bindweed wreathing where it please.A tawny lean catMarmaladeslinks like a panther through the tallThin bending grass and watches long a scholar thrush rehearsing song;Or children running in the sun hunt and hunt a well lost ball;But most the garden sleeps away the day, but still, when eves are long,When eves are long and no moon rises, and nervous, still, is all the air,That small stiff figure moves again, silent amid the hushing grass;In the firm-carven lime tree's shade she moves, and meets her old thoughts there,Then in the deepening dark is lost, or her light steps unnoted pass.Only that careless garden keeps secure her memory though it sleeps,And the bright flowers and tyrant weed and tall grass shaking its loud seedLess lovely were if wanting her who like a living thought still creepsAnd sees what once she saw and music hears of her living sons and dead.
There is a garden where the seeded stems of thin long grass are bowedBeneath July's slow rains and heat and tired children's trailing feet;And the trees' neglected branches droop and make a cloud beneath the cloud,And in that dark the crimson dew of raspberries shines more sweet than sweet.
The flower of the tall acacia's gone, the acacia's flower is white no more,The aspen lifts his pithless arms, the aspen leaves are close and still;The wind that tossed the clouds along, gray clouds and white like feathers bore,Lets even a feather faintly fall and smoke spread hugely where it will.
But though the acacia's flower is gone and raspberries bear bright fruit untasted,Beauty lives there, oh rich and rare, past the sum of eager June.The lime tree's pyramid of flower and leaf and yellow flower unwastedRises at eve and bars the breast wild-heaving of the timid moon.
Now the tall pear-trees unrebuked lift their green fingers to the sky;Their lower boughs are crossed like arms of templars in long stony sleep.Their arms are crossed as though the wind, returning from wild war on high,Had touched them with an angry breath, or whispered from his cavern deep.
A foxglove lifts her bells and bells silent above the singing grass,Still the old marigold her light sprinkles like riches to the poor.Snapdragon still his changeling blossom shakes with the burden of the bees,And the strong bindweed creeps and winds and springs on high a conqueror.
Would now her eyes grieve to behold snapdragon, foxglove, marigoldDaily diminish in their sweet and bindweed wreathing over all—Weed and grass and weed and grass, friendless, melancholy, cold,Wreathing the earth like wreathing snow from bare wall to low greening wall?
Old were her eyes that lingered on old trees and grass and flowers trim.She smelt the ripe pears when they drooped and fell and broke upon the path.Old were her thoughts of things of old; her present thoughts were few and dim;Her eyes saw not the things she saw; she listened, to no living breath.
Her youth and prime and autumn time bloomed in her thought all light and sweet:No wallflower more of sweet could hold, of sunny light no marigold.Fruit on her mind's boughs ripened full, in summer's and calm autumn's heat:Then fell, for there came none to pick; but winter came, and she was old.
Now if her sons come they will find—not her: her empty garden only,The wallflower done and snapdragon still swinging with the greedy bees,Marigold glittering in the grass, scant foxglove ringing faintly, lonely,Close red fruit beading the long boughs and bindweed wreathing where it please.
A tawny lean catMarmaladeslinks like a panther through the tallThin bending grass and watches long a scholar thrush rehearsing song;Or children running in the sun hunt and hunt a well lost ball;But most the garden sleeps away the day, but still, when eves are long,
When eves are long and no moon rises, and nervous, still, is all the air,That small stiff figure moves again, silent amid the hushing grass;In the firm-carven lime tree's shade she moves, and meets her old thoughts there,Then in the deepening dark is lost, or her light steps unnoted pass.
Only that careless garden keeps secure her memory though it sleeps,And the bright flowers and tyrant weed and tall grass shaking its loud seedLess lovely were if wanting her who like a living thought still creepsAnd sees what once she saw and music hears of her living sons and dead.
That lime tree on the distant rising ground(If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leavesAbove the renewed green of wet August grass—First Autumn yellow that on first Autumn evesToo soon was found.Comfortless lime tree! Scarce an aspen leafLike a green butterfly flitted to the ground;There was no sign of Autumn in the grass.Even the long garden beds their beauty brief—Their mignonette,Nasturtium and sweet-william and red stocks,And clover crouching in the border grass,And blood-like fuschia, eve's primrose and white phloxAnd honeysuckle—waved all their smell and hueMorn and eve anew.But that far lime tree yellowing by the oak,Warning oak, elm and poplar and each fresh treeShaking in the south wind delightedly,And clover in the closeness of the grass,Warns also me.And now when all the trees are standing stillBeneath the purple and white of the west sky,And time is standing still—as stand it will—That early yellowing lime with palsied fingersCannot be still.
That lime tree on the distant rising ground(If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leavesAbove the renewed green of wet August grass—First Autumn yellow that on first Autumn evesToo soon was found.
Comfortless lime tree! Scarce an aspen leafLike a green butterfly flitted to the ground;There was no sign of Autumn in the grass.Even the long garden beds their beauty brief—Their mignonette,
Nasturtium and sweet-william and red stocks,And clover crouching in the border grass,And blood-like fuschia, eve's primrose and white phloxAnd honeysuckle—waved all their smell and hueMorn and eve anew.
But that far lime tree yellowing by the oak,Warning oak, elm and poplar and each fresh treeShaking in the south wind delightedly,And clover in the closeness of the grass,Warns also me.
And now when all the trees are standing stillBeneath the purple and white of the west sky,And time is standing still—as stand it will—That early yellowing lime with palsied fingersCannot be still.
Thou shaking thy dark shadows down,Like leaves before the first leaves fall,Pourest upon the head of nightHer loveliest loveliness of all—Dark leaves that trembleWhen soft airs unto softer call.O, darker, softer fall her thoughtsUpon the cold fields of my mind,Weaving a quiet music thereLike leaf-shapes trembling in least wind:Dark thoughts that lingerWhen the light's gone and the night's blind.I see her there beneath your boughs.Dark chestnut, though you see her not;Her white face and white hands are clearAs the moon in your stretched arms caught;But stranger, clearer,The living shadows of her thought.
Thou shaking thy dark shadows down,Like leaves before the first leaves fall,Pourest upon the head of nightHer loveliest loveliness of all—Dark leaves that trembleWhen soft airs unto softer call.
O, darker, softer fall her thoughtsUpon the cold fields of my mind,Weaving a quiet music thereLike leaf-shapes trembling in least wind:Dark thoughts that lingerWhen the light's gone and the night's blind.
I see her there beneath your boughs.Dark chestnut, though you see her not;Her white face and white hands are clearAs the moon in your stretched arms caught;But stranger, clearer,The living shadows of her thought.
Ah, bird singing late in the gloamWhile the evening shadow thickens,And the dizzy bat-wings roam,And the faint starlight quickens;And her bud eve's primrose baresBefore night's cold fingers come:Thine are such lonely airs,Bird singing late in the gloam!
Ah, bird singing late in the gloamWhile the evening shadow thickens,And the dizzy bat-wings roam,And the faint starlight quickens;
And her bud eve's primrose baresBefore night's cold fingers come:Thine are such lonely airs,Bird singing late in the gloam!
It covered allThe cold east wall,Its green, thin gold, purple, brown,And flame running up and down;Lifting its quiet bosom to every wind that creptUp the high wall and in its darkness slept.Then when the wind slept all the creeper turnedTo undiminishing fire that burned and burned and burned.But one black night(For not in the lightMay such treacheries be done)Came with dishonoured weapon oneAnd cut the stem just where the branches thinTheir million-leaf'd wild wandering begin:Cut the firm stem quite through, and so it bled,And all the million leaves shivered and hung there dead.The wall how cold,The house how oldBecame when that warm bright fire died,And the fond wind could no more hide.And it was strange that so much death could beFrom one dark night-hour's darker felony;And how the leaves being dead could not cast downTheir colours in bright pools of red and gold and brown.—It did not die,But flamed on highMorn after morn, even when white snowCovered all brightness, high and low;And in the night when the snow glimmered wanStill beautiful as a fire its brightness shone:Its million quiet leaves quivering in my mind,When from no earthly meadows crept the remembered wind.
It covered allThe cold east wall,Its green, thin gold, purple, brown,And flame running up and down;Lifting its quiet bosom to every wind that creptUp the high wall and in its darkness slept.Then when the wind slept all the creeper turnedTo undiminishing fire that burned and burned and burned.
But one black night(For not in the lightMay such treacheries be done)Came with dishonoured weapon oneAnd cut the stem just where the branches thinTheir million-leaf'd wild wandering begin:Cut the firm stem quite through, and so it bled,And all the million leaves shivered and hung there dead.
The wall how cold,The house how oldBecame when that warm bright fire died,And the fond wind could no more hide.And it was strange that so much death could beFrom one dark night-hour's darker felony;And how the leaves being dead could not cast downTheir colours in bright pools of red and gold and brown.
—It did not die,But flamed on highMorn after morn, even when white snowCovered all brightness, high and low;And in the night when the snow glimmered wanStill beautiful as a fire its brightness shone:Its million quiet leaves quivering in my mind,When from no earthly meadows crept the remembered wind.
They stood like men that hear immortal speechMoving among their branches, and like treesWe stood and watched them, and in our still branchesEchoes of that immortal music stirred.October days had touched their breasts with light,With yellow light and red light and wan green;And the gray cloud that grew from low to highMade the warm light more warm, the green more wan.We stood and watched them and in our still branchesWe felt the warm light glow, though now the rainWas loud upon the leaves.And standing thereYou cried, "O, that sweet smell, where is the fire?Where is the fire?" For sharp upon the rainThe smell came of a wood fire and clung roundHanging upon our branches, till we sawNo more those lighted trees nor heard the rain—Knew only the deep echoes and the smellOf a wood fire that breathed its smoke acrossFrom some near hearth, or undiscovered world.
They stood like men that hear immortal speechMoving among their branches, and like treesWe stood and watched them, and in our still branchesEchoes of that immortal music stirred.October days had touched their breasts with light,With yellow light and red light and wan green;And the gray cloud that grew from low to highMade the warm light more warm, the green more wan.We stood and watched them and in our still branchesWe felt the warm light glow, though now the rainWas loud upon the leaves.And standing thereYou cried, "O, that sweet smell, where is the fire?Where is the fire?" For sharp upon the rainThe smell came of a wood fire and clung roundHanging upon our branches, till we sawNo more those lighted trees nor heard the rain—Knew only the deep echoes and the smellOf a wood fire that breathed its smoke acrossFrom some near hearth, or undiscovered world.
The red sun stared unwinking at the EastThen slept under a cloak of hodden gray;The rimy fields held the last light of day,A little tender yet. And I rememberHow black against the pale and wintry westStood the confused great army of old trees,Topping that lean, enormous-shouldered hillWith crossing lances shivering and then still.I looked as one that seesQueens passing by and lovelier than he dreamed,With fringe of silver light following their feet,And all those lances vail'd, and solemn KnightsWatching their Queens as with eyes grave and sweetThey left for the gray fields those airy heights.Nothing had lovelier seemed—Not April's noise nor the early dew of June,Nor the calm languid cow-eyed Autumn Moon,Nor ruffling woods the greenest I remember—Than this pale light and dark of cold December.
The red sun stared unwinking at the EastThen slept under a cloak of hodden gray;The rimy fields held the last light of day,A little tender yet. And I rememberHow black against the pale and wintry westStood the confused great army of old trees,Topping that lean, enormous-shouldered hillWith crossing lances shivering and then still.I looked as one that seesQueens passing by and lovelier than he dreamed,With fringe of silver light following their feet,And all those lances vail'd, and solemn KnightsWatching their Queens as with eyes grave and sweetThey left for the gray fields those airy heights.Nothing had lovelier seemed—Not April's noise nor the early dew of June,Nor the calm languid cow-eyed Autumn Moon,Nor ruffling woods the greenest I remember—Than this pale light and dark of cold December.