Like one who runsFearful at night, he knows not why,Dreading the loneliness, yet shunsThe highway's casual company;Wherefore he hastes,The friendly gloom of ancient treesUnheeding, and the shining wastesLying broad and quiet as the seas;The beauty of nightHating for very fear, untilBeyond the bend a lowly lightBeams single from a lowly sill;And the poor fool,Flying the sacred, solemn dark,Leaves gladly the large, coolNight for that serviceable spark;And thankful thenTo have 'scaped the peril of the way,Turns not his timid steps againThat night, but waits the common day;—So I, as weak,Have fled the great hills of Thy love,Too faint to hear what Thou dost speak,Too feeble with fear to look above,And hasten to winSome flickering, brief security,In sinful sleep or waking sin,From the enfolding thought of Thee!
Like one who runsFearful at night, he knows not why,Dreading the loneliness, yet shunsThe highway's casual company;
Wherefore he hastes,The friendly gloom of ancient treesUnheeding, and the shining wastesLying broad and quiet as the seas;
The beauty of nightHating for very fear, untilBeyond the bend a lowly lightBeams single from a lowly sill;
And the poor fool,Flying the sacred, solemn dark,Leaves gladly the large, coolNight for that serviceable spark;
And thankful thenTo have 'scaped the peril of the way,Turns not his timid steps againThat night, but waits the common day;—
So I, as weak,Have fled the great hills of Thy love,Too faint to hear what Thou dost speak,Too feeble with fear to look above,
And hasten to winSome flickering, brief security,In sinful sleep or waking sin,From the enfolding thought of Thee!
Following upon the faint wind's fickle coursesA feather drifts and strays.My thought after her thoughtFloated—how many ways and days!She swayed me as the wind swayeth a feather.I was a leaf uponHer breath, a dream withinHer dream. The dream how soon was done!For now all's changed, not Time's change more wondrous,I am her sun, and she(Herself doth swear) the moon;Or she the ship upon my sea.How should this be? I know not; I so grosslyMastering her spirit pure.O, how can her bird's breastMy nervous and harsh hand endure?Tell me if this be love indeed, fond lovers,That high stoop to low,Soul be to flesh subdued;That the sun around the earth should go?I know not: I but know that love is misery,O'erfilled with delight.Day follows night: her loveIs gay as day, yet strange as night.
Following upon the faint wind's fickle coursesA feather drifts and strays.My thought after her thoughtFloated—how many ways and days!
She swayed me as the wind swayeth a feather.I was a leaf uponHer breath, a dream withinHer dream. The dream how soon was done!
For now all's changed, not Time's change more wondrous,I am her sun, and she(Herself doth swear) the moon;Or she the ship upon my sea.
How should this be? I know not; I so grosslyMastering her spirit pure.O, how can her bird's breastMy nervous and harsh hand endure?
Tell me if this be love indeed, fond lovers,That high stoop to low,Soul be to flesh subdued;That the sun around the earth should go?
I know not: I but know that love is misery,O'erfilled with delight.Day follows night: her loveIs gay as day, yet strange as night.
The rain beat on me as I walked,In the roadside it ran and muttered.It seemed the rain to the wind talkedOf storm: in the wind the wild cloud fluttered.Across the down, now bleak and loud,I went and the rain ran with me.How swift the rain, how low the cloud!No heavenly comfort could I see,Nor comfort of low beaming lightFrom any casement creeping out.The swift rain on the patient nightSwept, and anon would great winds shout.Rain, rain, nought else, until I turnedThe thrusting shoulder of the down,And through the mist of rain there burnedThe few green lanterns of the town.And in the rain the night was litWith my love's eyes burning for me;Her white face in the dark was sweet,Her hands like moonflowers quiveringlyFell upon mine, and each was dashedWith rain blown in from streaming eaves,While overhead the broad flood plashedNoisily on the broad plane leaves.Within we heard the gurgle-glockIn the pipe, the tip-tap on the sillLike the same ticking of the clock;We heard the water-butt o'erspill,The wind come blustering at the door,The whipped white lilac thrash the wall;The candle flame upon the floorCrept between shadows magical....In the black east a pallid rayRose high; and sweeping o'er the downThe slow increase of stormless dayLit the wet roofs of Lambourn town.
The rain beat on me as I walked,In the roadside it ran and muttered.It seemed the rain to the wind talkedOf storm: in the wind the wild cloud fluttered.
Across the down, now bleak and loud,I went and the rain ran with me.How swift the rain, how low the cloud!No heavenly comfort could I see,
Nor comfort of low beaming lightFrom any casement creeping out.The swift rain on the patient nightSwept, and anon would great winds shout.
Rain, rain, nought else, until I turnedThe thrusting shoulder of the down,And through the mist of rain there burnedThe few green lanterns of the town.
And in the rain the night was litWith my love's eyes burning for me;Her white face in the dark was sweet,Her hands like moonflowers quiveringly
Fell upon mine, and each was dashedWith rain blown in from streaming eaves,While overhead the broad flood plashedNoisily on the broad plane leaves.
Within we heard the gurgle-glockIn the pipe, the tip-tap on the sillLike the same ticking of the clock;We heard the water-butt o'erspill,
The wind come blustering at the door,The whipped white lilac thrash the wall;The candle flame upon the floorCrept between shadows magical....
In the black east a pallid rayRose high; and sweeping o'er the downThe slow increase of stormless dayLit the wet roofs of Lambourn town.
The lamp shone golden where she slept,Shining against deep-folded shadows.There was no stir but her slow breathingSave when a long sigh creptBetween her lips.Her hair spread dark in that faint light,Her shut eyes showed the long dark lashes—Still now, that with her laughter quivered.On the white sheet lay whiteAnd limp her hands.Golden against the shadow shoneThe lamp's small flame, till dawn was brightening,And on the flame a gold beam slanted.The shadows lingering onGrew faint and thin.Sleeping she murmured, stirred and sighed,A dream from her sleep-vision faded.Her earthly eyes 'neath languid eyelidsWakened: her bosom cried,"Come back, come back,"Come back, my dream!" Rising she drestHer beauty's lamp with cunning fingers.She had the look of birds a-flutterRound dewy trees with breastThrobbing with song.
The lamp shone golden where she slept,Shining against deep-folded shadows.There was no stir but her slow breathingSave when a long sigh creptBetween her lips.
Her hair spread dark in that faint light,Her shut eyes showed the long dark lashes—Still now, that with her laughter quivered.On the white sheet lay whiteAnd limp her hands.
Golden against the shadow shoneThe lamp's small flame, till dawn was brightening,And on the flame a gold beam slanted.The shadows lingering onGrew faint and thin.
Sleeping she murmured, stirred and sighed,A dream from her sleep-vision faded.Her earthly eyes 'neath languid eyelidsWakened: her bosom cried,"Come back, come back,
"Come back, my dream!" Rising she drestHer beauty's lamp with cunning fingers.She had the look of birds a-flutterRound dewy trees with breastThrobbing with song.
The clouds no more are flockingAfter the flushing sun;Bees end their long droning,The bat's hunt is begun;And the tired wind that went flitteringUp and down the hillLies like a shadow still,Like a shadow still.Who is it that's callingOut of the deepening dark,Calling, calling, calling?—No!—yet hark!The sleepy wind wakes, carryingUp and down the hillA voice how small and still,How sweet and still!Who is it that answersOut of a quiet cloud—"Stay, oh stay! I come, I come!"Cried at last aloud?My voice, my heart went answeringUp and down the hill—Mine so strange and still,Mine grave and still.
The clouds no more are flockingAfter the flushing sun;Bees end their long droning,The bat's hunt is begun;And the tired wind that went flitteringUp and down the hillLies like a shadow still,Like a shadow still.
Who is it that's callingOut of the deepening dark,Calling, calling, calling?—No!—yet hark!The sleepy wind wakes, carryingUp and down the hillA voice how small and still,How sweet and still!
Who is it that answersOut of a quiet cloud—"Stay, oh stay! I come, I come!"Cried at last aloud?My voice, my heart went answeringUp and down the hill—Mine so strange and still,Mine grave and still.
Rich in the waning light she satWhile the fierce rain on the window spat.The yellow lamp-glow lit her face,Shadows cloaked the narrow placeShe sat adream in. Then she'd lookIdly upon an idle book;Anon would rise and musing peerOut at the misty street and drear;Or with her loosened dark hair play,Hiding her fingers' snow away;And, singing softly, would sing onWhen the desire of song had gone."O lingering day!" her bosom sighed,"O laggard Time!" each motion cried.Last she took the lamp and stoodRich in its flood,And looked and looked again at whatHer longing fingers' zeal had wrought;And turning then did nothing say,Hiding her thoughts away.
Rich in the waning light she satWhile the fierce rain on the window spat.The yellow lamp-glow lit her face,Shadows cloaked the narrow placeShe sat adream in. Then she'd lookIdly upon an idle book;Anon would rise and musing peerOut at the misty street and drear;Or with her loosened dark hair play,Hiding her fingers' snow away;And, singing softly, would sing onWhen the desire of song had gone."O lingering day!" her bosom sighed,"O laggard Time!" each motion cried.Last she took the lamp and stoodRich in its flood,And looked and looked again at whatHer longing fingers' zeal had wrought;And turning then did nothing say,Hiding her thoughts away.
Distance no grace can lend you, but for meDistance yet magnifies your mystery.With you, and soon content, I ask how shouldIn your two eyes be hid my heaven of good?How should your own mere voice the strange words speakThat tease me with the sense of what's to seekIn all the world beside? How your brown hair,That simply and neglectfully you wear,Bind my wild thoughts in its abundant snare?With you, I wonder how you're stranger thanAnother woman to another man;But parted—and you're as a ship unknownThat to poor castaways at dawn is shownAs strange as dawn, so strange they fear a trickOf eyes long-vexed and hope with falseness sick.Parted, and like the riddle of a dream,Dark with rich promise, does your beauty seem.I wonder at your patience, stirless peace,Your subtle pride, mute pity's quick release.Then are you strange to me and sweet as lightOr dew; as strange and dark as starless night.Then let this restless parting be forgiven:I go from you to find in you strange heaven.
Distance no grace can lend you, but for meDistance yet magnifies your mystery.With you, and soon content, I ask how shouldIn your two eyes be hid my heaven of good?How should your own mere voice the strange words speakThat tease me with the sense of what's to seekIn all the world beside? How your brown hair,That simply and neglectfully you wear,Bind my wild thoughts in its abundant snare?With you, I wonder how you're stranger thanAnother woman to another man;But parted—and you're as a ship unknownThat to poor castaways at dawn is shownAs strange as dawn, so strange they fear a trickOf eyes long-vexed and hope with falseness sick.Parted, and like the riddle of a dream,Dark with rich promise, does your beauty seem.I wonder at your patience, stirless peace,Your subtle pride, mute pity's quick release.Then are you strange to me and sweet as lightOr dew; as strange and dark as starless night.Then let this restless parting be forgiven:I go from you to find in you strange heaven.
Not a dream brush your sleep,Not a thought wake and creepIn upon your spirit's slumber;Not a memory encumber,Nor a thievish care unbarSleep's portcullis that no starNor sentry hath. I'll not speakWith my soul even: no, nor seekOther happiness for youWhen you this happy sleep sleep through.Let no least desire waverBetween us, nor impatience quaver;No sudden nearness of me flushYour veins with welcome.... Hush, hush!Be still, my thoughts, lest you creepUnawares into her sleep.
Not a dream brush your sleep,Not a thought wake and creepIn upon your spirit's slumber;Not a memory encumber,Nor a thievish care unbarSleep's portcullis that no starNor sentry hath. I'll not speakWith my soul even: no, nor seekOther happiness for youWhen you this happy sleep sleep through.Let no least desire waverBetween us, nor impatience quaver;No sudden nearness of me flushYour veins with welcome.... Hush, hush!Be still, my thoughts, lest you creepUnawares into her sleep.
From Swindon out to White Horse HillI walked, in morning rain,And saw your shadow lying there.As clear and plainAs lies the White Horse on the HillI saw your shadow lying there.Over the wide green downs and bleak,Unthinking, free I walked,And saw your shadow fluttering by.Almost it talked,Answering what I dared not speakWhile thoughts of you ran fluttering by....So on to Baydon sauntered, teasedWith that pure native air.Sometimes the sweetness of wild thymeThe strings of careDid pluck; sometimes my soul was easedWith more than sweetness of wild thyme.Sometimes within a pool I caughtYour face, upturned to mine.And where sits Chilton by the watersYour look did shineWildly in the mill foam that soughtTo hide you in those angry waters.And yet, O Sweet, you never knewThose downs, the thymy airThat with your spirit haunted is—Yes, everywhere!Ah, but my heart is full of you,And with your shadow haunted is.
From Swindon out to White Horse HillI walked, in morning rain,And saw your shadow lying there.As clear and plainAs lies the White Horse on the HillI saw your shadow lying there.
Over the wide green downs and bleak,Unthinking, free I walked,And saw your shadow fluttering by.Almost it talked,Answering what I dared not speakWhile thoughts of you ran fluttering by....
So on to Baydon sauntered, teasedWith that pure native air.Sometimes the sweetness of wild thymeThe strings of careDid pluck; sometimes my soul was easedWith more than sweetness of wild thyme.
Sometimes within a pool I caughtYour face, upturned to mine.And where sits Chilton by the watersYour look did shineWildly in the mill foam that soughtTo hide you in those angry waters.
And yet, O Sweet, you never knewThose downs, the thymy airThat with your spirit haunted is—Yes, everywhere!Ah, but my heart is full of you,And with your shadow haunted is.
Now speaks the wave, whispering me of you;In all his murmur your music murmurs too.O 'tis your voice, my love, whispering inThe wave's voice, even your voice so far and thin;And mine to yours answering clear is heardIn the high lonely voice of the last bird.And when, my love, the full tide runneth again,Shall yet the seabird call, call, call in vain?Will not the tide wake in my heart and stirThe old rich happiness that's sunken there?Thou moon of love, bid the retreated tideReturn, for which the wandering bird has cried.
Now speaks the wave, whispering me of you;In all his murmur your music murmurs too.O 'tis your voice, my love, whispering inThe wave's voice, even your voice so far and thin;And mine to yours answering clear is heardIn the high lonely voice of the last bird.
And when, my love, the full tide runneth again,Shall yet the seabird call, call, call in vain?Will not the tide wake in my heart and stirThe old rich happiness that's sunken there?Thou moon of love, bid the retreated tideReturn, for which the wandering bird has cried.
Your hands, your hands,Fall upon mine as waves upon the sands.O, soft as moonlight on the evening rose,That but to moonlight will its sweet unclose,Your hands, your hands,Fall upon mine, and my hands open asThat evening primrose opens when the hot hours pass.Your hands, your hands,They are like towers that in far southern landsLook at pale dawn over gloom-valley'd miles,White temple towers that gleam through mist at whiles.Your hands, your hands,With the south wind fall kissing on my brow,And all past joy and future is summed in this great "Now!"
Your hands, your hands,Fall upon mine as waves upon the sands.O, soft as moonlight on the evening rose,That but to moonlight will its sweet unclose,Your hands, your hands,Fall upon mine, and my hands open asThat evening primrose opens when the hot hours pass.
Your hands, your hands,They are like towers that in far southern landsLook at pale dawn over gloom-valley'd miles,White temple towers that gleam through mist at whiles.Your hands, your hands,With the south wind fall kissing on my brow,And all past joy and future is summed in this great "Now!"
Beneath the trees with heedful step and slowAt night I go,Fearful upon their whispering to breakLest they awakeOut of those dreams of heavenly light that fillTheir branches stillWith a soft murmur of memoried ecstasy.There 'neath each treeNightlong a spirit watches, and I feelHis breath unsealThe fast-shut thoughts and longings of tired day,That flutter awayMothlike on luminous soft wings and frailAnd moonlike pale.There in the flowering chestnuts' bowering gloomAnd limes' perfumeWandering wavelike through the moondrawn nightThat heaves toward light,There hang I my dark thoughts and deeper prayers;And as the airsOf star-kissed dawn come stirring and o'er-creepThe ford of sleep,Thy shape, great Love, grows shadowy in the East,Thine accents leastOf all those warring voices of false morn:And oh, forlornThy hope, thy courage vanishing, thine eyesSad with surprise.Oh, with the dawn I know, I know how vainIs love that's fainTo beat and beat against her obstinate door.For as once moreIt groans, she passes out not heeding me,Nay, will not see:—As when a man, rich and of high estate,Sees at his gate(Or will not see) a famishing poor wretch,Whose longings fetchOld anger from his pain-imprisoning breast,Till sad despair his anger puts to rest.
Beneath the trees with heedful step and slowAt night I go,Fearful upon their whispering to breakLest they awakeOut of those dreams of heavenly light that fillTheir branches stillWith a soft murmur of memoried ecstasy.There 'neath each treeNightlong a spirit watches, and I feelHis breath unsealThe fast-shut thoughts and longings of tired day,That flutter awayMothlike on luminous soft wings and frailAnd moonlike pale.There in the flowering chestnuts' bowering gloomAnd limes' perfumeWandering wavelike through the moondrawn nightThat heaves toward light,There hang I my dark thoughts and deeper prayers;And as the airsOf star-kissed dawn come stirring and o'er-creepThe ford of sleep,Thy shape, great Love, grows shadowy in the East,Thine accents leastOf all those warring voices of false morn:And oh, forlornThy hope, thy courage vanishing, thine eyesSad with surprise.Oh, with the dawn I know, I know how vainIs love that's fainTo beat and beat against her obstinate door.For as once moreIt groans, she passes out not heeding me,Nay, will not see:—As when a man, rich and of high estate,Sees at his gate(Or will not see) a famishing poor wretch,Whose longings fetchOld anger from his pain-imprisoning breast,Till sad despair his anger puts to rest.
Fair Trees, O keep from chattering soWhen I with my more fair do goBeneath your branches;For if I laugh with her your sighHer rare and sudden mirth puts by,Or your too noisy glee will takePersuasion from my lips and makeHer deaf as winter.O be not as the pines—that keepThe shadow-charmèd light asleep—Perverse and sombre!For when we in the pinewood walkedAnd of young love and far age talked,Their solemn haunted shadow brokeHer peace—ah, how the sharp sob shookHer shadowed bosom!
Fair Trees, O keep from chattering soWhen I with my more fair do goBeneath your branches;For if I laugh with her your sighHer rare and sudden mirth puts by,Or your too noisy glee will takePersuasion from my lips and makeHer deaf as winter.
O be not as the pines—that keepThe shadow-charmèd light asleep—Perverse and sombre!For when we in the pinewood walkedAnd of young love and far age talked,Their solemn haunted shadow brokeHer peace—ah, how the sharp sob shookHer shadowed bosom!
Do not, O do not use meAs you have used others.Better you did refuse me:You have refused others.Better, far better hope to banishA small child than, grown old,Hope should decay, his vigour vanish,And I be left alone andCold, cold.Ah, use no guile nor cunningIf you should even yet love me.Hark, Time with Love is running,Death cloud-like floats above me.Love me with such simplicityAs children, frankly bold,Do love with; oh, never pity me,Though I be left alone andCold, cold.
Do not, O do not use meAs you have used others.Better you did refuse me:You have refused others.Better, far better hope to banishA small child than, grown old,Hope should decay, his vigour vanish,And I be left alone andCold, cold.
Ah, use no guile nor cunningIf you should even yet love me.Hark, Time with Love is running,Death cloud-like floats above me.Love me with such simplicityAs children, frankly bold,Do love with; oh, never pity me,Though I be left alone andCold, cold.
Young as the Spring seemed life when sheCame from her silent East to me;Unquiet as Autumn was my breastWhen she declined into her West.Such tender, such untroubling thingsShe taught me, daughter of all Springs;Such dusty deathly lore I learnedWhen her last embers redly burned.How should it hap (Love, canst thou say?)Such end should be to so pure day?Such shining chastity give placeTo this annulling grave's disgrace?Such hopes be quenched in this despair,Grace chilled to granite everywhere?How should—in vain I cry—how shouldThat be, alas, whichonlycould!
Young as the Spring seemed life when sheCame from her silent East to me;Unquiet as Autumn was my breastWhen she declined into her West.
Such tender, such untroubling thingsShe taught me, daughter of all Springs;Such dusty deathly lore I learnedWhen her last embers redly burned.
How should it hap (Love, canst thou say?)Such end should be to so pure day?Such shining chastity give placeTo this annulling grave's disgrace?
Such hopes be quenched in this despair,Grace chilled to granite everywhere?How should—in vain I cry—how shouldThat be, alas, whichonlycould!
How green and strange the light is,Creeping through the window.Lying alone in bed,How strange the night is!How still and chill the air is.It seems no sound could liveHere in my roomThat now so bare is.All bright and still the room is,But easeless here am I.Deep in my heartCold lonely gloom is!
How green and strange the light is,Creeping through the window.Lying alone in bed,How strange the night is!
How still and chill the air is.It seems no sound could liveHere in my roomThat now so bare is.
All bright and still the room is,But easeless here am I.Deep in my heartCold lonely gloom is!
I heard a voice upon the window beatAnd then grow dim, grow still.Opening I saw the snowy sillMarked with the robin's feet.Chill was the air and chillThe thoughts that in my bosom beat.I thought of all that wide and hopeless snowCrusting the frozen lands.Of small birds that in famished bandsA-chill and silent grow.And how Earth's myriad handsClutched only hills of frosted snow.And then I thought of Love that beat and criedFamishing at my breast;How I, by chilling care distrest,Denied him, and Love died....O, with what sore unrestLove's ghost woke with the bird that cried!
I heard a voice upon the window beatAnd then grow dim, grow still.Opening I saw the snowy sillMarked with the robin's feet.Chill was the air and chillThe thoughts that in my bosom beat.
I thought of all that wide and hopeless snowCrusting the frozen lands.Of small birds that in famished bandsA-chill and silent grow.And how Earth's myriad handsClutched only hills of frosted snow.
And then I thought of Love that beat and criedFamishing at my breast;How I, by chilling care distrest,Denied him, and Love died....O, with what sore unrestLove's ghost woke with the bird that cried!
I"No, no! Leave me not in this dark hour,"She cried. And I,"Thou foolish dear, but call not dark this hour;What night doth lour?"And nought did she reply,But in her eyeThe clamorous trouble spoke, and then was still.O that I heard her once more speak,Or even with troubled eyeTeach me her fear, that I might seekPoppies for misery.The hour was dark, although I knew it not,But when the livid dawn broke then I knew,How while I slept the dense night throughTreachery's worm her fainting fealty slew.O that I heard her once more speakAs then—so weak—"No, no! Leave me not in this dark hour."That I might answer her,"Love, be at rest, for nothing now shall stirThy heart, but my heart beating there."IICome back, come back—ah, never more to leave me!Come back, even though your constant longing grieve me,Longing for other looks and hands than mine.By all that's most divineIn your frank human beauty, come and coverWith that deceiving smile the love your loverHas taught you, and the light that in your eyesTells of the painful joys that make your ruinous Paradise.Come back, that so, upon the shining meadowWhen the sun draws the magic of your shadow,Or when the red fire's gradual sinking lightYields up the room to night;Seeing you thus or thus I may recaptureThe very sharpness of remembered rapture:—So it may seem, by exquisite deceit,You are yet mine, I yours, and life yet rare and sweet.Come back—no, come not back now, come back never;That day you went I knew it was for ever.I know you, how the spectre of cold shameWould chill you if you came.Lo, here first love's first memory abideth;Here in my heart the image of you yet hideth.But though you should come back and hope thrilled me anew,First love would yet be dead—oh, it would not be you!IIIO but what grace if I could but forget you!You have made league with all familiar things—The thrush that still, evening and morning, sings,The aspen leaves that sigh"My dear!" with your true voice when I pass by....O, and that too-long-dying flush of tender skyThat minds me, and with sense too grave for tears,Of those forever dead too-blissful years.Yet 'twere a miracle could I forget you,Since even dead things, once sensible of you,Yield up your ghost; as all the garden throughMurmurs the rose, "'Twas sheShook in her palm the dew that shone in me;"And on the stairs your recent footstep echoinglySounds yet again, and each dark doorway speaksOf you toward whom my sharpened longing seeks.O that I could forget or not regret you!Could I but see you as I have seen a fairChild under apple-burdened boughs that bearMorn's autumn beauty, andSeeing her saw all heaven at my hand,And all day long that happy child before me stand....Not thus I see you, but as one drowning seesHome, friends—and loves his very enemies!
I
"No, no! Leave me not in this dark hour,"She cried. And I,"Thou foolish dear, but call not dark this hour;What night doth lour?"And nought did she reply,But in her eyeThe clamorous trouble spoke, and then was still.
O that I heard her once more speak,Or even with troubled eyeTeach me her fear, that I might seekPoppies for misery.The hour was dark, although I knew it not,But when the livid dawn broke then I knew,How while I slept the dense night throughTreachery's worm her fainting fealty slew.
O that I heard her once more speakAs then—so weak—"No, no! Leave me not in this dark hour."That I might answer her,"Love, be at rest, for nothing now shall stirThy heart, but my heart beating there."
II
Come back, come back—ah, never more to leave me!Come back, even though your constant longing grieve me,Longing for other looks and hands than mine.By all that's most divineIn your frank human beauty, come and coverWith that deceiving smile the love your loverHas taught you, and the light that in your eyesTells of the painful joys that make your ruinous Paradise.
Come back, that so, upon the shining meadowWhen the sun draws the magic of your shadow,Or when the red fire's gradual sinking lightYields up the room to night;Seeing you thus or thus I may recaptureThe very sharpness of remembered rapture:—So it may seem, by exquisite deceit,You are yet mine, I yours, and life yet rare and sweet.
Come back—no, come not back now, come back never;That day you went I knew it was for ever.I know you, how the spectre of cold shameWould chill you if you came.Lo, here first love's first memory abideth;Here in my heart the image of you yet hideth.But though you should come back and hope thrilled me anew,First love would yet be dead—oh, it would not be you!
III
O but what grace if I could but forget you!You have made league with all familiar things—The thrush that still, evening and morning, sings,The aspen leaves that sigh"My dear!" with your true voice when I pass by....O, and that too-long-dying flush of tender skyThat minds me, and with sense too grave for tears,Of those forever dead too-blissful years.
Yet 'twere a miracle could I forget you,Since even dead things, once sensible of you,Yield up your ghost; as all the garden throughMurmurs the rose, "'Twas sheShook in her palm the dew that shone in me;"And on the stairs your recent footstep echoinglySounds yet again, and each dark doorway speaksOf you toward whom my sharpened longing seeks.
O that I could forget or not regret you!Could I but see you as I have seen a fairChild under apple-burdened boughs that bearMorn's autumn beauty, andSeeing her saw all heaven at my hand,And all day long that happy child before me stand....Not thus I see you, but as one drowning seesHome, friends—and loves his very enemies!
Is it the wind that stirs the trees,Is it the trees that scratch the wall,Is it the wall that shakes and mutters,Is it a dumb ghost's call?The wind steals in and twirls the candle,The branches heave and brush the wall,But more than tree or wild wind muttersThis night, this night of all."Open!" a cry sounds, and I gasp."Open!" and hands beat door and wall."Open!" and each dark echo mutters.I rise, a shape and shadow tall."Open!" Across the room I falter,And near the door crouch by the wall;Thrice bolt the door as the voice mutters"Open!" and frail strokes fall."Open!" The light's out, and I shrinkQuaking and blind against the wall;"Open!" no sound is, yet it muttersWithin me now, this night of all.Was it the wind that stirred the trees,Was it the trees that scratched the wall,Was it the wall that shook and muttered.Or Love's last, ghostly call?
Is it the wind that stirs the trees,Is it the trees that scratch the wall,Is it the wall that shakes and mutters,Is it a dumb ghost's call?
The wind steals in and twirls the candle,The branches heave and brush the wall,But more than tree or wild wind muttersThis night, this night of all.
"Open!" a cry sounds, and I gasp."Open!" and hands beat door and wall."Open!" and each dark echo mutters.I rise, a shape and shadow tall.
"Open!" Across the room I falter,And near the door crouch by the wall;Thrice bolt the door as the voice mutters"Open!" and frail strokes fall.
"Open!" The light's out, and I shrinkQuaking and blind against the wall;"Open!" no sound is, yet it muttersWithin me now, this night of all.
Was it the wind that stirred the trees,Was it the trees that scratched the wall,Was it the wall that shook and muttered.Or Love's last, ghostly call?
I saw him as he wentWith merry voice and eye.I met him when he cameBack, tired but the same—The same clear voice, bright eye,Merry laugh, quick reply.And now, if I but lookUnnoting at a book,Or from the window stareAt dark woods newly bare,I see that shining eye,The same as when he went:—But whose is the low sigh,The cold shade o'er me bent?
I saw him as he wentWith merry voice and eye.
I met him when he cameBack, tired but the same—The same clear voice, bright eye,Merry laugh, quick reply.
And now, if I but lookUnnoting at a book,Or from the window stareAt dark woods newly bare,I see that shining eye,The same as when he went:
—But whose is the low sigh,The cold shade o'er me bent?
There is not anything more wonderfulThan a great people moving towards the deepOf an unguessed and unfeared future; norIs aught so dear of all held dear beforeAs the new passion stirring in their veinsWhen the destroying Dragon wakes from sleep.Happy is England now, as never yet!And though the sorrows of the slow days fretHer faithfullest children, grief itself is proud.Ev'n the warm beauty of this spring and summerThat turns to bitterness turns then to gladnessSince for this England the beloved ones died.Happy is England in the brave that dieFor wrongs not hers and wrongs so sternly hers;Happy in those that give, give, and endureThe pain that never the new years may cure;Happy in all her dark woods, green fields, towns,Her hills and rivers and her chafing sea.Whate'er was dear before is dearer now.There's not a bird singing upon his boughBut sings the sweeter in our English ears:There's not a nobleness of heart, hand, brainBut shines the purer; happiest is England nowIn those that fight, and watch with pride and tears.
There is not anything more wonderfulThan a great people moving towards the deepOf an unguessed and unfeared future; norIs aught so dear of all held dear beforeAs the new passion stirring in their veinsWhen the destroying Dragon wakes from sleep.
Happy is England now, as never yet!And though the sorrows of the slow days fretHer faithfullest children, grief itself is proud.Ev'n the warm beauty of this spring and summerThat turns to bitterness turns then to gladnessSince for this England the beloved ones died.
Happy is England in the brave that dieFor wrongs not hers and wrongs so sternly hers;Happy in those that give, give, and endureThe pain that never the new years may cure;Happy in all her dark woods, green fields, towns,Her hills and rivers and her chafing sea.
Whate'er was dear before is dearer now.There's not a bird singing upon his boughBut sings the sweeter in our English ears:There's not a nobleness of heart, hand, brainBut shines the purer; happiest is England nowIn those that fight, and watch with pride and tears.
And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocksIn this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks,How look (I muse) those cold and solitary starsOn these magnificent, cruel wars?—Venus, that brushes with her shining lips(Surely!) the wakeful edge of the world and mocksWith hers its all ungentle wantonness?—Or the large moon (pricked by the spars of shipsCreeping and creeping in their restlessness),The moon pouring strange light on things more strange,Looks she unheedfully on seas and landsTrembling with change and fear of counterchange?O, not earth trembles, but the stars, the stars!The sky is shaken and the cool air is quivering.I cannot look up to the crowded heightAnd see the fair stars trembling in their light,For thinking of the starlike spirits of menCrowding the earth and with great passion quivering:—Stars quenched in anger and hate, stars sick with pity.I cannot look up to the naked skiesBecause a sorrow on dark midnight lies,Death, on the living world of sense;Because on my own land a shadow liesThat may not rise;Because from bare grey hillside and rich cityStreams of uncomprehending sadness pour,Thwarting the eager spirit's pure intelligence ...How look (I muse) those cold and solitary starsOn these magnificent, cruel wars?Stars trembled in broad heaven, faint with pity.An hour to dawn I looked. Beside the treesWet mist shaped other trees that branching rose,Covering the woods and putting out the stars.There was no murmur on the seas,No wind blew—only the wandering air that growsWith dawn, then murmurs, sighs,And dies.The mist climbed slowly, putting out the stars,And the earth trembled when the stars were gone;And moving strangely everywhere uponThe trembling earth, thickened the watery mist.And for a time the holy things are veiled.England's wise thoughts are swords; her quiet hoursAre trodden underfoot like wayside flowers,And every English heart is England's wholly.In starless nightA serious passion streams the heaven with light.A common beating is in the air—The heart of England throbbing everywhere.And all her roads are nerves of noble thought,And all her people's brain is but her brain;And all her history, less her shame,Is part of her requickened consciousness.Her courage rises clean again.Even in victory there hides defeat;The spirit's murdered though the body survives,Except the cause for which, a people strivesBurn with no covetous, foul heat.Fights she against herself who infamously drawsThe sword against man's secret spiritual laws.But thou, England, because a bitter heelHath sought to bruise the brain, the sensitive will,The conscience of the world,For this, England, art risen, and shalt fightPurely through long profoundest night,Making their quarrel thine who are grieved like thee;And (if to thee the stars yield victory)Tempering their hate of the great foe that hurledVainly her strength against the conscience of the world.I looked again, or dreamed I looked, and sawThe stars again and all their peace again.The moving mist had gone, and shining stillThe moon went high and pale above the hill.Not now those lights were trembling in the vastWays of the nervy heaven, nor trembled earth:Profound and calm they gazed as the soft-shod hours passed.And with less fear (not with less awe,Remembering, England, all the blood and pain)How look, I cried, you stern and solitary starsOn these disastrous wars!August, 1914.
And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocksIn this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks,How look (I muse) those cold and solitary starsOn these magnificent, cruel wars?—Venus, that brushes with her shining lips(Surely!) the wakeful edge of the world and mocksWith hers its all ungentle wantonness?—Or the large moon (pricked by the spars of shipsCreeping and creeping in their restlessness),The moon pouring strange light on things more strange,Looks she unheedfully on seas and landsTrembling with change and fear of counterchange?
O, not earth trembles, but the stars, the stars!The sky is shaken and the cool air is quivering.I cannot look up to the crowded heightAnd see the fair stars trembling in their light,For thinking of the starlike spirits of menCrowding the earth and with great passion quivering:—Stars quenched in anger and hate, stars sick with pity.I cannot look up to the naked skiesBecause a sorrow on dark midnight lies,Death, on the living world of sense;Because on my own land a shadow liesThat may not rise;Because from bare grey hillside and rich cityStreams of uncomprehending sadness pour,Thwarting the eager spirit's pure intelligence ...How look (I muse) those cold and solitary starsOn these magnificent, cruel wars?
Stars trembled in broad heaven, faint with pity.An hour to dawn I looked. Beside the treesWet mist shaped other trees that branching rose,Covering the woods and putting out the stars.There was no murmur on the seas,No wind blew—only the wandering air that growsWith dawn, then murmurs, sighs,And dies.The mist climbed slowly, putting out the stars,And the earth trembled when the stars were gone;And moving strangely everywhere uponThe trembling earth, thickened the watery mist.
And for a time the holy things are veiled.England's wise thoughts are swords; her quiet hoursAre trodden underfoot like wayside flowers,And every English heart is England's wholly.In starless nightA serious passion streams the heaven with light.A common beating is in the air—The heart of England throbbing everywhere.And all her roads are nerves of noble thought,And all her people's brain is but her brain;And all her history, less her shame,Is part of her requickened consciousness.Her courage rises clean again.
Even in victory there hides defeat;The spirit's murdered though the body survives,Except the cause for which, a people strivesBurn with no covetous, foul heat.Fights she against herself who infamously drawsThe sword against man's secret spiritual laws.But thou, England, because a bitter heelHath sought to bruise the brain, the sensitive will,The conscience of the world,For this, England, art risen, and shalt fightPurely through long profoundest night,Making their quarrel thine who are grieved like thee;And (if to thee the stars yield victory)Tempering their hate of the great foe that hurledVainly her strength against the conscience of the world.
I looked again, or dreamed I looked, and sawThe stars again and all their peace again.The moving mist had gone, and shining stillThe moon went high and pale above the hill.Not now those lights were trembling in the vastWays of the nervy heaven, nor trembled earth:Profound and calm they gazed as the soft-shod hours passed.And with less fear (not with less awe,Remembering, England, all the blood and pain)How look, I cried, you stern and solitary starsOn these disastrous wars!
August, 1914.
I heard a boy that climbed up Dover's HillSingingSweet England, sweeter for his song.The notes crept muffled through the copse, but stillSharply recalled the things forgotten long,The music that my own boy's lips had known,Singing, and old airs on a wild flute blown;And other hills, more grim and lonely far,And valleys empty of these orchard trees;A sheep-pond filled with the moon, a single starI had watched by night searching the wreckful seas;And all the streets and streets that childhood knewIn years when London streets were all my view.And I remembered how that song I heard,Sweet England, sung by children on May-day,Nor any song was sweeter of a birdThan that half-grievous air from children gay—For then, as now, youth made the sadness bright,Till the words,Sweet, Sweet England, shone with light.Now, listening, I forgot how men yet foughtFor this same England, till the song was doneAnd no sound lingered but the lark's, that broughtNew music down from fields of cloud and sun,Or the sad lapwing's over fields of greenCrying beneath the copse, near but unseen.Then I remembered. All wide England spreadBefore me, hill and wood and meadow and streamAnd ancient roads and homes of men long dead,And all the beauty a familiar dream.On the green hills a cloud of silver greyGave gentle light stranger than light of day.And clear between the hills, past the near crestAnd many hills, the hungry cities crept,Noble and mean, oppressive and oppressed,Where dreams unrealized of England slept:And they too England, packed in dusty streetWith men that half forgot England was sweet.Now men were far, but like a living brainQuick with their thought, the earth, hills, air and lightWere quivering as though a shining rainFalling all round made even the light more bright;And trees and water and heath and hedge-flowers fairWith more than natural sweetness washed the air.From hill to hill a sparkling web it swung,A snare for happiness, lit with lovely dews.The very smoke of cities now was hungBut like a grave girl's dress of tranquil hues:And how (I thought) can England, seen thus bright,Lifting her clear frank head, but love the light?—No, not her brain! that bright web was the shadowOf the high spirit in their spirit shiningWho on scarred foreign hill and trenchèd meadowKept the faith yet, unfearful, unrepining;—Her faith that with the dark world's libertyMingles as earth's great rivers with the sea.O with what gilding ray was the land agleam!It was not sun and dew, bush, bough and leaf,But human spirits visible as in a dreamThat turns from glad to aching, being too brief:Courage and beauty shining in such brightnessThat all the thoughtful woods were no more lightless.But most the hills a splendour had put onOf golden honour, bright and high and calmAnd like old heroes young men dream uponWhen midnight stirs with magic sword and palm;—With the fled mist all meanness put awayAnd the air clear and keen as salt sea-spray....And yet no dream; no dream! I saw the whole,The reap'd fields, idle kine and wandering sheep.A weak wind through the near tall hedge-tree stole,And died where Dover's Hill rose bare and steep;I saw yet what I saw an hour ago,But knew what save by dreams I did not know—Sweet England!—wild proud heart of things unspokenSpirit that men bear shyly and love purely;That dies to live anew a life unbrokenAs spring from every winter rising surely:Sweet Englandunto generations sped,Now bitter-sweetest for her daily dead.September, 1916.
I heard a boy that climbed up Dover's HillSingingSweet England, sweeter for his song.The notes crept muffled through the copse, but stillSharply recalled the things forgotten long,The music that my own boy's lips had known,Singing, and old airs on a wild flute blown;
And other hills, more grim and lonely far,And valleys empty of these orchard trees;A sheep-pond filled with the moon, a single starI had watched by night searching the wreckful seas;And all the streets and streets that childhood knewIn years when London streets were all my view.
And I remembered how that song I heard,Sweet England, sung by children on May-day,Nor any song was sweeter of a birdThan that half-grievous air from children gay—For then, as now, youth made the sadness bright,Till the words,Sweet, Sweet England, shone with light.
Now, listening, I forgot how men yet foughtFor this same England, till the song was doneAnd no sound lingered but the lark's, that broughtNew music down from fields of cloud and sun,Or the sad lapwing's over fields of greenCrying beneath the copse, near but unseen.
Then I remembered. All wide England spreadBefore me, hill and wood and meadow and streamAnd ancient roads and homes of men long dead,And all the beauty a familiar dream.On the green hills a cloud of silver greyGave gentle light stranger than light of day.
And clear between the hills, past the near crestAnd many hills, the hungry cities crept,Noble and mean, oppressive and oppressed,Where dreams unrealized of England slept:And they too England, packed in dusty streetWith men that half forgot England was sweet.
Now men were far, but like a living brainQuick with their thought, the earth, hills, air and lightWere quivering as though a shining rainFalling all round made even the light more bright;And trees and water and heath and hedge-flowers fairWith more than natural sweetness washed the air.
From hill to hill a sparkling web it swung,A snare for happiness, lit with lovely dews.The very smoke of cities now was hungBut like a grave girl's dress of tranquil hues:And how (I thought) can England, seen thus bright,Lifting her clear frank head, but love the light?—
No, not her brain! that bright web was the shadowOf the high spirit in their spirit shiningWho on scarred foreign hill and trenchèd meadowKept the faith yet, unfearful, unrepining;—Her faith that with the dark world's libertyMingles as earth's great rivers with the sea.
O with what gilding ray was the land agleam!It was not sun and dew, bush, bough and leaf,But human spirits visible as in a dreamThat turns from glad to aching, being too brief:Courage and beauty shining in such brightnessThat all the thoughtful woods were no more lightless.
But most the hills a splendour had put onOf golden honour, bright and high and calmAnd like old heroes young men dream uponWhen midnight stirs with magic sword and palm;—With the fled mist all meanness put awayAnd the air clear and keen as salt sea-spray....
And yet no dream; no dream! I saw the whole,The reap'd fields, idle kine and wandering sheep.A weak wind through the near tall hedge-tree stole,And died where Dover's Hill rose bare and steep;I saw yet what I saw an hour ago,But knew what save by dreams I did not know—
Sweet England!—wild proud heart of things unspokenSpirit that men bear shyly and love purely;That dies to live anew a life unbrokenAs spring from every winter rising surely:Sweet Englandunto generations sped,Now bitter-sweetest for her daily dead.
September, 1916.
IThen first I knew, seeing that bent grey head,How England honours all her thousand dead.Then first I knew how faith through black grief burns,Until the ruined heart glows while it yearnsFor one that never more returns—Glows in the spent embers of its prideFor one that careless lived and fearless died.And then I knew, then first,How everywhere Hope from her prison had burst—On every hill, wide dale, soft valley's lap,In lonely cottage clutch'd between huge downs,And streets confused with streets in clanging towns—Like spring from winter's jail pouring her sapInto the idle wood of last year's trees.Then first I knew how the vast world-diseaseWould die away, and England upon her seasShake every scab of sickness; toward new skiesLifting a little holier her head,With honesty the brighter in her eyes,And all that urgent horror well forgot,The dark remembered not;Only remembered then, with bosom yet hot,The blood that on how many a far field lies,The bones enriching not our English earthThat brought them to such splendid birthAnd the last sacrifice.IIThen first I knew, seeing that head bent low,How gravely all her days she needs must go,Bearing an image in her faded breast....O, the dark unrestOf thoughts that never cease their flight,Never vanishing, yet never still,Like birds that wail round the bewildering nest!But other nestlings never shall be hers,Only a painful image his place fill,Only a memory remain for her thin bosom to nurseIn all that dark unrestOf sleepless and tormented night.IIIYet fromhereyes presage of victoryLooked steadfast out at mine.It is not to be thought of (said her eyes)That only a foul blotch the sun may shineOn England, through low poisonous thick skies!Never, O never againThis pain, this pain!Else from that foreign earth his bones would riseAnd thrust in anger at the bitter skies.It is not to be thought of that such prayerShould fall unheeded back through heavy air.But I have heard, in the night I have heard,When not a leaf in all the orchard stirred,And even the water of the bourne hung still,And the old twitching, creaking house was still,And all was still,What was it I heard?It could not be his voice, come from so far;I know 'twas not a bird.Itwashis voice, or that lone watchful starCreeping above the casement bar,Saying: Fear thou no ill,No ill!Then all the silence was an echoing round,The water and dumb trees their antique murmur found,And clear as music came the repeated Sound:Fear thou no ill, no ill!Was it her eyes or her tongue told me this?IVYet but sad comfort from such pain is caught....I went out from the house and climbed the coombe,And where the first light of sweet morning hungI found the light I sought.From somewhere south a bugle's note was flung,From somewhere north a sombre boom;On the opposing hills white flecks and greySpotted the misty green,And blue smoke wraiths around the tall trees clung.Presently rose thick dust clouds from the green:Came up, or seemed to come, the instant beatOf marching feet;Then with the clouds the beating died away,And nothing was seenBut broken hills and the new flush of day.VAll round the folding hills were like green waves,Tossing awhile together ere they fallAnd fling their salt on the steep stony beach.The sound I heard was sound of Roman feet—I saw the sparkling light on Roman glaives,I heard the Roman speechAnswering the wild Iberian battle-call:They passed from sight on the long street.And I saw then the Mercian Kings that strodeProudly from the small city of grey stoneAnd climbed the folding hills,Past the full springs that bubbled and flowedThrough the soft valley and on to Avon stream.They passed—as all things pass and seemNo other than a dream,All but the shining and the echo gone.But still I listened and looked. Their voice it wasBlown through the valley grass;Their dust it was that sprang from the hard roadWhere now these English legions flowed,Waking the quiet like a steady wind.That ancient soldiery before me passedWith all that followed them, and these the lastOf my own generation, my own mind;Their strength and courage rooted deep in the earthThat brings men to such splendid birthAnd no vain sacrifice ...It was as when the land all darkness lies,And shades, nor only shades, move freely outAnd through the trees are heard and all aboutTheir ancient ways, 'neath the old stars and skies.So now in morning's light I knew them thereLeading the men that marched and marched away,And mounted up the hill, and down the hillPassed from my eyes and ears, and left the airTrembling everywhere,And then how still!VIThen first I knew the joy that yet should beRinging from camped hill and guarded seaWith England's victory.The dust had stirred, the infinite dust had stirred,It was the courage of the past I heard,The virtue of those buried bones againAnimate in these marching Englishmen;And nothing wanted if the dead but nervedThe living hands that the same England served.With new-washed eyes I saw as I went downOn the hill crest the oak-grove's crown,With new delighted ear heard the lark sing—That mad delighted thing;The very smoke that rose was strangely blue,But most the orchard brightened wonderfully new,Where the wild spring, ere winter snow well gone,Scattered her whiter, briefer snow-cloud down.And England lovelier looked than whenHer dead roused not her living men.May, 1916.
I
Then first I knew, seeing that bent grey head,How England honours all her thousand dead.Then first I knew how faith through black grief burns,Until the ruined heart glows while it yearnsFor one that never more returns—Glows in the spent embers of its prideFor one that careless lived and fearless died.And then I knew, then first,How everywhere Hope from her prison had burst—On every hill, wide dale, soft valley's lap,In lonely cottage clutch'd between huge downs,And streets confused with streets in clanging towns—Like spring from winter's jail pouring her sapInto the idle wood of last year's trees.Then first I knew how the vast world-diseaseWould die away, and England upon her seasShake every scab of sickness; toward new skiesLifting a little holier her head,With honesty the brighter in her eyes,And all that urgent horror well forgot,The dark remembered not;Only remembered then, with bosom yet hot,The blood that on how many a far field lies,The bones enriching not our English earthThat brought them to such splendid birthAnd the last sacrifice.
II
Then first I knew, seeing that head bent low,How gravely all her days she needs must go,Bearing an image in her faded breast....
O, the dark unrestOf thoughts that never cease their flight,Never vanishing, yet never still,Like birds that wail round the bewildering nest!But other nestlings never shall be hers,Only a painful image his place fill,Only a memory remain for her thin bosom to nurseIn all that dark unrestOf sleepless and tormented night.
III
Yet fromhereyes presage of victoryLooked steadfast out at mine.It is not to be thought of (said her eyes)That only a foul blotch the sun may shineOn England, through low poisonous thick skies!Never, O never againThis pain, this pain!Else from that foreign earth his bones would riseAnd thrust in anger at the bitter skies.It is not to be thought of that such prayerShould fall unheeded back through heavy air.But I have heard, in the night I have heard,When not a leaf in all the orchard stirred,And even the water of the bourne hung still,And the old twitching, creaking house was still,And all was still,What was it I heard?It could not be his voice, come from so far;I know 'twas not a bird.Itwashis voice, or that lone watchful starCreeping above the casement bar,Saying: Fear thou no ill,No ill!Then all the silence was an echoing round,The water and dumb trees their antique murmur found,And clear as music came the repeated Sound:Fear thou no ill, no ill!
Was it her eyes or her tongue told me this?
IV
Yet but sad comfort from such pain is caught....I went out from the house and climbed the coombe,And where the first light of sweet morning hungI found the light I sought.From somewhere south a bugle's note was flung,From somewhere north a sombre boom;On the opposing hills white flecks and greySpotted the misty green,And blue smoke wraiths around the tall trees clung.Presently rose thick dust clouds from the green:Came up, or seemed to come, the instant beatOf marching feet;Then with the clouds the beating died away,And nothing was seenBut broken hills and the new flush of day.
V
All round the folding hills were like green waves,Tossing awhile together ere they fallAnd fling their salt on the steep stony beach.The sound I heard was sound of Roman feet—I saw the sparkling light on Roman glaives,I heard the Roman speechAnswering the wild Iberian battle-call:They passed from sight on the long street.And I saw then the Mercian Kings that strodeProudly from the small city of grey stoneAnd climbed the folding hills,Past the full springs that bubbled and flowedThrough the soft valley and on to Avon stream.They passed—as all things pass and seemNo other than a dream,All but the shining and the echo gone.But still I listened and looked. Their voice it wasBlown through the valley grass;Their dust it was that sprang from the hard roadWhere now these English legions flowed,Waking the quiet like a steady wind.That ancient soldiery before me passedWith all that followed them, and these the lastOf my own generation, my own mind;Their strength and courage rooted deep in the earthThat brings men to such splendid birthAnd no vain sacrifice ...It was as when the land all darkness lies,And shades, nor only shades, move freely outAnd through the trees are heard and all aboutTheir ancient ways, 'neath the old stars and skies.So now in morning's light I knew them thereLeading the men that marched and marched away,And mounted up the hill, and down the hillPassed from my eyes and ears, and left the airTrembling everywhere,And then how still!
VI
Then first I knew the joy that yet should beRinging from camped hill and guarded seaWith England's victory.The dust had stirred, the infinite dust had stirred,It was the courage of the past I heard,The virtue of those buried bones againAnimate in these marching Englishmen;And nothing wanted if the dead but nervedThe living hands that the same England served.With new-washed eyes I saw as I went downOn the hill crest the oak-grove's crown,With new delighted ear heard the lark sing—That mad delighted thing;The very smoke that rose was strangely blue,But most the orchard brightened wonderfully new,Where the wild spring, ere winter snow well gone,Scattered her whiter, briefer snow-cloud down.And England lovelier looked than whenHer dead roused not her living men.
May, 1916.