"Sweet, thou art pale.""More pale to see,Christ hung upon the cruel treeAnd bore His Father's wrath for me.""Sweet, thou art sad.""Beneath a rodMore heavy, Christ for my sake trodThe winepress of the wrath of God.""Sweet, thou art weary.""Not so Christ:Whose mighty love of me sufficedFor Strength, Salvation, Eucharist.""Sweet, thou art footsore.""If I bleed,His feet have bled: yea, in my needHis Heart once bled for mine indeed."
"Sweet, thou art young.""So He was youngWho for my sake in silence hungUpon the Cross with Passion wrung."
"Look, thou art fair.""He was more fairThan men, Who deigned for me to wearA visage marred beyond compare.""And thou hast riches.""Daily bread:All else is His; Who living, dead,For me lacked where to lay His Head.""And life is sweet.""It was not soTo Him, Whose Cup did overflowWith mine unutterable woe."
"Thou drinkest deep.""When Christ would supHe drained the dregs from out my cup:So how should I be lifted up?""Thou shalt win Glory.""In the skies,Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyesLest they should look on vanities.""Thou shalt have Knowledge.""Helpless dust,In Thee, O Lord, I put my trust:Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just.""And Might.""Get thee behind me. Lord,Who hast redeemed and not abhorredMy soul, O keep it by Thy Word."
Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith,All things are vanity. The eye and earCannot be filled with what they see and hear.Like early dew, or like the sudden breathOf wind, or like the grass that withereth,Is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear:So little joy hath he, so little cheer,Till all things end in the long dust of death.To-day is still the same as yesterday,To-morrow also even as one of them;And there is nothing new under the sun:Until the ancient race of Time be run,The old thorns shall grow out of the old stem,And morning shall be cold, and twilight gray.
"O happy happy land!Angels like rushes standAbout the wells of light."--"Alas, I have not eyes for this fair sight:Hold fast my hand."--"As in a soft wind, theyBend all one blessed way,Each bowed in his own glory, star with star."--"I cannot see so far,Here shadows are."--"White-winged the cherubim,Yet whiter seraphim,Glow white with intense fire of love."--"Mine eyes are dim:I look in vain above,And miss their hymn."--"Angels, Archangels cryOne to other ceaselessly(I hear them sing)One 'Holy, Holy, Holy,' to their King."--"I do not hear them, I."--"Joy to thee, Paradise,--Garden and goal and nest!Made green for wearied eyes;Much softer than the breastOf mother-dove clad in a rainbow's dyes."All precious souls are thereMost safe, elect by grace,All tears are wiped forever from their face:Untired in prayerThey wait and praise,Hidden for a little space."Boughs of the Living Vine,They spread in summer shineGreen leaf with leaf:Sap of the Royal Vine, it stirs like wineIn all both less and chief."Sing to the Lord,All spirits of all flesh, sing;For He hath not abhorredOur low estate nor scorned our offering:Shout to our King."--"But Zion said:My Lord forgetteth me.Lo, she hath made her bedIn dust; forsaken weepeth sheWhere alien rivers swell the sea."She laid her body as the ground,Her tender body as the ground to thoseWho passed; her harpstrings cannot soundIn a strange land; discrownedShe sits, and drunk with woes."--"O drunken not with wine,Whose sins and sorrows have fulfilled the sum,--Be not afraid, arise, be no more dumb;Arise, shine,For thy light is come."--"Can these bones live?"--"God knows:The prophet saw such clothed with flesh and skinA wind blew on them and life entered in;They shook and rose.Hasten the time, O Lord, blot out their sin,Let life begin."
The sweetest blossoms die.And so it was that, going day by dayUnto the church to praise and pray,And crossing the green churchyard thoughtfully,I saw how on the graves the flowersShed their fresh leaves in showers,And how their perfume rose up to the skyBefore it passed away.The youngest blossoms die.They die and fall and nourish the rich earthFrom which they lately had their birth;Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth byAnd is as though it had not been:--All colors turn to green;The bright hues vanish and the odors fly,The grass hath lasting worth.And youth and beauty die.So be it, O my God, Thou God of truth:Better than beauty and than youthAre Saints and Angels, a glad company;And Thou, O Lord, our Rest and Ease,Art better far than these.Why should we shrink from our full harvest? whyPrefer to glean with Ruth?
I watched a rosebud very longBrought on by dew and sun and shower,Waiting to see the perfect flower:Then, when I thought it should be strong,It opened at the matin hourAnd fell at even-song.I watched a nest from day to day,A green nest full of pleasant shade,Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:But when they should have hatched in May,The two old birds had grown afraidOr tired, and flew away.Then in my wrath I broke the boughThat I had tended so with care,Hoping its scent should fill the air;I crushed the eggs, not heeding howTheir ancient promise had been fair:I would have vengeance now.But the dead branch spoke from the sod,And the eggs answered me again:Because we failed dost thou complain?Is thy wrath just? And what if God,Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,Should also take the rod?
Flowers preach to us if we will hear:--The rose saith in the dewy morn,I am most fair;Yet all my loveliness is bornUpon a thorn.The poppy saith amid the corn:Let but my scarlet head appearAnd I am held in scorn;Yet juice of subtle virtue liesWithin my cup of curious dyes.The lilies say: Behold how wePreach without words of purity.The violets whisper from the shadeWhich their own leaves have made:Men scent our fragrance on the air,Yet take no heedOf humble lessons we would read.But not alone the fairest flowers:The merest grassAlong the roadside where we pass,Lichen and moss and sturdy weed,Tell of His love who sends the dew,The rain and sunshine too,To nourish one small seed.
By day she wooes me, soft, exceeding fair:But all night as the moon so changeth she;Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy,And subtle serpents gliding in her hair.By day she wooes me to the outer air,Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety:But through the night, a beast she grins at me,A very monster void of love and prayer.By day she stands a lie: by night she stands,In all the naked horror of the truth,With pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands.Is this a friend indeed; that I should sellMy soul to her, give her my life and youth,Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell?
I said of laughter, it is vain.Of mirth I said, what profits it?Therefore I found a book, and writTherein how ease and also pain,How health and sickness, everyoneIs vanity beneath the sun.Man walks in a vain shadow; heDisquieteth himself in vain.The things that were shall be again.The rivers do not fill the sea,But turn back to their secret source;The winds too turn upon their course.Our treasures moth and rust corrupt,Or thieves break through and steal, or theyMake themselves wings and fly away.One man made merry as he supped,Nor guessed how when that night grew dimHis soul would be required of him.We build our houses on the sand,Comely withoutside and within;But when the winds and rains beginTo beat on them, they cannot stand;They perish, quickly overthrown,Loose from the very basement stone.
All things are vanity, I said,--Yea, vanity of vanities.The rich man dies; and the poor dies;The worm feeds sweetly on the dead.Whate'er thou lackest, keep this trust:All in the end shall have but dust:The one inheritance, which bestAnd worst alike shall find and share:The wicked cease from troubling there,And there the weary be at rest;There all the wisdom of the wiseIs vanity of vanities.Man flourishes as a green leaf,And as a leaf doth pass away;Or, as a shade that cannot stayAnd leaves no track, his course is brief:Yet man doth hope and fear and planTill he is dead:--O foolish man!Our eyes cannot be satisfiedWith seeing, nor our ears be filledWith hearing: yet we plant and buildAnd buy and make our borders wide;We gather wealth, we gather care,But know not who shall be our heir.Why should we hasten to ariseSo early, and so late take rest?Our labor is not good; our bestHopes fade; our heart is stayed on lies:Verily, we sow wind; and weShall reap the whirlwind, verily.He who hath little shall not lack;He who hath plenty shall decay:Our fathers went; we pass away;Our children follow on our track:So generations fail, and soThey are renewed and come and go.The earth is fattened with our dead;She swallows more and doth not cease:Therefore her wine and oil increaseAnd her sheaves are not numberèd;Therefore her plants are green, and allHer pleasant trees lusty and tall.Therefore the maidens cease to sing,And the young men are very sad;Therefore the sowing is not glad,And mournful is the harvesting.Of high and low, of great and small,Vanity is the lot of all.A King dwelt in Jerusalem;He was the wisest man on earth;He had all riches from his birth,And pleasures till he tired of them;Then, having tested all things, heWitnessed that all are vanity.
Sound the deep waters:--Who shall sound that deep?--Too short the plummet,And the watchmen sleep.Some dream of effortUp a toilsome steep;Some dream of pasture groundsFor harmless sheep.White shapes flit to and froFrom mast to mast;They feel the distant tempestThat nears them fast:Great rocks are straight ahead,Great shoals not past;They shout to one anotherUpon the blast.O, soft the streams drop musicBetween the hills,And musical the birds' nestsBeside those rills:The nests are types of homeLove-hidden from ills,The nests are types of spiritsLove-music fills.So dream the sleepers,Each man in his place;The lightning shows the smileUpon each face:The ship is driving, driving,It drives apace:And sleepers smile, and spiritsBewail their case.The lightning glares and reddensAcross the skies;It seems but sunsetTo those sleeping eyes.When did the sun go downOn such a wise?From such a sunsetWhen shall day arise?"Wake," call the spirits:But to heedless ears;They have forgotten sorrowsAnd hopes and fears;They have forgotten perilsAnd smiles and tears;Their dream has held them long,Long years and years."Wake," call the spirits again:But it would takeA louder summonsTo bid them awake.Some dream of pleasureFor another's sake;Some dream, forgetfulOf a lifelong ache.One by one slowly,Ah, how sad and slow!Wailing and prayingThe spirits rise and go:Clear stainless spirits,White,--as white as snow;Pale spirits, wailingFor an overthrow.One by one flitting,Like a mournful birdWhose song is tired at lastFor no mate heard.The loving voice is silent,The useless word;One by one flitting,Sick with hope deferred.Driving and driving,The ship drives amain:While swift from mast to mastShapes flit again,Flit silent as the silenceWhere men lie slain;Their shadow cast upon the sailsIs like a stain.No voice to call the sleepers,No hand to raise:They sleep to death in dreamingOf length of days.Vanity of vanities,The Preacher says:Vanity is the endOf all their ways.
The first was like a dream through summer heat,The second like a tedious numbing swoon,While the half-frozen pulses lagged to beatBeneath a winter moon."But," says my friend, "what was this thing and where?"It was a pleasure-place within my soul;An earthly paradise supremely fairThat lured me from the goal.The first part was a tissue of hugged lies;The second was its ruin fraught with pain:Why raise the fair delusion to the skiesBut to be dashed again?My castle stood of white transparent glassGlittering and frail with many a fretted spire,But when the summer sunset came to passIt kindled into fire.My pleasaunce was an undulating green,Stately with trees whose shadows slept below,With glimpses of smooth garden-beds between,Like flame or sky or snow.Swift squirrels on the pastures took their ease,With leaping lambs safe from the unfeared knife;All singing-birds rejoicing in those treesFulfilled their careless life.Wood-pigeons cooed there, stock-doves nestled there;My trees were full of songs and flowers and fruit,Their branches spread a city to the air,And mice lodged in their root.My heath lay farther off, where lizards livedIn strange metallic mail, just spied and gone;Like darted lightnings here and there perceivedBut nowhere dwelt upon.Frogs and fat toads were there to hop or plodAnd propagate in peace, an uncouth crew,Where velvet-headed rushes rustling nodAnd spill the morning dew.All caterpillars throve beneath my rule,With snails and slugs in corners out of sight;I never marred the curious sudden stoolThat perfects in a night.Safe in his excavated galleryThe burrowing mole groped on from year to year;No harmless hedgehog curled because of meHis prickly back for fear.Ofttimes one like an angel walked with me,With spirit-discerning eyes like flames of fire,But deep as the unfathomed endless seaFulfilling my desire:And sometimes like a snowdrift he was fair,And sometimes like a sunset glorious red,And sometimes he had wings to scale the airWith aureole round his head.We sang our songs together by the way,Calls and recalls and echoes of delight;So communed we together all the day,And so in dreams by night.I have no words to tell what way we walked,What unforgotten path now closed and sealed;I have no words to tell all things we talked,All things that he revealed:This only can I tell: that hour by hourI waxed more feastful, lifted up and glad;I felt no thorn-prick when I plucked a flower,Felt not my friend was sad."To-morrow," once I said to him with smiles:"To-night," he answered gravely and was dumb,But pointed out the stones that numbered milesAnd miles and miles to come."Not so," I said: "to-morrow shall be sweet;To-night is not so sweet as coming days."Then first I saw that he had turned his feet,Had turned from me his face:Running and flying miles and miles he went,But once looked back to beckon with his handAnd cry: "Come home, O love, from banishment:Come to the distant land."That night destroyed me like an avalanche;One night turned all my summer back to snow:Next morning not a bird upon my branch,Not a lamb woke below,--No bird, no lamb, no living breathing thing;No squirrel scampered on my breezy lawn,No mouse lodged by his hoard: all joys took wingAnd fled before that dawn.Azure and sun were starved from heaven above,No dew had fallen, but biting frost lay hoar:O love, I knew that I should meet my love,Should find my love no more."My love no more," I muttered, stunned with pain:I shed no tear, I wrung no passionate hand,Till something whispered: "You shall meet again,Meet in a distant land."Then with a cry like famine I arose,I lit my candle, searched from room to room,Searched up and down; a war of winds that frozeSwept through the blank of gloom.I searched day after day, night after night;Scant change there came to me of night or day:"No more," I wailed, "no more"; and trimmed my light,And gnashed, but did not pray,Until my heart broke and my spirit broke:Upon the frost-bound floor I stumbled, fell,And moaned: "It is enough: withhold the stroke.Farewell, O love, farewell."Then life swooned from me. And I heard the songOf spheres and spirits rejoicing over me:One cried: "Our sister, she hath suffered long."--One answered: "Make her see."--One cried: "O blessed she who no more pain,Who no more disappointment shall receive."--One answered: "Not so: she must live again;Strengthen thou her to live."So, while I lay entranced, a curtain seemedTo shrivel with crackling from before my face,Across mine eyes a waxing radiance beamedAnd showed a certain place.I saw a vision of a woman, whereNight and new morning strive for domination;Incomparably pale, and almost fair,And sad beyond expression.Her eyes were like some fire-enshrining gem,Were stately like the stars, and yet were tender,Her figure charmed me like a windy stemQuivering and drooped and slender.I stood upon the outer barren ground,She stood on inner ground that budded flowers;While circling in their never-slackening roundDanced by the mystic hours.But every flower was lifted on a thorn,And every thorn shot upright from its sandsTo gall her feet; hoarse laughter pealed in scornWith cruel clapping hands.She bled and wept, yet did not shrink; her strengthWas strung up until daybreak of delight:She measured measureless sorrow toward its length,And breadth, and depth, and height.Then marked I how a chain sustained her form,A chain of living links not made nor riven:It stretched sheer up through lightning, wind, and storm,And anchored fast in heaven.One cried: "How long? yet founded on the RockShe shall do battle, suffer, and attain."--One answered: "Faith quakes in the tempest shock:Strengthen her soul again."I saw a cup sent down and come to herBrimful of loathing and of bitterness:She drank with livid lips that seemed to stirThe depth, not make it less.But as she drank I spied a hand distilNew wine and virgin honey; making itFirst bitter-sweet, then sweet indeed, untilShe tasted only sweet.Her lips and cheeks waxed rosy-fresh and young;Drinking she sang: "My soul shall nothing want";And drank anew: while soft a song was sung,A mystical slow chant.One cried: "The wounds are faithful of a friend:The wilderness shall blossom as a rose."--One answered: "Rend the veil, declare the end,Strengthen her ere she goes."Then earth and heaven were rolled up like a scroll;Time and space, change and death, had passed away;Weight, number, measure, each had reached its whole:The day had come, that day.Multitudes--multitudes--stood up in bliss,Made equal to the angels, glorious, fair;With harps, palms, wedding-garments, kiss of peace,And crowned and haloed hair.They sang a song, a new song in the height,Harping with harps to Him Who is Strong and True:They drank new wine, their eyes saw with new light,Lo, all things were made new.Tier beyond tier they rose and rose and roseSo high that it was dreadful, flames with flames:No man could number them, no tongue discloseTheir secret sacred names.As though one pulse stirred all, one rush of bloodFed all, one breath swept through them myriad voiced,They struck their harps, cast down their crowns, they stoodAnd worshipped and rejoiced.Each face looked one way like a moon new-lit,Each face looked one way towards its Sun of Love;Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored itAnd knew no end thereof.Glory touched glory on each blessed head,Hands locked dear hands never to sunder more:These were the new-begotten from the deadWhom the great birthday bore.Heart answered heart, soul answered soul at rest,Double against each other, filled, sufficed:All loving, loved of all; but loving bestAnd best beloved of Christ.I saw that one who lost her love in pain,Who trod on thorns, who drank the loathsome cup;The lost in night, in day was found again;The fallen was lifted up.They stood together in the blessed noon,They sang together through the length of days;Each loving face bent Sunwards like a moonNew-lit with love and praise.Therefore, O friend, I would not if I mightRebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyedOne time to dwell: my soul shall walk in white,Cast down but not destroyed.Therefore in patience I possess my soul;Yea, therefore as a flint I set my face,To pluck down, to build up again the whole--But in a distant place.These thorns are sharp, yet I can tread on them;This cup is loathsome, yet He makes it sweet;My face is steadfast toward Jerusalem,My heart remembers it.I lift the hanging hands, the feeble knees--I, precious more than seven times molten gold--Until the day when from His storehousesGod shall bring new and old;Beauty for ashes, oil of joy for grief,Garment of praise for spirit of heaviness:Although to-day I fade as doth a leaf,I languish and grow less.Although to-day He prunes my twigs with pain,Yet doth His blood nourish and warm my root:To-morrow I shall put forth buds again,And clothe myself with fruit.Although to-day I walk in tedious ways,To-day His staff is turned into a rod,Yet will I wait for Him the appointed daysAnd stay upon my God.
New Year met me somewhat sad:Old Year leaves me tired,Stripped of favorite things I had,Balked of much desired:Yet farther on my road to-day,God willing, farther on my way.New Year coming on apaceWhat have you to give me?Bring you scathe, or bring you grace,Face me with an honest face;You shall not deceive me:Be it good or ill, be it what you will,It needs shall help me on my road,My rugged way to heaven, please God.
Watch with me, men, women, and children dear,You whom I love, for whom I hope and fear,Watch with me this last vigil of the year.Some hug their business, some their pleasure-scheme;Some seize the vacant hour to sleep or dream;Heart locked in heart some kneel and watch apart.Watch with me, blessed spirits, who delightAll through the holy night to walk in white,Or take your ease after the long-drawn fight.I know not if they watch with me: I knowThey count this eve of resurrection slow,And cry, "How long?" with urgent utterance strong.Watch with me, Jesus, in my loneliness:Though others say me nay, yet say Thou yes;Though others pass me by, stop Thou to bless.Yea, Thou dost stop with me this vigil night;To-night of pain, to-morrow of delight:I, Love, am Thine; Thou, Lord, my God, art mine.
Passing away, saith the World, passing away:Chances, beauty and youth sapped day by day:Thy life never continueth in one stay.Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grayThat hath won neither laurel nor bay?I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decayOn my bosom for aye.Then I answered: Yea.Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:With its burden of fear and hope, of labor and play;Hearken what the past doth witness and say:Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.At midnight, at cock-crow, at morning, one certain dayLo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:Watch thou and pray.Then I answered: Yea.Passing away, saith my God, passing away:Winter passeth after the long delay:New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May.Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray.Arise, come away, night is past, and lo it is day,My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say.Then I answered: Yea.
It is over. What is over?Nay, how much is over truly!--Harvest days we toiled to sow for;Now the sheaves are gathered newly,Now the wheat is garnered duly.It is finished. What is finished?Much is finished known or unknown:Lives are finished; time diminished;Was the fallow field left unsown?Will these buds be always unblown?It suffices. What suffices?All suffices reckoned rightly:Spring shall bloom where now the ice is,Roses make the bramble sightly,And the quickening sun shine brightly,And the latter wind blow lightly,And my garden teem with spices.
Oh what is that countryAnd where can it be,Not mine own country,But dearer far to me?Yet mine own country,If I one day may seeIts spices and cedars,Its gold and ivory.As I lie dreamingIt rises, that land;There rises before meIts green golden strand,With the bowing cedarsAnd the shining sand;It sparkles and flashesLike a shaken brand.Do angels lean nearerWhile I lie and long?I see their soft plumageAnd catch their windy song,Like the rise of a high tideSweeping full and strong;I mark the outskirtsOf their reverend throng.Oh what is a king here,Or what is a boor?Here all starve together,All dwarfed and poor;Here Death's hand knockethAt door after door,He thins the dancersFrom the festal floor.Oh what is a handmaid,Or what is a queen?All must lie down togetherWhere the turf is green,The foulest face hidden,The fairest not seen;Gone as if neverThey had breathed or been.Gone from sweet sunshineUnderneath the sod,Turned from warm flesh and bloodTo senseless clod;Gone as if neverThey had toiled or trod,Gone out of sight of allExcept our God.Shut into silenceFrom the accustomed songShut into solitudeFrom all earth's throng,Run down though swift of foot,Thrust down though strong;Life made an end of,Seemed it short or long.Life made an end of,Life but just begun;Life finished yesterday,Its last sand run;Life new-born with the morrowFresh as the sun:While done is done for ever;Undone, undone.And if that life is life,This is but a breath,The passage of a dreamAnd the shadow of death;But a vain shadowIf one considereth;Vanity of vanities,As the Preacher saith.
Till all sweet gums and juices flow,Till the blossom of blossoms blow,The long hours go and come and go,The bride she sleepeth, waketh, sleepeth,Waiting for one whose coming is slow:--Hark! the bride weepeth."How long shall I wait, come heat come rime?"--"Till the strong Prince comes, who must come in time,"Her women say. "There's a mountain to climb,A river to ford. Sleep, dream and sleep:Sleep," they say: "we've muffled the chime,Better dream than weep."In his world-end palace the strong Prince sat,Taking his ease on cushion and mat,Close at hand lay his staff and his hat"When wilt thou start? the bride waits, O youth."--"Now the moon's at full; I tarried for that,Now I start in truth."But tell me first, true voice of my doom,Of my veiled bride in her maiden bloom;Keeps she watch through glare and through gloom,Watch for me asleep and awake?"--"Spell-bound she watches in one white room,And is patient for thy sake."By her head lilies and rosebuds grow;The lilies droop,--will the rosebuds blow?The silver slim lilies hang the head low;Their stream is scanty, their sunshine rare;Let the sun blaze out, and let the stream flow,They will blossom and wax fair."Red and white poppies grow at her feet,The blood-red wait for sweet summer heat,Wrapped in bud-coats hairy and neat;But the white buds swell; one day they will burst,Will open their death-cups drowsy and sweet,--Which will open the first?"Then a hundred sad voices lifted a wail,And a hundred glad voices piped on the gale:"Time is short, life is short," they took up the tale:"Life is sweet, love is sweet, use to-day while you may;Love is sweet, and to-morrow may fail;Love is sweet, use to-day."While the song swept by, beseeching and meek,Up rose the Prince with a flush on his cheek,Up he rose to stir and to seek,Going forth in the joy of his strength;Strong of limb, if of purpose weak,Starting at length.Forth he set in the breezy morn,Across green fields of nodding corn,As goodly a Prince as ever was born,Carolling with the carolling lark;--Sure his bride will be won and worn,Ere fall of the dark.So light his step, so merry his smile,A milkmaid loitered beside a stile,Set down her pail and rested awhile,A wave-haired milkmaid, rosy and white;The Prince, who had journeyed at least a mile,Grew athirst at the sight."Will you give me a morning draught?"--"You're kindly welcome," she said, and laughed.He lifted the pail, new milk he quaffed;Then wiping his curly black beard like silk:"Whitest cow that ever was calvedSurely gave you this milk."Was it milk now, or was it cream?Was she a maid, or an evil dream?Her eyes began to glitter and gleam;He would have gone, but he stayed instead;Green they gleamed as he looked in them:"Give me my fee," she said.--"I will give you a jewel of gold."--"Not so; gold is heavy and cold."--"I will give you a velvet foldOf foreign work your beauty to deck."--"Better I like my kerchief rolledLight and white round my neck."--"Nay," cried he, "but fix your own fee."--She laughed, "You may give the full moon to me;Or else sit under this apple-treeHere for one idle day by my side;After that I'll let you go free,And the world is wide."Loath to stay, but to leave her slack,He half turned away, then he quite turned back:For courtesy's sake he could not lackTo redeem his own royal pledge;Ahead, too, the windy heaven lowered blackWith a fire-cloven edge.So he stretched his length in the apple-tree shade,Lay and laughed and talked to the maid,Who twisted her hair in a cunning braid,And writhed it in shining serpent-coils,And held him a day and night fast laidIn her subtle toils.At the death of night and the birth of day,When the owl left off his sober play,And the bat hung himself out of the way,Woke the song of mavis and merle,And heaven put off its hodden grayFor mother-o'-pearl.Peeped up daisies here and there,Here, there, and everywhere;Rose a hopeful lark in the air,Spreading out towards the sun his breast;While the moon set solemn and fairAway in the west."Up, up, up," called the watchman lark,In his clear réveillée: "Hearken, O hark!Press to the high goal, fly to the mark.Up, O sluggard, new morn is born;If still asleep when the night falls dark,Thou must wait a second morn.""Up, up, up," sad glad voices swelled:"So the tree falls and lies as it's felled.Be thy bands loosed, O sleeper, long heldIn sweet sleep whose end is not sweet.Be the slackness girt and the softness quelledAnd the slowness fleet."Off he set. The grass grew rare,A blight lurked in the darkening air,The very moss grew hueless and spare,The last daisy stood all astunt;Behind his back the soil lay bare,But barer in front.A land of chasm and rent, a landOf rugged blackness on either hand:If water trickled, its track was tannedWith an edge of rust to the chink;If one stamped on stone or on sandIt returned a clink.A lifeless land, a loveless land,Without lair or nest on either hand:Only scorpions jerked in the sand,Black as black iron, or dusty pale;From point to point sheer rock was mannedBy scorpions in mail.A land of neither life nor death,Where no man buildeth or fashioneth,Where none draws living or dying breath;No man cometh or goeth there,No man doeth, seeketh, saith,In the stagnant air.Some old volcanic upset mustHave rent the crust and blackened the crust;Wrenched and ribbed it beneath its dustAbove earth's molten centre at seethe,Heaved and heaped it by huge upthrustOf fire beneath.Untrodden before, untrodden since:Tedious land for a social Prince;Halting, he scanned the outs and ins,Endless, labyrinthine, grim,Of the solitude that made him wince,Laying wait for him.By bulging rock and gaping cleft,Even of half mere daylight reft,Rueful he peered to right and left,Muttering in his altered mood:"The fate is hard that weaves my weft,Though my lot be good."Dim the changes of day to night,Of night scarce dark to day not bright.Still his road wound towards the right,Still he went, and still he went,Till one night he spied a light,In his discontent.Out it flashed from a yawn-mouthed cave,Like a red-hot eye from a grave.No man stood there of whom to craveRest for wayfarer plodding by:Though the tenant were churl or knaveThe Prince might try.In he passed and tarried not,Groping his way from spot to spot,Towards where the cavern flare glowed hot:--An old, old mortal, cramped and double,Was peering into a seething-pot,In a world of trouble.The veriest atomy he looked,With grimy fingers clutching and crooked,Tight skin, a nose all bony and hooked,And a shaking, sharp, suspicious way;Blinking, his eyes had scarcely brookedThe light of day.Stared the Prince, for the sight was new;Stared, but asked without more ado:"May a weary traveller lodge with you,Old father, here in your lair?In your country the inns seem few,And scanty the fare."The head turned not to hear him speak;The old voice whistled as through a leak(Out it came in a quavering squeak):"Work for wage is a bargain fit:If there's aught of mine that you seekYou must work for it."Buried alive from light and airThis year is the hundredth year,I feed my fire with a sleepless care,Watching my potion wane or wax:Elixir of Life is simmering there,And but one thing lacks."If you're fain to lodge here with me,Take that pair of bellows you see,--Too heavy for my old hands they be,--Take the bellows and puff and puff:When the steam curls rosy and freeThe broth's boiled enough."Then take your choice of all I have;I will give you life if you crave.Already I'm mildewed for the grave,So first myself I must drink my fill:But all the rest may be yours, to saveWhomever you will.""Done," quoth the Prince, and the bargain stood.First he piled on resinous wood,Next plied the bellows in hopeful mood;Thinking, "My love and I will live.If I tarry, why life is good,And she may forgive."The pot began to bubble and boil;The old man cast in essence and oil,He stirred all up with a triple coilOf gold and silver and iron wire,[128]Dredged in a pinch of virgin soil,And fed the fire.But still the steam curled watery white;Night turned to day and day to night;One thing lacked, by his feeble sightUnseen, unguessed by his feeble mind:Life might miss him, but Death the blightWas sure to find.So when the hundredth year was fullThe thread was cut and finished the school.Death snapped the old worn-out tool,Snapped him short while he stood and stirred(Though stiff he stood as a stiff-necked mule)With never a word.Thus at length the old crab was nipped.The dead hand slipped, the dead finger dippedIn the broth as the dead man slipped,--That same instant, a rosy redFlushed the steam, and quivered and clippedRound the dead old head.The last ingredient was supplied(Unless the dead man mistook or lied).Up started the Prince, he cast asideThe bellows plied through the tedious trial,Made sure that his host had died,And filled a phial."One night's rest," thought the Prince. "This done,Forth I speed with the rising sun:With the morrow I rise and run,Come what will of wind or of weather.This draught of Life when my Bride is wonWe'll drink together."Thus the dead man stayed in his grave,Self-chosen, the dead man in his cave;There he stayed, were he fool or knave,Or honest seeker who had not found;While the Prince outside was prompt to craveSleep on the ground."If she watches, go bid her sleep;Bid her sleep, for the road is steep:He can sleep who holdeth her cheap,Sleep and wake and sleep again.Let him sow, one day he shall reap,Let him sow the grain."When there blows a sweet garden rose,Let it bloom and wither if no man knows:But if one knows when the sweet thing blows,Knows, and lets it open and drop,If but a nettle his garden growsHe hath earned the crop."Through his sleep the summons rang,Into his ears it sobbed and it sang.Slow he woke with a drowsy pang,Shook himself without much debate,Turned where he saw green branches hang,Started though late.For the black land was travelled o'er,He should see the grim land no more.A flowering country stretched beforeHis face when the lovely day came back:He hugged the phial of Life he bore,And resumed his track.By willow courses he took his path,Spied what a nest the kingfisher hath,Marked the fields green to aftermath,Marked where the red-brown field-mouse ran,Loitered awhile for a deep-stream bath,Yawned for a fellow-man.Up on the hills not a soul in view,In the vale not many nor few;Leaves, still leaves, and nothing new.It's O for a second maiden, at least,To bear the flagon, and taste it too,And flavor the feast.Lagging he moved, and apt to swerve;Lazy of limb, but quick of nerve.At length the water-bed took a curve,The deep river swept its bank-side bare;Waters streamed from the hill-reserve,--Waters here, waters there.High above, and deep below,Bursting, bubbling, swelling the flow,Like hill-torrents after the snow,--Bubbling, gurgling, in whirling strife,Swaying, sweeping, to and fro,--He must swim for his life.Which way?--which way?--his eyes grew dimWith the dizzying whirl,--which way to swim?The thunderous downshoot deafened him;Half he choked in the lashing spray:Life is sweet, and the grave is grim,--Which way?--which way?A flash of light, a shout from the strand:"This way,--this way; here lies the land!"His phial clutched in one drowning hand;He catches,--misses,--catches a rope;His feet slip on the slipping sand:Is there life?--is there hope?Just saved, without pulse or breath,--Scarcely saved from the gulp of death;Laid where a willow shadoweth,--Laid where a swelling turf is smooth.(O Bride! but the Bridegroom lingerethFor all thy sweet youth.)Kind hands do and undo,Kind voices whisper and coo:"I will chafe his hands,"--"and I,"--"and youRaise his head, put his hair aside."(If many laugh, one well may rue:Sleep on, thou Bride.)So the Prince was tended with care:One wrung foul ooze from his clustered hair;Two chafed his hands, and did not spare;But one propped his head that drooped awryTill his eyes oped, and at unawareThey met eye to eye.O, a moon face in a shadowy place,And a light touch and a winsome grace,And a thrilling tender voice which says:"Safe from waters that seek the sea,--Cold waters by rugged ways,--Safe with me."While overhead bird whistles to bird,And round about plays a gamesome herd:"Safe with us,"--some take up the word,--"Safe with us, dear lord and friend:All the sweeter if long deferredIs rest in the end."Had he stayed to weigh and to scan,He had been more or less than a man:He did what a young man can,Spoke of toil and an arduous way,--Toil to-morrow, while golden ranThe sands of to-day.Slip past, slip fast,Uncounted hours from first to last,Many hours till the last is past,Many hours dwindling to one,--One hour whose die is cast,One last hour gone.Come, gone,--gone forever,--Gone as an unreturning river,--Gone as to death the merriest liver,--Gone as the year at the dying fall,--To-morrow, to-day, yesterday, never,--Gone once for all.Came at length the starting-day,With last words, and last, last words to say,With bodiless cries from far away,--Chiding wailing voices that rangLike a trumpet-call to the tug and fray;And thus they sang:"Is there life?--the lamp burns low;Is there hope?--the coming is slow:The promise promised so long ago,The long promise, has not been kept.Does she live?--does she die?--she slumbers soWho so oft has wept."Does she live?--does she die?--she languishethAs a lily drooping to death,As a drought-worn bird with failing breath,As a lovely vine without a stay,As a tree whereof the owner saith,'Hew it down to-day.'"Stung by that word the Prince was fainTo start on his tedious road again.He crossed the stream where a ford was plain,He clomb the opposite bank though steep,And swore to himself to strain and attainEre he tasted sleep.Huge before him a mountain frownedWith foot of rock on the valley ground,And head with snows incessant crowned,And a cloud mantle about its strength,And a path which the wild goat hath not foundIn its breadth and length.But he was strong to do and dare:If a host had withstood him there,He had braved a host with little careIn his lusty youth and his pride,Tough to grapple though weak to snare.He comes, O Bride.Up he went where the goat scarce clings,Up where the eagle folds her wings,Past the green line of living things,Where the sun cannot warm the cold,--Up he went as a flame enringsWhere there seems no hold.Up a fissure barren and black,Till the eagles tired upon his track,And the clouds were left behind his back,--Up till the utmost peak was past.Then he gasped for breath and his strength fell slack;He paused at last.Before his face a valley spreadWhere fatness laughed, wine, oil, and bread,Where all fruit-trees their sweetness shed,Where all birds made love to their kind,Where jewels twinkled, and gold lay redAnd not hard to find.Midway down the mountain side(On its green slope the path was wide)Stood a house for a royal bride,Built all of changing opal stone,The royal palace, till now descriedIn his dreams alone.Less bold than in days of yore,Doubting now though never before,Doubting he goes and lags the more:Is the time late? does the day grow dim?Rose, will she open the crimson coreOf her heart to him?Above his head a tangle glowsOf wine-red roses, blushes, snows,Closed buds and buds that unclose,Leaves, and moss, and prickles too;His hand shook as he plucked a rose,And the rose dropped dew.Take heart of grace! the portion of LifeMay go far to woo him a wife:If she frown, yet a lover's strifeLightly raised can be laid again:A hasty word is never the knifeTo cut love in twain.Far away stretched the royal land,Fed by dew, by a spice-wind fanned:Light labor more, and his foot would standOn the threshold, all labor done;Easy pleasure laid at his hand,And the dear Bride won.His slackening steps pause at the gate,--Does she wake or sleep?--the time is late,--Does she sleep now, or watch and wait?She has watched, she has waited long,Watching athwart the golden grateWith a patient song.Fling the golden portals wide,The Bridegroom comes to his promised Bride;Draw the gold-stiff curtains aside,Let them look on each other's face,She in her meekness, he in his pride,--Day wears apace.Day is over, the day that wore.What is this that comes through the door,The face covered, the feet before?This that coming takes his breath;This Bride not seen, to be seen no moreSave of Bridegroom Death?Veiled figures carrying herSweep by yet make no stir;There is a smell of spice and myrrh,A bride-chant burdened with one name;The bride-song rises steadierThan the torches' flame:"Too late for love, too late for joy,Too late, too late!You loitered on the road too long,You trifled at the gate:The enchanted dove upon her branchDied without a mate;The enchanted princess in her towerSlept, died, behind the grate;Her heart was starving all this whileYou made it wait."Ten years ago, five years ago,One year ago,Even then you had arrived in time,Though somewhat slow;Then you had known her living faceWhich now you cannot know:The frozen fountain would have leaped,The buds gone on to blow,The warm south wind would have awakedTo melt the snow."Is she fair now as she lies?Once she was fair;Meet queen for any kingly king,With gold-dust on her hair.Now these are poppies in her locks,White poppies she must wear;Must wear a veil to shroud her faceAnd the want graven there:Or is the hunger fed at length,Cast off the care?"We never saw her with a smileOr with a frown;Her bed seemed never soft to her,Though tossed of down;She little heeded what she wore,Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;We think her white brows often achedBeneath her crown,Till silvery hairs showed in her locksThat used to be so brown.