On the wide fields the water gleams like snow,And snow like water pale beneath pale sky,When old and burdened the white clouds are stooped low.Sudden as thought, or startled near bird's cry,The whiteness of first light on hills of snowNew dropped from skiey hills of tumbling whiteStreams from the ridge to where the long woods lie;And tall ridge-trees lift their soft crowns of whiteAbove slim bodies all black or flecked with snow.By the tossed foam of the not yet frozen brookBlack pigs go straggling over fields of snow;The air is full of snow, and starling and rookAre blacker amid the myriad streams of light.Warm as old fire the Red House burns yet brightBeneath the unmelting snows of pine and larch,While February moves as slow, as slowAs Spring might never come, never come March.Amid such snows, by generations haunted,By echoes, memories and dreams enchanted,Firm when dark winds through the night stamp and shout,Brightest when time silvers the world all about,That old house calledThe Heartburns, burns, and stillOutbraves the mortal threat of the hanging hill.
On the wide fields the water gleams like snow,And snow like water pale beneath pale sky,When old and burdened the white clouds are stooped low.Sudden as thought, or startled near bird's cry,The whiteness of first light on hills of snowNew dropped from skiey hills of tumbling whiteStreams from the ridge to where the long woods lie;And tall ridge-trees lift their soft crowns of whiteAbove slim bodies all black or flecked with snow.By the tossed foam of the not yet frozen brookBlack pigs go straggling over fields of snow;The air is full of snow, and starling and rookAre blacker amid the myriad streams of light.Warm as old fire the Red House burns yet brightBeneath the unmelting snows of pine and larch,While February moves as slow, as slowAs Spring might never come, never come March.
Amid such snows, by generations haunted,By echoes, memories and dreams enchanted,Firm when dark winds through the night stamp and shout,Brightest when time silvers the world all about,That old house calledThe Heartburns, burns, and stillOutbraves the mortal threat of the hanging hill.
The dead white on the fields' dead whiteTurned the peace to misery.Tall bony trees their wild arms thrustInto the cold breast of the night.Brightly the stars shone in their dust.The hard wind's gustScratched like a bird the frozen snow.Against the dead light grew the gold,Lifting its beam to that high dust;The lamp within the hut's small paneCalled the world to life again.Arms of the trees atremble thrustDefiance at the coldNight of narrow shrouding snow.A human beam, small spear of light,Lifting its beauty to that highIndifference of starry dust.The aching trees were comforted,And their brave arms more deeply thrustInto the sky.Earth's warm light fingered the dead snow.
The dead white on the fields' dead whiteTurned the peace to misery.Tall bony trees their wild arms thrustInto the cold breast of the night.Brightly the stars shone in their dust.The hard wind's gustScratched like a bird the frozen snow.
Against the dead light grew the gold,Lifting its beam to that high dust;The lamp within the hut's small paneCalled the world to life again.Arms of the trees atremble thrustDefiance at the coldNight of narrow shrouding snow.
A human beam, small spear of light,Lifting its beauty to that highIndifference of starry dust.The aching trees were comforted,And their brave arms more deeply thrustInto the sky.Earth's warm light fingered the dead snow.
A gray day and quiet,With slow clouds of gray,And in dull air a cloud that falls, fallsAll day.The naked and stiff branchesOf oak, elm, thorn,In the cold light are like men aged andForlorn.Only a gray sky,Grass, trees, grass again,And all the air a cloud that drips, drips,All day.Lovely the lonelyBare trees and green grass—Lovelier now the last hours of slow winterSlowly pass.
A gray day and quiet,With slow clouds of gray,And in dull air a cloud that falls, fallsAll day.
The naked and stiff branchesOf oak, elm, thorn,In the cold light are like men aged andForlorn.
Only a gray sky,Grass, trees, grass again,And all the air a cloud that drips, drips,All day.
Lovely the lonelyBare trees and green grass—Lovelier now the last hours of slow winterSlowly pass.
That you might happier be than all the rest,Than I who have been happy loving you,Of all the innocent even the happiest—This I beseeched for you.Until I thought of those unending skies—Of stagnant cloud, or fleckless dull blue air,Of days and nights delightless, no surprise,No threat, no sting, no fear;And of the stirless waters of the mind,Waveless, unfurrowed, of no living hue,With dead eaves dropping slowly in no wind,And nothing flowering new.And then no more I wished you happiness,But that whatever fell of joy or woeI would not dare, O Sweet, to wish it less,Or wish you less than you.
That you might happier be than all the rest,Than I who have been happy loving you,Of all the innocent even the happiest—This I beseeched for you.
Until I thought of those unending skies—Of stagnant cloud, or fleckless dull blue air,Of days and nights delightless, no surprise,No threat, no sting, no fear;
And of the stirless waters of the mind,Waveless, unfurrowed, of no living hue,With dead eaves dropping slowly in no wind,And nothing flowering new.
And then no more I wished you happiness,But that whatever fell of joy or woeI would not dare, O Sweet, to wish it less,Or wish you less than you.
Flesh and blood, bone and skin,Are the house that beauty lives in.Formed in darkness, grown in lightAre they the substance of delight.Who could have dreamed the things he seesIn these strong lovely presences—In cheeks of children, thews of men,Women's bodies beloved of men?Who could have dreamed a thing so wiseAs that clear look of the child's eyes?Who the thin texture of her handBut with a hand's touch understand?Shaped in eternity were theseBody's miracles, where the seasTheir continuous rhythm learned,And the stars in their bright order burned.From stars and seas was motion caughtWhen flesh, blood, bone and skin were wroughtInto swift lovely liveliness.Oh, but beauty less and lessThan beauty grows. The cheeks fall in,Colour dies from the smooth skin,And muscles slack and bones are brittle;Veins and arteries little by littleDelay the tides of the blood:That is a ditch that was a flood.Then all but dry bones disappears,White bones that lie a hundred yearsCheated of resurrection....Where is that beauty gone?Escaped even while we watched it so,And none guessed the way it would go?Only it's fled, and here aloneLie blood and skin and flesh and bone.Where is the beauty that was here?—Nowhere, everywhere.
Flesh and blood, bone and skin,Are the house that beauty lives in.Formed in darkness, grown in lightAre they the substance of delight.Who could have dreamed the things he seesIn these strong lovely presences—In cheeks of children, thews of men,Women's bodies beloved of men?Who could have dreamed a thing so wiseAs that clear look of the child's eyes?Who the thin texture of her handBut with a hand's touch understand?Shaped in eternity were theseBody's miracles, where the seasTheir continuous rhythm learned,And the stars in their bright order burned.From stars and seas was motion caughtWhen flesh, blood, bone and skin were wroughtInto swift lovely liveliness.Oh, but beauty less and lessThan beauty grows. The cheeks fall in,Colour dies from the smooth skin,And muscles slack and bones are brittle;Veins and arteries little by littleDelay the tides of the blood:That is a ditch that was a flood.Then all but dry bones disappears,White bones that lie a hundred yearsCheated of resurrection....Where is that beauty gone?Escaped even while we watched it so,And none guessed the way it would go?Only it's fled, and here aloneLie blood and skin and flesh and bone.Where is the beauty that was here?—Nowhere, everywhere.
Bind up, bind up your dark bright hairAnd hide the smouldering sunken fire.Let it be held no more than fair,Nor yourself guess how rare, how rareIts movement, colour and deep fire.Your eyes they have their consciousness,Your lips their grave reflective smile,Your hands their cunning for distress:Your hair has only beauteousnessAnd hid flame for its only guile.That glowing hair on shoulders whiteIs pride past sum: take care, take care!Even to dream of wish'd delightToo much perturbs the ebb of night—Bind up, bind up your burning hair!
Bind up, bind up your dark bright hairAnd hide the smouldering sunken fire.Let it be held no more than fair,Nor yourself guess how rare, how rareIts movement, colour and deep fire.
Your eyes they have their consciousness,Your lips their grave reflective smile,Your hands their cunning for distress:Your hair has only beauteousnessAnd hid flame for its only guile.
That glowing hair on shoulders whiteIs pride past sum: take care, take care!Even to dream of wish'd delightToo much perturbs the ebb of night—Bind up, bind up your burning hair!
Thy hand my hand,Thine eyes my eyes,All of theeCaught and confused with me:My hand thy handMy eyes thine eyes,All of meSunken and discovered anew in thee....No: stillA foreign mind,A thoughtBy other yet uncaught;A secret willStrange as the wind:The heart of theeBewildering with strange fire the heart in me.Hand touches hand,Eye to eye beckons,But who shall guessAnother's loneliness?Though hand grasp handThough the eye quickens,Still lone as nightRemain thy spirit and mine, past touch and sight.
Thy hand my hand,Thine eyes my eyes,All of theeCaught and confused with me:My hand thy handMy eyes thine eyes,All of meSunken and discovered anew in thee....
No: stillA foreign mind,A thoughtBy other yet uncaught;A secret willStrange as the wind:The heart of theeBewildering with strange fire the heart in me.
Hand touches hand,Eye to eye beckons,But who shall guessAnother's loneliness?Though hand grasp handThough the eye quickens,Still lone as nightRemain thy spirit and mine, past touch and sight.
How could I know, how could I guessThat here was your great happiness—In mine? And how could I knowYour love infinite must grow?Suddenly at dawn I wakeTo see the cruse of colour breakOver the East, and then the grayCreep up with light of common day ...No, no, no! again that brightFlashing, flushing, flooding lightLeading on day, until I acheWith love to see the dark world wake.O, with such second flood your lovePainted my earth and heaven above,With such wild magnificenceAs bruised my heart in every sense,In every nerve. Was ever manFit this renewed love to sustain?Now in these days when Autumn's leafIs red and gold, and for a briefDay the earth flowers ere it dies,What if Spring came with new surprise,Came ere the aspen shivered bareOr the beech coins glittered in cold air,Before the rough wind the maple strippedAnd this bare moon on bare boughs stepped!Vain thought—O, yet not wholly vain:Even to me Love has come again,Moving from your quick breast where heFluttered in his wondering infancy.
How could I know, how could I guessThat here was your great happiness—In mine? And how could I knowYour love infinite must grow?
Suddenly at dawn I wakeTo see the cruse of colour breakOver the East, and then the grayCreep up with light of common day ...No, no, no! again that brightFlashing, flushing, flooding lightLeading on day, until I acheWith love to see the dark world wake.
O, with such second flood your lovePainted my earth and heaven above,With such wild magnificenceAs bruised my heart in every sense,In every nerve. Was ever manFit this renewed love to sustain?
Now in these days when Autumn's leafIs red and gold, and for a briefDay the earth flowers ere it dies,What if Spring came with new surprise,Came ere the aspen shivered bareOr the beech coins glittered in cold air,Before the rough wind the maple strippedAnd this bare moon on bare boughs stepped!Vain thought—O, yet not wholly vain:Even to me Love has come again,Moving from your quick breast where heFluttered in his wondering infancy.
Your face has lostThe clearness it once wore,And your brow smooth and whiteIts look of light;Your eyes that wereSo careless, are how deep with care!O, what has doneThis cruelty to you?Is it only Time makes strangeYour look with change,Or something moreThan the worst pang Time ever bore?—Regret, regret!So bitter that it changesBright youth to madness,Poisoning mere sadness ...O, vain glass that showsLess than the bitterness the heart knows.
Your face has lostThe clearness it once wore,And your brow smooth and whiteIts look of light;Your eyes that wereSo careless, are how deep with care!
O, what has doneThis cruelty to you?Is it only Time makes strangeYour look with change,Or something moreThan the worst pang Time ever bore?—
Regret, regret!So bitter that it changesBright youth to madness,Poisoning mere sadness ...O, vain glass that showsLess than the bitterness the heart knows.
I know how fire burns,How from the wrangling fumesRose and amber blooms,And slowly dies.Nothing's so swift as fire,There's nothing alive so fierce.The lifted lances pierce,Sink, and upspring.Like an Indian sword it leapsOut of the smoking sheath.Even the winged feet of deathLearn speed from fire;And pain its cunning learns;Languor its sweetFrom the decaying heatThat never dies.I know how fire burnsUnguessed, save for tears,When the thousand-fanged flame spearsThe body's guard;Or when the mind, the mindIs ever-glowing wood,And fire runs in the bloodLunatic, blind;When remorse burns and burnsAnd burns always, always—The fire that surest slaysOr surest numbs.I know how fire burnsBut how I cannot tell.And Heaven burns like HellYet the Heart endures.'Tis the immortal FlameIn mortal life that's bitter,Or than all sweet sweeterThough life burns down.Teach me, fire, but this,Nor alone destroying burn:—Of thy warmth let me learn,But most thy light.
I know how fire burns,How from the wrangling fumesRose and amber blooms,And slowly dies.
Nothing's so swift as fire,There's nothing alive so fierce.The lifted lances pierce,Sink, and upspring.
Like an Indian sword it leapsOut of the smoking sheath.Even the winged feet of deathLearn speed from fire;
And pain its cunning learns;Languor its sweetFrom the decaying heatThat never dies.
I know how fire burnsUnguessed, save for tears,When the thousand-fanged flame spearsThe body's guard;
Or when the mind, the mindIs ever-glowing wood,And fire runs in the bloodLunatic, blind;
When remorse burns and burnsAnd burns always, always—The fire that surest slaysOr surest numbs.
I know how fire burnsBut how I cannot tell.And Heaven burns like HellYet the Heart endures.
'Tis the immortal FlameIn mortal life that's bitter,Or than all sweet sweeterThough life burns down.
Teach me, fire, but this,Nor alone destroying burn:—Of thy warmth let me learn,But most thy light.
In that dark silent hourWhen the wind wants power,And in the black heightThe sky wants light,Stirless and blackIn utter lack,And not a soundEscapes from that untroubled round:—To wake thenIn the dark, and ache thenUntil the dark is gone—Lonely, yet not alone;Hearing another's breathAll the quiet beneath,Knowing one sleeps nearThat day held dearAnd dreams held dear; but nowIn this sharp moment—howShare the moment's sweetness,Forgo its completeness,Nor be aloneNow the dark is grownSpiritual and deepMore than in dreams and sleep?O, it is pain, 'tis needThat so will pleadFor a little loneliness.If it be pain to missLoved touch, look and lip,CompanionshipYet is verier painThen, thenIn that dark silent hourWhen the wind wants power,And you, near or far, sleep,And your released thoughts toward me creepWhile I, imprisoned, awake,Ache—acheTo be for oneLong, little moment with myself alone.
In that dark silent hourWhen the wind wants power,And in the black heightThe sky wants light,Stirless and blackIn utter lack,And not a soundEscapes from that untroubled round:—
To wake thenIn the dark, and ache thenUntil the dark is gone—Lonely, yet not alone;Hearing another's breathAll the quiet beneath,Knowing one sleeps nearThat day held dear
And dreams held dear; but nowIn this sharp moment—howShare the moment's sweetness,Forgo its completeness,Nor be aloneNow the dark is grownSpiritual and deepMore than in dreams and sleep?
O, it is pain, 'tis needThat so will pleadFor a little loneliness.If it be pain to missLoved touch, look and lip,CompanionshipYet is verier painThen, then
In that dark silent hourWhen the wind wants power,And you, near or far, sleep,And your released thoughts toward me creepWhile I, imprisoned, awake,Ache—acheTo be for oneLong, little moment with myself alone.
Let no tears fallIf then they fell not.If eyes told nothing,Now let them tell not.Once there was timeFor words, looks and tears:That time is past, is past—Heart, thou shalt tell not!Beyond any speechIs silence bitter,As between love and loveNothing is sweeter.Once there was time, time yetFor words, looks and tears ...Past, past, past, past—Nothing so bitter!Now if tears comeThat then fell never;If eyes such sad, sad thingsLook now for ever;If words, looks or tearsTremble with telling,Oh, what returning voice is it whispersNever, never, never!
Let no tears fallIf then they fell not.If eyes told nothing,Now let them tell not.Once there was timeFor words, looks and tears:That time is past, is past—Heart, thou shalt tell not!
Beyond any speechIs silence bitter,As between love and loveNothing is sweeter.Once there was time, time yetFor words, looks and tears ...Past, past, past, past—Nothing so bitter!
Now if tears comeThat then fell never;If eyes such sad, sad thingsLook now for ever;If words, looks or tearsTremble with telling,Oh, what returning voice is it whispersNever, never, never!
O, what insect is itThat burrows in the heart and fretsThe heart's near nerves,Leaving its uncleanStigmata in the mind serene,Making the proud how mean?It is not common hate,Anger has not such deadly cunningTo annul, to chill.Wild anger is notSo cunning even while so hot;Hate is too soon forgot.There is no sword so sharpWith lightnings as the wanton tongue;Nothing that burns like words—Bubbling flames that spreadIn the now unspiritual head,By sleepless fevers fed.O evil words that areThe knives of desolating thought!And though words be stillThe hot eyes yet dartBurning deaths from this mad heartInto that torn heart.O Love, forget, forget,Put by that glittering edge, put by;Slay the insect with light;Smother that smoky glow,Scatter the silver ash like snowWhen thy spring airs blow!
O, what insect is itThat burrows in the heart and fretsThe heart's near nerves,Leaving its uncleanStigmata in the mind serene,Making the proud how mean?
It is not common hate,Anger has not such deadly cunningTo annul, to chill.Wild anger is notSo cunning even while so hot;Hate is too soon forgot.
There is no sword so sharpWith lightnings as the wanton tongue;Nothing that burns like words—Bubbling flames that spreadIn the now unspiritual head,By sleepless fevers fed.
O evil words that areThe knives of desolating thought!And though words be stillThe hot eyes yet dartBurning deaths from this mad heartInto that torn heart.
O Love, forget, forget,Put by that glittering edge, put by;Slay the insect with light;Smother that smoky glow,Scatter the silver ash like snowWhen thy spring airs blow!
From far-off it came nearDeep-charactered and clear,Until I saw the features close to mineAnd the eyes unhappy shine.It was Sorrow's face,Wanting kindness and grace,And wanting strength of silence, and the powerTo abide a luckier hour.The first fear turned to hatingAs I saw him dumbly waiting,For it was my true likeness that he woreAnd would wear evermore:—My face that was to beWhen his years' miseryWith here a little and there a little had madeMy strong spirit afraid.I saw his face and hated,Seeing mine so sad-fated.And then I struck and killed him, knowing that heHad else slain me.
From far-off it came nearDeep-charactered and clear,Until I saw the features close to mineAnd the eyes unhappy shine.
It was Sorrow's face,Wanting kindness and grace,And wanting strength of silence, and the powerTo abide a luckier hour.
The first fear turned to hatingAs I saw him dumbly waiting,For it was my true likeness that he woreAnd would wear evermore:—
My face that was to beWhen his years' miseryWith here a little and there a little had madeMy strong spirit afraid.
I saw his face and hated,Seeing mine so sad-fated.And then I struck and killed him, knowing that heHad else slain me.
I have never loved you yet, if now I love.If Love was born in that bright April skyAnd ran unheeding when the sun was high,And slept as the moon sleeps through Autumn nightsWhile those dear steady stars burn in their heights:If Love so lived and ran and slept and wokeAnd ran in beauty when each morning broke,Love yet was boylike, fervid and unstable,Teased with romance, not knowing truth from fable.But Winter after Autumn comes and stillsThe petulant waters and the wild mind fillsWith silence; and the dark and cold are bitter,O, bitter to remember past days sweeter.Then Spring with one warm cloudy finger breaksThe frost and the heart's airless black soil shakes;Love grown a man uprises, serious, brightWith mind remembering now things dark and light.O, if young Love was beautiful, Love grown oldExperienced and grave is not grown cold.Life's faithful fire in Love's heart burns the clearerWith all that was, is and draws darkling nearer.I have never loved you yet, if now I love.
I have never loved you yet, if now I love.
If Love was born in that bright April skyAnd ran unheeding when the sun was high,And slept as the moon sleeps through Autumn nightsWhile those dear steady stars burn in their heights:
If Love so lived and ran and slept and wokeAnd ran in beauty when each morning broke,Love yet was boylike, fervid and unstable,Teased with romance, not knowing truth from fable.
But Winter after Autumn comes and stillsThe petulant waters and the wild mind fillsWith silence; and the dark and cold are bitter,O, bitter to remember past days sweeter.
Then Spring with one warm cloudy finger breaksThe frost and the heart's airless black soil shakes;Love grown a man uprises, serious, brightWith mind remembering now things dark and light.
O, if young Love was beautiful, Love grown oldExperienced and grave is not grown cold.Life's faithful fire in Love's heart burns the clearerWith all that was, is and draws darkling nearer.
I have never loved you yet, if now I love.
The pigeons, following the faint warm light,Stayed at last on the roof till warmth was gone,Then in the mist that's hastier than nightDisappeared all behind the carved dark stone,Huddling from the black cruelty of the frost.With the new sparkling sun they swooped and cameLike a cloud between the sun and street, and thenLike a cloud blown from the blue north were lost,Vanishing and returning ever again,Small cloud following cloud across the flameThat clear and meagre burned and burned awayAnd left the ice unmelting day by day.... Nor could the sun through the roof's purple slate(Though his gold magic played with shadow thereAnd drew the pigeons from the streaming air)With any fiery magic penetrate.Under the roof the air and water froze,And no smoke from the gaping chimney rose.The silver frost upon the window-paneFlowered and branched each starving night anew,And stranger, lovelier and crueller grew;Pouring her silver that cold silver through,The moon made all the dim flower bright again.... Pouring her silver through that barren flowerOf silver frost, until it filled and whitenedA room where two small children waited, frightenedAt the pale ghost of light that hour by hourStared at them till though fear slept not they slept.And when that white ghost from the window crept,And day came and they woke and saw all plain,Though still the frost-flower blinded the window-pane,And touched their mother and touched her hand in vain,And wondered why she woke not when they woke;And wondered what it was their sleep that brokeWhen hand in hand they stared and stared, so frightened;They feared and waited, and waited all day longWhile all the shadows went and the day brightened,All the ill shadows but one shadow strong.Outside were busy feet and human speechAnd daily cries and horns. Maybe they heard,Painfully wondering still, and each to eachLeaning, and listening if their mother stirred—Cold, cold,Hungering as the long slow hours grew old,Though food within the cupboard idle layBeyond their thought, or but beyond their reach.The soft blue pigeons all the afternoonSunned themselves on the roof or rose at play,Then with the shrinking light fluttered away;And once more came the icy hearted moon,Staring down at the frightened children thereThat could but shiver and stare.... How many hours, how many days, who knows?Neighbours there were who thought they had gone awayTo return some luckier or luckless day.No sound came from the room: the cold air frozeThe very echo of the children's sighs.And what they saw within each other's eyes,Or heard each other's heart say as they peeredAt the dead mother lying there, and fearedThat she might wake, and then might never wake,Who knows, who knows?None heard a living sound their silence break.In those cold days and nights how many birdsFlittering above the fields and streams all frozenWatched hungrily the tended flocks and herds—Earth's chosen nourished by earth's wise self-chosen!How many birds suddenly stiffened and diedWith no plaint cried,The starved heart ceasing when the pale sun ceased!And when the new day stepped from the same cold EastThe dead birds lay in the light on the snow-flecked field,Their song and beautiful free winging stilled.I walked under snow-sprinkled hills at night,And starry sprinkled, skies deep blue and bright.The keen wind thrust with his knife against the thinBreast of the wood as I went tingling byAnd heard a weak cheep-cheep—no more—the cryOf a bird that crouched the smitten wood within....But no one heeded that sharp spiritual cryOf the two children in their misery,When in the cold and famished night death's shadeMore terrible the moon's cold shadows made.How was it none could hearThat bodiless crying, birdlike, sharp and clear?I cannot think what they, unanswered, thoughtWhen the night came again and shadows movedAs the moon through the ice-flower stared and roved,And that unyielding Shadow came again.That Shadow came again unseen and caughtThe children as they sat listening in vain,Their starved hearts failing ere the Shadow removed.And when the new morn stepped from the same cold EastThey lay unawakening in the barren light,Their song and their imaginations bright,Their pains and fears and all bewilderment ceased....While the brief sun gaveNew beauty to the death-flower of the frost,And pigeons in the frore air swooped and tossed,And glad eyes were more glad and grave less grave.There is not pity enough in heaven or earth,There is not love enough, if children dieLike famished birds—oh, less mercifully.A great wrong's done when such as these go forthInto the starless dark, broken and bruised,With mind and sweet affection all confused,And horror closing round them as they go.There is not pity enough!And I have made, children, these verses for you,Lasting a little longer than your breath,Because I have been haunted with your death;So men are driven to things they hate to do.Jesus, forgive us all our happiness,As Thou dost blot out all our miseries.
The pigeons, following the faint warm light,Stayed at last on the roof till warmth was gone,Then in the mist that's hastier than nightDisappeared all behind the carved dark stone,Huddling from the black cruelty of the frost.With the new sparkling sun they swooped and cameLike a cloud between the sun and street, and thenLike a cloud blown from the blue north were lost,Vanishing and returning ever again,Small cloud following cloud across the flameThat clear and meagre burned and burned awayAnd left the ice unmelting day by day.
... Nor could the sun through the roof's purple slate(Though his gold magic played with shadow thereAnd drew the pigeons from the streaming air)With any fiery magic penetrate.Under the roof the air and water froze,And no smoke from the gaping chimney rose.The silver frost upon the window-paneFlowered and branched each starving night anew,And stranger, lovelier and crueller grew;Pouring her silver that cold silver through,The moon made all the dim flower bright again.
... Pouring her silver through that barren flowerOf silver frost, until it filled and whitenedA room where two small children waited, frightenedAt the pale ghost of light that hour by hourStared at them till though fear slept not they slept.And when that white ghost from the window crept,And day came and they woke and saw all plain,Though still the frost-flower blinded the window-pane,And touched their mother and touched her hand in vain,And wondered why she woke not when they woke;And wondered what it was their sleep that brokeWhen hand in hand they stared and stared, so frightened;They feared and waited, and waited all day longWhile all the shadows went and the day brightened,All the ill shadows but one shadow strong.
Outside were busy feet and human speechAnd daily cries and horns. Maybe they heard,Painfully wondering still, and each to eachLeaning, and listening if their mother stirred—Cold, cold,Hungering as the long slow hours grew old,Though food within the cupboard idle layBeyond their thought, or but beyond their reach.The soft blue pigeons all the afternoonSunned themselves on the roof or rose at play,Then with the shrinking light fluttered away;And once more came the icy hearted moon,Staring down at the frightened children thereThat could but shiver and stare.
... How many hours, how many days, who knows?Neighbours there were who thought they had gone awayTo return some luckier or luckless day.No sound came from the room: the cold air frozeThe very echo of the children's sighs.And what they saw within each other's eyes,Or heard each other's heart say as they peeredAt the dead mother lying there, and fearedThat she might wake, and then might never wake,Who knows, who knows?None heard a living sound their silence break.
In those cold days and nights how many birdsFlittering above the fields and streams all frozenWatched hungrily the tended flocks and herds—Earth's chosen nourished by earth's wise self-chosen!How many birds suddenly stiffened and diedWith no plaint cried,The starved heart ceasing when the pale sun ceased!And when the new day stepped from the same cold EastThe dead birds lay in the light on the snow-flecked field,Their song and beautiful free winging stilled.
I walked under snow-sprinkled hills at night,And starry sprinkled, skies deep blue and bright.The keen wind thrust with his knife against the thinBreast of the wood as I went tingling byAnd heard a weak cheep-cheep—no more—the cryOf a bird that crouched the smitten wood within....But no one heeded that sharp spiritual cryOf the two children in their misery,When in the cold and famished night death's shadeMore terrible the moon's cold shadows made.How was it none could hearThat bodiless crying, birdlike, sharp and clear?
I cannot think what they, unanswered, thoughtWhen the night came again and shadows movedAs the moon through the ice-flower stared and roved,And that unyielding Shadow came again.That Shadow came again unseen and caughtThe children as they sat listening in vain,Their starved hearts failing ere the Shadow removed.And when the new morn stepped from the same cold EastThey lay unawakening in the barren light,Their song and their imaginations bright,Their pains and fears and all bewilderment ceased....While the brief sun gaveNew beauty to the death-flower of the frost,And pigeons in the frore air swooped and tossed,And glad eyes were more glad and grave less grave.
There is not pity enough in heaven or earth,There is not love enough, if children dieLike famished birds—oh, less mercifully.A great wrong's done when such as these go forthInto the starless dark, broken and bruised,With mind and sweet affection all confused,And horror closing round them as they go.There is not pity enough!
And I have made, children, these verses for you,Lasting a little longer than your breath,Because I have been haunted with your death;So men are driven to things they hate to do.Jesus, forgive us all our happiness,As Thou dost blot out all our miseries.
INOT WITH THESE EYESLet me not see your grief!O, let not any seeThat grief,Nor how your heart still rocksLike a temple with long earthquake shocks.Let me not seeYour grief.These eyes have seen such wrong,Yet remained cold:Ills grown strong,Corruption's many-headed wormDestroying feet that moved so firm—Shall these eyes seeYour grief?And that black worm has crawledInto the brainWhere thought had walkedNobly, and love and honour moved as one,And brave things bravely were begun....Now, can thought seeUnabashed your grief?Into that brain your griefHas run like cleansing fire:Your griefThrough these unfaithful eyes has leaptAnd touched honour where it lightly slept.Now when I seeIn memory your griefThere is no thought that's notYours, yours,No love that sleeps,No spiritual door that opens notIn the green quiet village of thoughtShining with light,And silent to your silence.IIASKING FORGIVENESSI did not say, "Yes, we had better partSince love is over or must be suppressed."I did not say, "I'll hold you in my heartSaint-like, and in the thought of your thought rest,And pray for you and wish you happinessIn a better love than mine."I was another man to another woman,Tears falling or burnt dry were nothing then.I struck your heart, I struck your mind; inhuman,Future and past I stabbed and stabbed again,Cursing the very thought of your happinessIn another love than mine:—Then left you sick to death, and I like death.It was a broken body bore me away—A broken mind—poisoned by my own breath,And love self-poisoned.... Was it but yesterday?—Forgive, forgive, forgive, forgive, forgive,Forgive!
I
NOT WITH THESE EYES
Let me not see your grief!O, let not any seeThat grief,Nor how your heart still rocksLike a temple with long earthquake shocks.Let me not seeYour grief.
These eyes have seen such wrong,Yet remained cold:Ills grown strong,Corruption's many-headed wormDestroying feet that moved so firm—Shall these eyes seeYour grief?
And that black worm has crawledInto the brainWhere thought had walkedNobly, and love and honour moved as one,And brave things bravely were begun....Now, can thought seeUnabashed your grief?
Into that brain your griefHas run like cleansing fire:Your griefThrough these unfaithful eyes has leaptAnd touched honour where it lightly slept.Now when I seeIn memory your grief
There is no thought that's notYours, yours,No love that sleeps,No spiritual door that opens notIn the green quiet village of thoughtShining with light,And silent to your silence.
II
ASKING FORGIVENESS
I did not say, "Yes, we had better partSince love is over or must be suppressed."I did not say, "I'll hold you in my heartSaint-like, and in the thought of your thought rest,And pray for you and wish you happinessIn a better love than mine."
I was another man to another woman,Tears falling or burnt dry were nothing then.I struck your heart, I struck your mind; inhuman,Future and past I stabbed and stabbed again,Cursing the very thought of your happinessIn another love than mine:
—Then left you sick to death, and I like death.It was a broken body bore me away—A broken mind—poisoned by my own breath,And love self-poisoned.... Was it but yesterday?—Forgive, forgive, forgive, forgive, forgive,Forgive!
When through our bodies our two spirits burnEscaping, and no more our true eyes turnOutwards, and no more hands to fond hands yearn;Then over those poor grassy heaps we'll meetOne morning, tasting still the morning's sweet,Sensible still of light, dark, rain, cold, heat;And see 'neath the green dust that dust of grayWhich was our useless bodies laid away,Mocked still with menace of a Judgment Day.We then that waiting dust at last will call,Each to the other's,—"Rise up at last, O smallAshes that first-love held loveliest of all!"'Tis Judgment Day, arise!" And they will arise,The dust will lift, and spine, ribs, neck, head, kneesAt the sound remember their old unities,And stand there, yours with mine, as once they stoodBeloved, obeyed, despised, with that swift blood,Those looks and trembling lips, heart's pause and thud."And was it these that love-galled thought pursuedAnd with his immortality indued,Nor was by their mortality quite subdued?"This was the bony hand that held my hand,The shoulders whereon all my world might stand:They fell, but in their fall was I unmanned?"This was the breast my eyes delighted in,The ribs were faint as now under the skin:They mouldered, but not my love mouldered within."Away, away! This was not truly thee—A mortal bravery, Time's delinquency,A dream that held me from thee, thee from me."It was not in these bodies that we drewNear, nearer: never, never by these we knewTransfusion past all sense of 'I' and 'You.'"It was youth's blindness held the body so dear:Slowly, slowly, year after bewildered year,The dark thinned and the eyes of love grew clear,"And thought following thought, enlinking each,Ran where the delighting body could not reach,And had speech when there was no voice for speech;"So that we scarce grieved when those bodies died,And our eyes more than our true spirits cried;But as when trees fall, the free wind that sighed"Awhile in their fond branches ceases not,But sings a moment over the cumbered spot,Then flies away:—our unentangled thought,"Our vivid spirits of love, unbroken movedAnd lifted no more sense-confined, and rovedAnd knew till then we had not utterly loved ..."Leave now this dust!"And then the dust will sink,The upheaved mound to its old shape will shrink,And we shall turn again from Time's dusk brink.Will it be thus? It will be thus. Even now,Though body to body submissively still bow,'Tis not on body's blood that our loves grow.Though I am old and you are old, though nervesSlacken, and beauty slowly lose its curves,And greedy Time the bone and sinew starves,Like some lean Captain gloating over a townThat has not fallen, but will fall, every stoneO'erthrust and every bravery overthrown;Who entering the defeated walls at lastFinds emptiness, and hears an escaping blast,Triumphant from the shining east hills cast,And knows defeat in victory.... O that rareMusic is ours, is ours—prelusive airCaught from the Judgment music high and severe.Will it indeed be thus? Yes, thus! The body burns,Not with desire, and into pale smoke turns,And there is only flame towards flame that yearns.While that ill lecherous Time among the stonesSits musing and rocking his old brittle bones,Irked by long shadows, mocked by those bright far tones.
When through our bodies our two spirits burnEscaping, and no more our true eyes turnOutwards, and no more hands to fond hands yearn;
Then over those poor grassy heaps we'll meetOne morning, tasting still the morning's sweet,Sensible still of light, dark, rain, cold, heat;
And see 'neath the green dust that dust of grayWhich was our useless bodies laid away,Mocked still with menace of a Judgment Day.
We then that waiting dust at last will call,Each to the other's,—"Rise up at last, O smallAshes that first-love held loveliest of all!
"'Tis Judgment Day, arise!" And they will arise,The dust will lift, and spine, ribs, neck, head, kneesAt the sound remember their old unities,
And stand there, yours with mine, as once they stoodBeloved, obeyed, despised, with that swift blood,Those looks and trembling lips, heart's pause and thud.
"And was it these that love-galled thought pursuedAnd with his immortality indued,Nor was by their mortality quite subdued?
"This was the bony hand that held my hand,The shoulders whereon all my world might stand:They fell, but in their fall was I unmanned?
"This was the breast my eyes delighted in,The ribs were faint as now under the skin:They mouldered, but not my love mouldered within.
"Away, away! This was not truly thee—A mortal bravery, Time's delinquency,A dream that held me from thee, thee from me.
"It was not in these bodies that we drewNear, nearer: never, never by these we knewTransfusion past all sense of 'I' and 'You.'
"It was youth's blindness held the body so dear:Slowly, slowly, year after bewildered year,The dark thinned and the eyes of love grew clear,
"And thought following thought, enlinking each,Ran where the delighting body could not reach,And had speech when there was no voice for speech;
"So that we scarce grieved when those bodies died,And our eyes more than our true spirits cried;But as when trees fall, the free wind that sighed
"Awhile in their fond branches ceases not,But sings a moment over the cumbered spot,Then flies away:—our unentangled thought,
"Our vivid spirits of love, unbroken movedAnd lifted no more sense-confined, and rovedAnd knew till then we had not utterly loved ...
"Leave now this dust!"
And then the dust will sink,The upheaved mound to its old shape will shrink,And we shall turn again from Time's dusk brink.
Will it be thus? It will be thus. Even now,Though body to body submissively still bow,'Tis not on body's blood that our loves grow.
Though I am old and you are old, though nervesSlacken, and beauty slowly lose its curves,And greedy Time the bone and sinew starves,
Like some lean Captain gloating over a townThat has not fallen, but will fall, every stoneO'erthrust and every bravery overthrown;
Who entering the defeated walls at lastFinds emptiness, and hears an escaping blast,Triumphant from the shining east hills cast,
And knows defeat in victory.... O that rareMusic is ours, is ours—prelusive airCaught from the Judgment music high and severe.
Will it indeed be thus? Yes, thus! The body burns,Not with desire, and into pale smoke turns,And there is only flame towards flame that yearns.
While that ill lecherous Time among the stonesSits musing and rocking his old brittle bones,Irked by long shadows, mocked by those bright far tones.
You were a gipsy as you bentYour dark hair over the black grate.Hardly the west light above the hillShowed your shadow, crooked and still.The bellows hissed, and one bright sparkDeepened the hasty dark.The bellows hissed, and the old smellCrept on the air of smoking peat,And round the spark a bubbling flameGrew bright and loud. Sweeping the gloomLunatic shadows fled and cameWhirling about the room.Then as you raised your head I sawIn the clear light of the bubbling fireYour dark hair all lined with the graySprinkled by years and sorrow and pain ...Till as the bellows idle layShadow swept back again.
You were a gipsy as you bentYour dark hair over the black grate.Hardly the west light above the hillShowed your shadow, crooked and still.The bellows hissed, and one bright sparkDeepened the hasty dark.
The bellows hissed, and the old smellCrept on the air of smoking peat,And round the spark a bubbling flameGrew bright and loud. Sweeping the gloomLunatic shadows fled and cameWhirling about the room.
Then as you raised your head I sawIn the clear light of the bubbling fireYour dark hair all lined with the graySprinkled by years and sorrow and pain ...Till as the bellows idle layShadow swept back again.
Where are you going with eyes so dull,You whose eyes were beautiful,You whose hair with the light was gay,And now is thin and harsh and gray?Is it age alone or age and tearsThat has slowly rubbed your beauty away?Where were you going when your swift eyesWere like merry birds under May skies?—In your cheeks the colours fluttering braveAs you danced with the wind and ran with the wave.From what bright star was your brightness caught?What to your music the music gave?Now is your beauty a thing of old,The fire is sunken, the ashes cold.But if sweet singing on your ear stray,Or the praise is uttered of yesterday,Or of courage and nobleness one word said—Like a cloud Time's ravage is brushed away.
Where are you going with eyes so dull,You whose eyes were beautiful,You whose hair with the light was gay,And now is thin and harsh and gray?Is it age alone or age and tearsThat has slowly rubbed your beauty away?
Where were you going when your swift eyesWere like merry birds under May skies?—In your cheeks the colours fluttering braveAs you danced with the wind and ran with the wave.From what bright star was your brightness caught?What to your music the music gave?
Now is your beauty a thing of old,The fire is sunken, the ashes cold.But if sweet singing on your ear stray,Or the praise is uttered of yesterday,Or of courage and nobleness one word said—Like a cloud Time's ravage is brushed away.
A winter sky of pale blue and pale gold,Bare trees, a wind that made the wood-path cold,And one slow-moving figure, gray and old.We met where the soft path falls from the woodDown to the village. As I came near she stoodAnd answered when I spoke, drawing the hoodBack from her face. I saw only her eyes,Large and sad. I could not bear those eyes.They were like new graves. I could not bear her eyes.But what we said as each passed on is gone.We looked and spoke and passed like strangers on,I to the high wood, she towards the paling sun.And there, where the clear-heavened small pool lies,And the tallest beeches brush the bending skies,In pool and tree I saw again her eyes.
A winter sky of pale blue and pale gold,Bare trees, a wind that made the wood-path cold,And one slow-moving figure, gray and old.
We met where the soft path falls from the woodDown to the village. As I came near she stoodAnd answered when I spoke, drawing the hood
Back from her face. I saw only her eyes,Large and sad. I could not bear those eyes.They were like new graves. I could not bear her eyes.
But what we said as each passed on is gone.We looked and spoke and passed like strangers on,I to the high wood, she towards the paling sun.
And there, where the clear-heavened small pool lies,And the tallest beeches brush the bending skies,In pool and tree I saw again her eyes.
Happy are they whom men and women love,And you were happy as a river that flowsDown between lonely hills, and knowsThe pang and virtue of that loneliness,And moves unresting on until it moveUnder the trees that stoop at the low brinkAnd deepen their cool shade, and drinkAnd sing and hush and sing again,Breathing their music's many-toned caress;While the river with his high clear music speaksSometimes of loneliness, of hills obscure,Sometimes of sunlight dancing on the plain,Or of the night of stars unbared and deepMultiplied in his depths unbared and pure;Sometimes of winds that from the unknown sea creep,Sometimes of morning when most clear it breaksSpilling its brightness on his breast like rain:—And then flows on in loneliness againTowards the unknown near sea.Was it in mere happiness or pain?There were things said that spoke of naked pain,With nothing between the wound and the sharp-edged world;Things seen that told of such perplexityAs darkened night with night: but was that pain?And there were things created all delight,Making delight fruitful a hundred fold:Sweetness of earth, energy of sun and rain,Colour and shape, flowers and grasses bright,And the clear firm body of a bare lovely hill,And woods around its feet fast caught and curled,And the cold sweets of lonely travelled night....And was that happiness?—or something more,That gathered happiness and pain like flowersHalf perished, and let them perish; and brightened stillIn those dark mental journeys of cold hoursThat found you what you were and left you stronger,Shutting a door and opening a door?...O door that you have passed so quickly through,Ere we well knew what man you were, nor knewWhat you had shown in life but a little longer!It was not pain nor happiness for you,Not any named delight or pang of sense,But swift fulfilment past all sense or thoughtOf what you were with all that time could make you;No separate gift, spiritual influence,But something wroughtFrom your own heart, with all that life could make you.
Happy are they whom men and women love,And you were happy as a river that flowsDown between lonely hills, and knowsThe pang and virtue of that loneliness,And moves unresting on until it moveUnder the trees that stoop at the low brinkAnd deepen their cool shade, and drinkAnd sing and hush and sing again,Breathing their music's many-toned caress;While the river with his high clear music speaksSometimes of loneliness, of hills obscure,Sometimes of sunlight dancing on the plain,Or of the night of stars unbared and deepMultiplied in his depths unbared and pure;Sometimes of winds that from the unknown sea creep,Sometimes of morning when most clear it breaksSpilling its brightness on his breast like rain:—And then flows on in loneliness againTowards the unknown near sea.Was it in mere happiness or pain?There were things said that spoke of naked pain,With nothing between the wound and the sharp-edged world;Things seen that told of such perplexityAs darkened night with night: but was that pain?And there were things created all delight,Making delight fruitful a hundred fold:Sweetness of earth, energy of sun and rain,Colour and shape, flowers and grasses bright,And the clear firm body of a bare lovely hill,And woods around its feet fast caught and curled,And the cold sweets of lonely travelled night....And was that happiness?—or something more,That gathered happiness and pain like flowersHalf perished, and let them perish; and brightened stillIn those dark mental journeys of cold hoursThat found you what you were and left you stronger,Shutting a door and opening a door?...O door that you have passed so quickly through,Ere we well knew what man you were, nor knewWhat you had shown in life but a little longer!It was not pain nor happiness for you,Not any named delight or pang of sense,But swift fulfilment past all sense or thoughtOf what you were with all that time could make you;No separate gift, spiritual influence,But something wroughtFrom your own heart, with all that life could make you.
Bring your beauty, bring your laughter, bring even your fears,Bring the grief that is, the joy that was in other years,Bring again the happiness, bring love, bring tears.There was laughter once, there were grave, happy eyes,Talk of firm earth, old earth-sweeping mysteries:There were great silences under clear dark skies.Now is silence, now is loneliness complete; all is done.The thrush sings at dawn, too sweet, up creeps the sun:But all is silent, silent, for all that was is done.Yet bring beauty and bring laughter, and bring even tears,And cast them down; strew your happiness and fears,Then leave them to the darkness of thought and years.Fears in that darkness die; they have no spring.Grief in that darkness is a bird that wants wing....O love, love, your brightness, your beauty bring.
Bring your beauty, bring your laughter, bring even your fears,Bring the grief that is, the joy that was in other years,Bring again the happiness, bring love, bring tears.
There was laughter once, there were grave, happy eyes,Talk of firm earth, old earth-sweeping mysteries:There were great silences under clear dark skies.
Now is silence, now is loneliness complete; all is done.The thrush sings at dawn, too sweet, up creeps the sun:But all is silent, silent, for all that was is done.
Yet bring beauty and bring laughter, and bring even tears,And cast them down; strew your happiness and fears,Then leave them to the darkness of thought and years.
Fears in that darkness die; they have no spring.Grief in that darkness is a bird that wants wing....O love, love, your brightness, your beauty bring.