VIII

Full well I know the belts of larch that fringeThe dark verge of the lonely moor, which seemsThe limit of the world, touched with the tingeOf dying light, and burned with day’s last beams.

Full well I know the belts of larch that fringe

The dark verge of the lonely moor, which seems

The limit of the world, touched with the tinge

Of dying light, and burned with day’s last beams.

And oft, as now, I pressed the purple bloom—The heather-plumaged breast of this high moor;And heard, as now I hear, the wandering boomOf these winged gleaners of the honeyed store.

And oft, as now, I pressed the purple bloom—

The heather-plumaged breast of this high moor;

And heard, as now I hear, the wandering boom

Of these winged gleaners of the honeyed store.

O well loved vale! For I am bound to theeBy subtle threads of thought that memory weaves;Yea, sitting in thy shadow, Liberty,Like dawn first knew I, opening life’s leaves;

O well loved vale! For I am bound to thee

By subtle threads of thought that memory weaves;

Yea, sitting in thy shadow, Liberty,

Like dawn first knew I, opening life’s leaves;

E’en then, when first I tasted of the tree,And dayspring of new knowledge touched mine eyes,That erst were sealed—as other books to me,Until upon thy hills new light should rise:

E’en then, when first I tasted of the tree,

And dayspring of new knowledge touched mine eyes,

That erst were sealed—as other books to me,

Until upon thy hills new light should rise:

Until my soul, new born, within this valeShould learn of Nature in her age-worn book,And strive, beyond the starry void, to scaleThe dim unknown, or in truth’s glass to look

Until my soul, new born, within this vale

Should learn of Nature in her age-worn book,

And strive, beyond the starry void, to scale

The dim unknown, or in truth’s glass to look

On life, and life’s dark mystery which broodsAnd clings, a shadow, to the sad-eyed world;Born in the horror of primæval woods,And in death’s cloud impenetrable furled.

On life, and life’s dark mystery which broods

And clings, a shadow, to the sad-eyed world;

Born in the horror of primæval woods,

And in death’s cloud impenetrable furled.

Beyond the gathering years since first I knewThee, happy vale, my yearning spirit reads,Beyond night’s mist on thy horizon blue,Where glow day’s embers, ere the night succeeds—

Beyond the gathering years since first I knew

Thee, happy vale, my yearning spirit reads,

Beyond night’s mist on thy horizon blue,

Where glow day’s embers, ere the night succeeds—

The Legends rich of unforgotten time—Azure, and white, and gray enfolded days,That long have passed away, unto the chimeOf brief on lingering hours, their restful ways:

The Legends rich of unforgotten time—

Azure, and white, and gray enfolded days,

That long have passed away, unto the chime

Of brief on lingering hours, their restful ways:

And, even now, clear imaged on my brainTheir semblance comes again—I see them moveIn long procession slow, with joy or painEnrobed, with faces hid, and eyes of doubt or love:

And, even now, clear imaged on my brain

Their semblance comes again—I see them move

In long procession slow, with joy or pain

Enrobed, with faces hid, and eyes of doubt or love:

Until the day which died with yestern sunBegins to merge in that unending line;And soon her lingering sister will be oneFor on her face the light has ceased to shine.

Until the day which died with yestern sun

Begins to merge in that unending line;

And soon her lingering sister will be one

For on her face the light has ceased to shine.

So pass the days, with days unborn, to die,And gather them to years in time’s swift pace,But we would fain forecast futurity,Or read fate’s rune upon the sky’s calm face.

So pass the days, with days unborn, to die,

And gather them to years in time’s swift pace,

But we would fain forecast futurity,

Or read fate’s rune upon the sky’s calm face.

And I could well believe that in the shadeOf this still vale the secret sign lies hid—The secret that shall shape my life, unsaid,As in a casket treasured with close lid;

And I could well believe that in the shade

Of this still vale the secret sign lies hid—

The secret that shall shape my life, unsaid,

As in a casket treasured with close lid;

Mid fir-woods dark, or tumbled crags, unknown,Or in brown deeps, where swift the river flowsAmong tumultuous rocks, whence I have heardVague murmurings, ofttimes, beneath the boughs.

Mid fir-woods dark, or tumbled crags, unknown,

Or in brown deeps, where swift the river flows

Among tumultuous rocks, whence I have heard

Vague murmurings, ofttimes, beneath the boughs.

But silence with her finger locks the lips,When stand we watching at Futura’s gate;Though eager thought would climb, and climbing slips;While, all unwatched, each hour doth carve our fate.

But silence with her finger locks the lips,

When stand we watching at Futura’s gate;

Though eager thought would climb, and climbing slips;

While, all unwatched, each hour doth carve our fate.

THE·UNKNOWN·SHORE

THERE is no voice, there is no voice,Or answer from the UNKNOWN shore:Turn! turn again—there is no choiceBut Life or Death—we know no more.

THERE is no voice, there is no voice,

Or answer from the UNKNOWN shore:

Turn! turn again—there is no choice

But Life or Death—we know no more.

Yet Thought in Art and Song awakes;Still Hope doth speak, and Reason bringsNew light to men, and Wisdom takesSweet comfort from most lowly things.

Yet Thought in Art and Song awakes;

Still Hope doth speak, and Reason brings

New light to men, and Wisdom takes

Sweet comfort from most lowly things.

Have loveliness or glory fled?Hath Love or Beauty passed away?Is poesy or fancy dead,When light returns with every day?

Have loveliness or glory fled?

Hath Love or Beauty passed away?

Is poesy or fancy dead,

When light returns with every day?

Sweet Hope and Beauty cannot die,Enshrined as one in heaven’s blue;And still eternal as the skyIs good, and knowledge ever new.

Sweet Hope and Beauty cannot die,

Enshrined as one in heaven’s blue;

And still eternal as the sky

Is good, and knowledge ever new.

And evermore rolls on the fightOf good and evil by the sea;But on the waters falls a lightFrom golden ages yet to be.

And evermore rolls on the fight

Of good and evil by the sea;

But on the waters falls a light

From golden ages yet to be.

Hear how they cry from every side,The voices from the deepening strife!The fields are white, the world is wide;Arise! take heart! take hope! take Life!

Hear how they cry from every side,

The voices from the deepening strife!

The fields are white, the world is wide;

Arise! take heart! take hope! take Life!

THE·WEST·WIND

WILD Wind! Thy tameless spirit lifts my mind—Thou, all night long the troubled earth hast torn,And tossed the stormy trees until the morn,Which struggles now unto its noon, half blindWith those wild locks which ye have cast acrossThe face of heaven, scarcely showing throughHer eyes between are still of stedfast blue,And still look calm above the woods ye toss;As they were wrathful waves of that green mainFrom whence ye come, beyond the sunset’s grave,To freshen on the sunburnt hills, and laveThe summer-thirsty fields with gracious rain.Hark! in the wood thy voice, a lion, roars!Beneath thy breath upon the parchèd hill,Shudders the wasted grass, and shrieketh shrill,As though it feared thee: but thy spirit soarsTo lash the fossil waves of hill and daleYe may not move, yet melted make appearTheir solid sides, enrobed in rains ye bearAcross the valley like a falling veil.But, night or day, thy ceaseless song to meMakes melody, and music wild and free,And I rejoice to drink thy breath for yeDo bring the sound and savour of the sea.

WILD Wind! Thy tameless spirit lifts my mind—Thou, all night long the troubled earth hast torn,And tossed the stormy trees until the morn,Which struggles now unto its noon, half blind

WILD Wind! Thy tameless spirit lifts my mind—

Thou, all night long the troubled earth hast torn,

And tossed the stormy trees until the morn,

Which struggles now unto its noon, half blind

With those wild locks which ye have cast acrossThe face of heaven, scarcely showing throughHer eyes between are still of stedfast blue,And still look calm above the woods ye toss;

With those wild locks which ye have cast across

The face of heaven, scarcely showing through

Her eyes between are still of stedfast blue,

And still look calm above the woods ye toss;

As they were wrathful waves of that green mainFrom whence ye come, beyond the sunset’s grave,To freshen on the sunburnt hills, and laveThe summer-thirsty fields with gracious rain.

As they were wrathful waves of that green main

From whence ye come, beyond the sunset’s grave,

To freshen on the sunburnt hills, and lave

The summer-thirsty fields with gracious rain.

Hark! in the wood thy voice, a lion, roars!Beneath thy breath upon the parchèd hill,Shudders the wasted grass, and shrieketh shrill,As though it feared thee: but thy spirit soars

Hark! in the wood thy voice, a lion, roars!

Beneath thy breath upon the parchèd hill,

Shudders the wasted grass, and shrieketh shrill,

As though it feared thee: but thy spirit soars

To lash the fossil waves of hill and daleYe may not move, yet melted make appearTheir solid sides, enrobed in rains ye bearAcross the valley like a falling veil.

To lash the fossil waves of hill and dale

Ye may not move, yet melted make appear

Their solid sides, enrobed in rains ye bear

Across the valley like a falling veil.

But, night or day, thy ceaseless song to meMakes melody, and music wild and free,And I rejoice to drink thy breath for yeDo bring the sound and savour of the sea.

But, night or day, thy ceaseless song to me

Makes melody, and music wild and free,

And I rejoice to drink thy breath for ye

Do bring the sound and savour of the sea.

decoration: shell

THE·NEW·LIGHT

AWAKE, O world! From thy long sleep arise!For a new light breaks in reddening skies:Shake off your rust-eaten fetters, ye slaves!And claim the Freedom of winds and of waves:Unwind! O unwind all the swathing clothesOf bondage and ignorance, nations’ woes:Break the dark might of enchantment’s spell,Burst all thy bonds, and the chorus swell!Kindle on every high hill a clear fire:Plant in the cities, on tower and spire,The banner of Freedom! Wide let it waveOver sea and land, and over the graveOf buried oppression, and chains decayedOf tyrant’s power: till the ghosts shall be laidOf fraud and violence, bloodshed and war:And, burned in the flame of freedom’s fair star,All wrongs shall be dust and ashes on earth—Dead leaves from whose death shall spring a new birthWhich shall spread and grow like a fruitful tree,And under its branches shall live the Free.

AWAKE, O world! From thy long sleep arise!

For a new light breaks in reddening skies:

Shake off your rust-eaten fetters, ye slaves!

And claim the Freedom of winds and of waves:

Unwind! O unwind all the swathing clothes

Of bondage and ignorance, nations’ woes:

Break the dark might of enchantment’s spell,

Burst all thy bonds, and the chorus swell!

Kindle on every high hill a clear fire:

Plant in the cities, on tower and spire,

The banner of Freedom! Wide let it wave

Over sea and land, and over the grave

Of buried oppression, and chains decayed

Of tyrant’s power: till the ghosts shall be laid

Of fraud and violence, bloodshed and war:

And, burned in the flame of freedom’s fair star,

All wrongs shall be dust and ashes on earth—

Dead leaves from whose death shall spring a new birth

Which shall spread and grow like a fruitful tree,

And under its branches shall live the Free.

HYMN OF FREE PEOPLES

OKINDREDS! peoples strong!That earth’s large arms enfold,Against the powers that work ye wrong,In common cause make bold.

OKINDREDS! peoples strong!

That earth’s large arms enfold,

Against the powers that work ye wrong,

In common cause make bold.

From North, from East and West;Beneath the southern star;In bonds of slavery opprest,In cruel arms of war.

From North, from East and West;

Beneath the southern star;

In bonds of slavery opprest,

In cruel arms of war.

From East, and South, and North;From desert-cities shade,From living tombs of toil, come forth,Where rich man’s gold is made.

From East, and South, and North;

From desert-cities shade,

From living tombs of toil, come forth,

Where rich man’s gold is made.

From North, from West, and East,O starved and meagre-fed!Be gathered to the equal feastThe earth for all hath spread.

From North, from West, and East,

O starved and meagre-fed!

Be gathered to the equal feast

The earth for all hath spread.

Beneath Life’s healing tree,Truth’s fountain’s crystal flow,Let all the Nations kindred beThe joy of life to know.

Beneath Life’s healing tree,

Truth’s fountain’s crystal flow,

Let all the Nations kindred be

The joy of life to know.

And let each soul rejoice,Who in that meat is strong;And, hunger stayed, let heart and voiceBe filled with a new song.

And let each soul rejoice,

Who in that meat is strong;

And, hunger stayed, let heart and voice

Be filled with a new song.

For Freedom like the sunHath risen on the world!This hour a new age is begun—A stainless scroll unfurled.

For Freedom like the sun

Hath risen on the world!

This hour a new age is begun—

A stainless scroll unfurled.

Old things have passed away—The curse of gold, and gore;The Law of Love all peoples sway,And war shall be no more.

Old things have passed away—

The curse of gold, and gore;

The Law of Love all peoples sway,

And war shall be no more.

No more to joyless toilShall Labour’s hands be chained;No more shall Fraud have power to spoilMan’s equal rights regained.

No more to joyless toil

Shall Labour’s hands be chained;

No more shall Fraud have power to spoil

Man’s equal rights regained.

One hope, one joy, one light,United all men know;And from all lands with gathering mightThe voice of truth shall go:

One hope, one joy, one light,

United all men know;

And from all lands with gathering might

The voice of truth shall go:

And far and wide proclaim,Defying tyrants’ ban,Writ in all hearts, like tongues of flame—The Brotherhood of Man!

And far and wide proclaim,

Defying tyrants’ ban,

Writ in all hearts, like tongues of flame—

The Brotherhood of Man!

TWELVE·SONNETS·OF·LOVE

NO more I go to worship with the crowdIn Christian temples, pagan now to me,No dim cathedral hears me pray aloud,I sing no credo, as it used to be:Though kneeling not beneath the roof of Rome,Or in protesting fanes, I have a shrine—A holiest of holies—Love’s sweet home,On whose white altar lies life’s bread and wine.There oft, in saddened times and weary hours,To secret sanctuary do I flee,Where one sweet presence soothes, like breath of flowers,To whom their incense rises ceaselessly;For there, though not a Roman devotee,Sweet virgin Mary I do worship thee.

NO more I go to worship with the crowdIn Christian temples, pagan now to me,No dim cathedral hears me pray aloud,I sing no credo, as it used to be:

NO more I go to worship with the crowd

In Christian temples, pagan now to me,

No dim cathedral hears me pray aloud,

I sing no credo, as it used to be:

Though kneeling not beneath the roof of Rome,Or in protesting fanes, I have a shrine—A holiest of holies—Love’s sweet home,On whose white altar lies life’s bread and wine.

Though kneeling not beneath the roof of Rome,

Or in protesting fanes, I have a shrine—

A holiest of holies—Love’s sweet home,

On whose white altar lies life’s bread and wine.

There oft, in saddened times and weary hours,To secret sanctuary do I flee,Where one sweet presence soothes, like breath of flowers,To whom their incense rises ceaselessly;

There oft, in saddened times and weary hours,

To secret sanctuary do I flee,

Where one sweet presence soothes, like breath of flowers,

To whom their incense rises ceaselessly;

For there, though not a Roman devotee,Sweet virgin Mary I do worship thee.

For there, though not a Roman devotee,

Sweet virgin Mary I do worship thee.

IGAVE to thee at parting, dear, a rose,Encrimsoned with the hue of Love’s warm lips,But yet it faded when compared to thoseWherefrom my soul unfailing honey sips.And thou didst plant it in the snowy lawnWhich veiled the purer treasures of thy breast,As when we see o’er earth, by winter drawnThe white sky-covering in spotless rest.Warm gules on argent, like a blazoned field,The hues of life and death in red and white—A fair device for any knightly shield,Nor needing motto to proclaim its might.Henceforth I bear it on my battle crest,Till in thine arms from life’s alarms I rest.

IGAVE to thee at parting, dear, a rose,Encrimsoned with the hue of Love’s warm lips,But yet it faded when compared to thoseWherefrom my soul unfailing honey sips.

IGAVE to thee at parting, dear, a rose,

Encrimsoned with the hue of Love’s warm lips,

But yet it faded when compared to those

Wherefrom my soul unfailing honey sips.

And thou didst plant it in the snowy lawnWhich veiled the purer treasures of thy breast,As when we see o’er earth, by winter drawnThe white sky-covering in spotless rest.

And thou didst plant it in the snowy lawn

Which veiled the purer treasures of thy breast,

As when we see o’er earth, by winter drawn

The white sky-covering in spotless rest.

Warm gules on argent, like a blazoned field,The hues of life and death in red and white—A fair device for any knightly shield,Nor needing motto to proclaim its might.

Warm gules on argent, like a blazoned field,

The hues of life and death in red and white—

A fair device for any knightly shield,

Nor needing motto to proclaim its might.

Henceforth I bear it on my battle crest,Till in thine arms from life’s alarms I rest.

Henceforth I bear it on my battle crest,

Till in thine arms from life’s alarms I rest.

IN my heart’s chamber cold in day’s white glare,Sate Love disconsolate with tatter’d wings,And brooding on the memory of lost thingsThat erst made glad those walls, so wan and bare.Came Hope then unto him and bade him lookUpon the brightness of the cloudless hours,And on the buds of yet unopened flowers;But Love, being blind, all blank was nature’s book.Sleep came to him, and would have brought him peace,But dreams awoke Desire whose torturing flameMade worse his case and left him agony:Till one, with wreathèd brows, for his release,Unto his fingers gave a stringèd frame,And then Love wept, and sang his pain to thee.

IN my heart’s chamber cold in day’s white glare,Sate Love disconsolate with tatter’d wings,And brooding on the memory of lost thingsThat erst made glad those walls, so wan and bare.

IN my heart’s chamber cold in day’s white glare,

Sate Love disconsolate with tatter’d wings,

And brooding on the memory of lost things

That erst made glad those walls, so wan and bare.

Came Hope then unto him and bade him lookUpon the brightness of the cloudless hours,And on the buds of yet unopened flowers;But Love, being blind, all blank was nature’s book.

Came Hope then unto him and bade him look

Upon the brightness of the cloudless hours,

And on the buds of yet unopened flowers;

But Love, being blind, all blank was nature’s book.

Sleep came to him, and would have brought him peace,But dreams awoke Desire whose torturing flameMade worse his case and left him agony:Till one, with wreathèd brows, for his release,Unto his fingers gave a stringèd frame,And then Love wept, and sang his pain to thee.

Sleep came to him, and would have brought him peace,

But dreams awoke Desire whose torturing flame

Made worse his case and left him agony:

Till one, with wreathèd brows, for his release,

Unto his fingers gave a stringèd frame,

And then Love wept, and sang his pain to thee.

THE air grows faint within the shrine of Love,And from his altar rose-leaves fall away,As smoke of incense dims the dying dayThat crimsons on the golden roof above:But, slowly stealing, soon the organ plains,With quiring voices in a tender song,Which shakes my soul as with a tempest strong,Still as the music rolleth on refrains.Now lifted light upon melodious wave,My spirit rises on each beating wing,That near unto the gates of bliss me bring;Full soon cast down, and bowed by thunder-tones,He falls upon the ground, and weeps and moans—Such madness doth Love’s votaries enslave.

THE air grows faint within the shrine of Love,

And from his altar rose-leaves fall away,

As smoke of incense dims the dying day

That crimsons on the golden roof above:

But, slowly stealing, soon the organ plains,

With quiring voices in a tender song,

Which shakes my soul as with a tempest strong,

Still as the music rolleth on refrains.

Now lifted light upon melodious wave,My spirit rises on each beating wing,That near unto the gates of bliss me bring;Full soon cast down, and bowed by thunder-tones,He falls upon the ground, and weeps and moans—Such madness doth Love’s votaries enslave.

Now lifted light upon melodious wave,

My spirit rises on each beating wing,

That near unto the gates of bliss me bring;

Full soon cast down, and bowed by thunder-tones,

He falls upon the ground, and weeps and moans—

Such madness doth Love’s votaries enslave.

LOVE’S anchorite, within my lonely cell,His breviary I learn you every day,And Aves to my sainted Mary say,As all my rosary I careful tell:While on thy picture sweet my fond eyes dwell,Or rapt upon thy treasured story pore,Which, ending, leaves me yet to hunger more,And still athirst to seek again the well.Yet all Love’s calendar I follow through,And each fair day, where memory shows thy sign,Keep holy unto thee in prayer and song;So every season brings to thee its due;But, while thy table’s set with corn and wine,Fasting I keep Love’s Lenten-tide so long.

LOVE’S anchorite, within my lonely cell,

His breviary I learn you every day,

And Aves to my sainted Mary say,

As all my rosary I careful tell:

While on thy picture sweet my fond eyes dwell,

Or rapt upon thy treasured story pore,

Which, ending, leaves me yet to hunger more,

And still athirst to seek again the well.

Yet all Love’s calendar I follow through,And each fair day, where memory shows thy sign,Keep holy unto thee in prayer and song;So every season brings to thee its due;But, while thy table’s set with corn and wine,Fasting I keep Love’s Lenten-tide so long.

Yet all Love’s calendar I follow through,

And each fair day, where memory shows thy sign,

Keep holy unto thee in prayer and song;

So every season brings to thee its due;

But, while thy table’s set with corn and wine,

Fasting I keep Love’s Lenten-tide so long.

IN my heart’s garden, winter dark and bare,Love sought for flowers to make a wreath for thee,Which, since the sun was gone, he scarce might seeIn all the waste, and Time was gardener there,Who yet a little bloom will hardly spare,But with remorseless hand still prunes away,And still his scythe he sharpeneth every day;So Love was left with empty hands to fare.Till Hope had led him to a little wellThat in this desert kept a joyful spot,Made sapphire with the eyes of flowers Love knew,As though from heavenly seed their harvest grew,That soon into his reaping fingers fellWhich bring you these—sweet, sweet FORGET-ME-NOT.

IN my heart’s garden, winter dark and bare,

Love sought for flowers to make a wreath for thee,

Which, since the sun was gone, he scarce might see

In all the waste, and Time was gardener there,

Who yet a little bloom will hardly spare,

But with remorseless hand still prunes away,

And still his scythe he sharpeneth every day;

So Love was left with empty hands to fare.

Till Hope had led him to a little wellThat in this desert kept a joyful spot,Made sapphire with the eyes of flowers Love knew,As though from heavenly seed their harvest grew,That soon into his reaping fingers fellWhich bring you these—sweet, sweet FORGET-ME-NOT.

Till Hope had led him to a little well

That in this desert kept a joyful spot,

Made sapphire with the eyes of flowers Love knew,

As though from heavenly seed their harvest grew,

That soon into his reaping fingers fell

Which bring you these—sweet, sweet FORGET-ME-NOT.

FILLED with the breath of Love, my soul knows changeThroughout its troubled region, day by day,Still as the breaking fire upclimbs its wayFrom scarlet dawn, through fervent noon to range;Until the fainting eve, grown wan and pale,Swoons in the arms of close embracing nightThat putteth forth her spells of dreamful might,And sweet enchantments, till the starry veilIs cloven by the gleaming shafts of morn,Ascending new with all his glittering trainTo bring me peace, or strange tempestuous pain;Or soft winds singing in the sacred groveThat keeps thy shrine, and where I talk with Love,Watching the far-off sea whence hope is born.

FILLED with the breath of Love, my soul knows change

Throughout its troubled region, day by day,

Still as the breaking fire upclimbs its way

From scarlet dawn, through fervent noon to range;

Until the fainting eve, grown wan and pale,

Swoons in the arms of close embracing night

That putteth forth her spells of dreamful might,

And sweet enchantments, till the starry veil

Is cloven by the gleaming shafts of morn,Ascending new with all his glittering trainTo bring me peace, or strange tempestuous pain;Or soft winds singing in the sacred groveThat keeps thy shrine, and where I talk with Love,Watching the far-off sea whence hope is born.

Is cloven by the gleaming shafts of morn,

Ascending new with all his glittering train

To bring me peace, or strange tempestuous pain;

Or soft winds singing in the sacred grove

That keeps thy shrine, and where I talk with Love,

Watching the far-off sea whence hope is born.

JOY, like the flashes of a fitful sun,Falls on my storm-worn heart, and kindling, diesIn wandering gleams about the changeful skies,Cloud-built with tempest towers, and wind-undone:For winds make desolate the day begunWild on my path that climbs a bleak green hill,Among the writhen thorns, oft traversed, chillWith the breath of March, until the ridge is won:Wherefrom I think to gain some hopeful sign,As range mine eyes the saddened landscape round,That keeps my soul’s white house, whence I return,With thoughts that may not utterly repine,But hearing even in the strong wind’s soundThe shout of coming spring which makes me burn.

JOY, like the flashes of a fitful sun,

Falls on my storm-worn heart, and kindling, dies

In wandering gleams about the changeful skies,

Cloud-built with tempest towers, and wind-undone:

For winds make desolate the day begun

Wild on my path that climbs a bleak green hill,

Among the writhen thorns, oft traversed, chill

With the breath of March, until the ridge is won:

Wherefrom I think to gain some hopeful sign,As range mine eyes the saddened landscape round,That keeps my soul’s white house, whence I return,With thoughts that may not utterly repine,But hearing even in the strong wind’s soundThe shout of coming spring which makes me burn.

Wherefrom I think to gain some hopeful sign,

As range mine eyes the saddened landscape round,

That keeps my soul’s white house, whence I return,

With thoughts that may not utterly repine,

But hearing even in the strong wind’s sound

The shout of coming spring which makes me burn.

DOUBT, Hope, and Fear, all day within my breastHave clanged in cruel war where none prevail,Though their fierce cries have rent the sacred veil,When in Love’s sanctuary I sought to rest.Since brazen morn awoke this wild alarmSo have they striven long with clashing swordsOf two edged thought—since fell the wordsUpon my soul from herald lips of harm;Whose message strange a fiery hand imprestIn charact’ry that burns my mazèd sight:Yet loud with iron hands they tear and smite,But through the cloud of strife I see Hope’s crestRise loftier, and his voice above the restGrows calm and clearer with the falling night.

DOUBT, Hope, and Fear, all day within my breastHave clanged in cruel war where none prevail,Though their fierce cries have rent the sacred veil,When in Love’s sanctuary I sought to rest.

DOUBT, Hope, and Fear, all day within my breast

Have clanged in cruel war where none prevail,

Though their fierce cries have rent the sacred veil,

When in Love’s sanctuary I sought to rest.

Since brazen morn awoke this wild alarmSo have they striven long with clashing swordsOf two edged thought—since fell the wordsUpon my soul from herald lips of harm;

Since brazen morn awoke this wild alarm

So have they striven long with clashing swords

Of two edged thought—since fell the words

Upon my soul from herald lips of harm;

Whose message strange a fiery hand imprestIn charact’ry that burns my mazèd sight:Yet loud with iron hands they tear and smite,But through the cloud of strife I see Hope’s crestRise loftier, and his voice above the restGrows calm and clearer with the falling night.

Whose message strange a fiery hand imprest

In charact’ry that burns my mazèd sight:

Yet loud with iron hands they tear and smite,

But through the cloud of strife I see Hope’s crest

Rise loftier, and his voice above the rest

Grows calm and clearer with the falling night.

YOUNG Love with rosy wings came through a mead,Whereon before the feet of spring had gone,Along a slender brook that wound and shoneBy stems made bright with blooms of fruitful deed.He gathered as he went of such fair seedAs Spring upon her grassy ways had sown,And in his fingers wove a garland crownThat faded not, or drooped or died for need.Full soon the stream had brought him to a spaceOf orchard green, where maidens sweet were metWith Time’s frail gifts around his dial stone;And, these among, thou sat’st in such sweet grace,That, seeing thee, Love on thy dear head setHis magic wreath and crowned thee on my throne.

YOUNG Love with rosy wings came through a mead,

Whereon before the feet of spring had gone,

Along a slender brook that wound and shone

By stems made bright with blooms of fruitful deed.

He gathered as he went of such fair seed

As Spring upon her grassy ways had sown,

And in his fingers wove a garland crown

That faded not, or drooped or died for need.

Full soon the stream had brought him to a spaceOf orchard green, where maidens sweet were metWith Time’s frail gifts around his dial stone;And, these among, thou sat’st in such sweet grace,That, seeing thee, Love on thy dear head setHis magic wreath and crowned thee on my throne.

Full soon the stream had brought him to a space

Of orchard green, where maidens sweet were met

With Time’s frail gifts around his dial stone;

And, these among, thou sat’st in such sweet grace,

That, seeing thee, Love on thy dear head set

His magic wreath and crowned thee on my throne.

ISAW young Love make trial of his bow,In May’s green garden where he shot his dart,Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art,But other eyes did mark him as I know;For my sweet lady sate anear his throw,And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart,So that we might not feel the bitter smartLove leaveth there when time doth force us go.We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass,Or watched them quiver in the targe below;Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they passBeyond our feet, which trembled when they came,Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim,That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.

ISAW young Love make trial of his bow,

In May’s green garden where he shot his dart,

Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art,

But other eyes did mark him as I know;

For my sweet lady sate anear his throw,

And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart,

So that we might not feel the bitter smart

Love leaveth there when time doth force us go.

We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass,Or watched them quiver in the targe below;Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they passBeyond our feet, which trembled when they came,Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim,That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.

We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass,

Or watched them quiver in the targe below;

Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass

Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came,

Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim,

That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.

ISTAND to gaze across the years’ long fieldsThat have the tinge of Autumn, and their goldGathered by careful hours on lea and wold;Rich spoils of time that he to Love upyieldsWho yet amid fair corn his sickle wields,Though harvest’s done, and summer groweth old:Well-storèd barns, and orchards he doth holdWhose wealth against the steely winter shields.Unto my feet the days, like full-eared sheaves,Have fallen, one by one, time-bound and borneTo be the bread of Love through barren days;E’en such dear heritage the sweet year leaves,And life to live again Love’s night and mornWhose light thou art, whose glory is their praise.

ISTAND to gaze across the years’ long fields

That have the tinge of Autumn, and their gold

Gathered by careful hours on lea and wold;

Rich spoils of time that he to Love upyields

Who yet amid fair corn his sickle wields,

Though harvest’s done, and summer groweth old:

Well-storèd barns, and orchards he doth hold

Whose wealth against the steely winter shields.

Unto my feet the days, like full-eared sheaves,Have fallen, one by one, time-bound and borneTo be the bread of Love through barren days;E’en such dear heritage the sweet year leaves,And life to live again Love’s night and mornWhose light thou art, whose glory is their praise.

Unto my feet the days, like full-eared sheaves,

Have fallen, one by one, time-bound and borne

To be the bread of Love through barren days;

E’en such dear heritage the sweet year leaves,

And life to live again Love’s night and morn

Whose light thou art, whose glory is their praise.

Part II Later Poems

A·HERALD·OF·SPRING

SWEET bird, what makes thee glad?Beneath this sky so wan and sad,And leafless poplars, thin and grey,Bowed down before the wintry sway.What tuneful thought of days gone byDoth make thee sing? Or knowest thou whyThy soul is lifted up, sweet bird?Or dost thou hear Spring’s voice, unheardOf earth that sleeps, nor, dreaming, mindsThe herald blast of trumpet windsThat make old Winter’s fortress quail,And force him cast his coat of mail.What secret bower thy shape doth keep?Close hidden by the buds that sleep;Thy voice—the firstling bloom that blows—Breaks joyful through the wintry boughs,That bear thy song of promise, meetFor happy hours when lovers greet,When every leaf-lorn tree shall bearFlower, fruit, and song upon the air,And summer’s choir is full, and gayThe soft winds on the sun’s feast-day.Sweet bird, as thou dost sing, my soulDoth partly catch the speechless wholeOf joyful pain that lifts the wingsOf thy sequestered music—thingsRemembered half, and half forgot,Of sight, or sound, or sense begot,Confused in love’s ambrosial streams,And hidden in the house of dreams;As frail sweet scent of flowers that holdPast time and days in some book’s fold,Which, when the leaves are turned again,Doth warm, like wine, the wintry brain.O bird, thy heart doth sing in me,I hear what thou dost hear—I seeUpon a high green land, untrodOf men, upon the flower-wrought sodThe feet of Spring, and her bright throngBreak from the woods with shout and song;Soft piping winds with pleasant cheerBefore her go, her path to clear,Sweet maids come with her, and behind,Light-footed as the lifting wind:Some bear her canopy on high,And warm gleams gild it from the sky;Some strew with flowers the flower-strewn ground,Some bind them garlands, some are bound,And still, with all the happy rout,Fleet little loves wind in and out;Some hide in maiden’s fluttering weed,And ply their pretty arts, nor heed,While wilful gusts make sport, like them,With mantle’s fold, and garment’s hem;Or some, more bold, soft vengeance wreakOn lifting hair, and glowing cheek.But, scarce the wood hath set them free,Some forceful sprite in winter’s feeTo snatch Spring’s garland would make bold,Whom shrill the shrinking maids do scold,Until the sun, their champion bright,Doth drive aback the wintry knight,Whose wild assault being overthrown,Far in the woodland makes he moan,And gentle Spring with all her trainDoth hold high court on earth again.

SWEET bird, what makes thee glad?Beneath this sky so wan and sad,And leafless poplars, thin and grey,Bowed down before the wintry sway.

SWEET bird, what makes thee glad?

Beneath this sky so wan and sad,

And leafless poplars, thin and grey,

Bowed down before the wintry sway.

What tuneful thought of days gone byDoth make thee sing? Or knowest thou whyThy soul is lifted up, sweet bird?Or dost thou hear Spring’s voice, unheardOf earth that sleeps, nor, dreaming, mindsThe herald blast of trumpet windsThat make old Winter’s fortress quail,And force him cast his coat of mail.

What tuneful thought of days gone by

Doth make thee sing? Or knowest thou why

Thy soul is lifted up, sweet bird?

Or dost thou hear Spring’s voice, unheard

Of earth that sleeps, nor, dreaming, minds

The herald blast of trumpet winds

That make old Winter’s fortress quail,

And force him cast his coat of mail.

What secret bower thy shape doth keep?Close hidden by the buds that sleep;Thy voice—the firstling bloom that blows—Breaks joyful through the wintry boughs,That bear thy song of promise, meetFor happy hours when lovers greet,When every leaf-lorn tree shall bearFlower, fruit, and song upon the air,And summer’s choir is full, and gayThe soft winds on the sun’s feast-day.

What secret bower thy shape doth keep?

Close hidden by the buds that sleep;

Thy voice—the firstling bloom that blows—

Breaks joyful through the wintry boughs,

That bear thy song of promise, meet

For happy hours when lovers greet,

When every leaf-lorn tree shall bear

Flower, fruit, and song upon the air,

And summer’s choir is full, and gay

The soft winds on the sun’s feast-day.

Sweet bird, as thou dost sing, my soulDoth partly catch the speechless wholeOf joyful pain that lifts the wingsOf thy sequestered music—thingsRemembered half, and half forgot,Of sight, or sound, or sense begot,Confused in love’s ambrosial streams,And hidden in the house of dreams;As frail sweet scent of flowers that holdPast time and days in some book’s fold,Which, when the leaves are turned again,Doth warm, like wine, the wintry brain.

Sweet bird, as thou dost sing, my soul

Doth partly catch the speechless whole

Of joyful pain that lifts the wings

Of thy sequestered music—things

Remembered half, and half forgot,

Of sight, or sound, or sense begot,

Confused in love’s ambrosial streams,

And hidden in the house of dreams;

As frail sweet scent of flowers that hold

Past time and days in some book’s fold,

Which, when the leaves are turned again,

Doth warm, like wine, the wintry brain.

O bird, thy heart doth sing in me,I hear what thou dost hear—I seeUpon a high green land, untrodOf men, upon the flower-wrought sodThe feet of Spring, and her bright throngBreak from the woods with shout and song;Soft piping winds with pleasant cheerBefore her go, her path to clear,Sweet maids come with her, and behind,Light-footed as the lifting wind:Some bear her canopy on high,And warm gleams gild it from the sky;Some strew with flowers the flower-strewn ground,Some bind them garlands, some are bound,And still, with all the happy rout,Fleet little loves wind in and out;Some hide in maiden’s fluttering weed,And ply their pretty arts, nor heed,While wilful gusts make sport, like them,With mantle’s fold, and garment’s hem;Or some, more bold, soft vengeance wreakOn lifting hair, and glowing cheek.

O bird, thy heart doth sing in me,

I hear what thou dost hear—I see

Upon a high green land, untrod

Of men, upon the flower-wrought sod

The feet of Spring, and her bright throng

Break from the woods with shout and song;

Soft piping winds with pleasant cheer

Before her go, her path to clear,

Sweet maids come with her, and behind,

Light-footed as the lifting wind:

Some bear her canopy on high,

And warm gleams gild it from the sky;

Some strew with flowers the flower-strewn ground,

Some bind them garlands, some are bound,

And still, with all the happy rout,

Fleet little loves wind in and out;

Some hide in maiden’s fluttering weed,

And ply their pretty arts, nor heed,

While wilful gusts make sport, like them,

With mantle’s fold, and garment’s hem;

Or some, more bold, soft vengeance wreak

On lifting hair, and glowing cheek.

But, scarce the wood hath set them free,Some forceful sprite in winter’s feeTo snatch Spring’s garland would make bold,Whom shrill the shrinking maids do scold,Until the sun, their champion bright,Doth drive aback the wintry knight,Whose wild assault being overthrown,Far in the woodland makes he moan,And gentle Spring with all her trainDoth hold high court on earth again.

But, scarce the wood hath set them free,

Some forceful sprite in winter’s fee

To snatch Spring’s garland would make bold,

Whom shrill the shrinking maids do scold,

Until the sun, their champion bright,

Doth drive aback the wintry knight,

Whose wild assault being overthrown,

Far in the woodland makes he moan,

And gentle Spring with all her train

Doth hold high court on earth again.

·THOUGHTS·IN·A·HAMMOCK

ROCKED as in some fairy boat,By swift fancy set afloat,’Twixt the oceans, blue and green,Of grass beneath, and sky serene,Where the streams of dusk and dayMeet and mingle, far away,On the universal tide,Still with time and life to glide.Boat, that, pendent ’mid the trees,Swingeth moored, yet sails the seas,Stem and stern from east to west,Bound upon an unknown quest,Past the marge of night and day,Blanched or strewn with starry spray;By the oar-strokes of the blood,Glides the shallop of my mood,On the windings of the flood,Shadowed by the summer wood,Dusk with dreams yon leaves that playWith the falling blooms of May.Like the web the Fates do spinHelpless man to cradle in—Hung, with life, upon a thread,Here I swing, and, o’er my head,Maze of apples, boughs and leaves,Meshed wherein, my thought enweavesTapestry, phantasmic, strange,Shot with shifting dyes of change:So my shallow bark and frailSpreads a rich emblazoned sail,Filled, as now the summer breezeFans my brain and stirs the trees,Where, a hidden heart of fire,Strives the moon in her desireStill to pierce the leafy fretHer celestial seat to get.Cynthia’s self that silver shape,Boskage dark, she doth escape,Long her gleaming body hidForth from its embraces slid,Doth naked, glorious, emergeUpon the lucent starry verge.Let me linger in the wood,Hear the sound of pipings rude,Watch the shapes of nymph and fawn,Centaurs fleet across the lawn,Satyrs brown, in rhythmic dance,By the stream great Pan, perchance,Hidden in the vocal reed—All the happy antique breed.I would turn again the book,Yet again to steal a look,Back to where Time’s firstling ran—Arboreal ancestral man:Wooing shy his dusky mate,Wild-eyed, half articulate:In his rude canoe, askance,See him poise his flint-tipped lance,Flashing in the ardent noonO’er the sedgy broad lagoon,When Thames reeds the river-horseCrushed in his unconscious force.Swinging on the pendent boughHad he sweet content enow?Basking in the primal sunRecked he how his race should run?How, for forest night of trees,Cities spreading, dense as these,Where the shade of gilded pride,Starved and savage men, should hideHuman vampires, hawks and flies,Gliding snakes and lustrous eyes,Dainty beauty, plumaged fair,Hollow masks for smiling care,Hopeless toil that smileth not,Misery, untold, forgot—Where the throng of fashion flaunts,Where, in dark unwholesome haunts,Lurks a darker race, to prowlDesert streets when night doth scowl,Desert stoney streets, and bare,’Neath a strange electric glare,Fiery eyed to track them down,Homeless on the heartless town.Ah! could early man, or late,Set his ways, or Nature’s, straight,Who life’s stream doth careless pour,Lets the cup brim o’er and o’er,Who will drink, or, drinking, dream,With the chosen skim the cream,Struggle with the ravening swine,For residue, or helpless whine,Lazarus at Dives’ gate,Dives at his feast of state,Rising with a hungry heart,As, one by one, life’s guests depart.Could we chain those monsters upThat on human lives do sup—Shameless lust of rule and gold,Lawless greed grown overbold,Vice and drink with palsied handRiding down the joyless land—Then, if humanity could beFrom these, and other tyrants, freeTo win its bread—to win, I wot,Vine, and fig, and breathing plot,Joy in work, and joy in leisure,Love and art to fill life’s measure,Force and fraud might vainly rageTo see, new born, the golden age.Sailing thus, as thought doth steer,With the moon through cloud and clear,Fancy flutt’ring at the prow,Sirens singing soft and low,From the opal shores and streams,Where they dye the cloth of dreams—From the present and the pastHave I touched the land at last!Voyaging the world aroundYet anchored still to English ground.

ROCKED as in some fairy boat,

By swift fancy set afloat,

’Twixt the oceans, blue and green,

Of grass beneath, and sky serene,

Where the streams of dusk and day

Meet and mingle, far away,

On the universal tide,

Still with time and life to glide.

Boat, that, pendent ’mid the trees,Swingeth moored, yet sails the seas,Stem and stern from east to west,Bound upon an unknown quest,Past the marge of night and day,Blanched or strewn with starry spray;By the oar-strokes of the blood,Glides the shallop of my mood,On the windings of the flood,Shadowed by the summer wood,Dusk with dreams yon leaves that playWith the falling blooms of May.

Boat, that, pendent ’mid the trees,

Swingeth moored, yet sails the seas,

Stem and stern from east to west,

Bound upon an unknown quest,

Past the marge of night and day,

Blanched or strewn with starry spray;

By the oar-strokes of the blood,

Glides the shallop of my mood,

On the windings of the flood,

Shadowed by the summer wood,

Dusk with dreams yon leaves that play

With the falling blooms of May.

Like the web the Fates do spinHelpless man to cradle in—Hung, with life, upon a thread,Here I swing, and, o’er my head,Maze of apples, boughs and leaves,Meshed wherein, my thought enweavesTapestry, phantasmic, strange,Shot with shifting dyes of change:So my shallow bark and frailSpreads a rich emblazoned sail,Filled, as now the summer breezeFans my brain and stirs the trees,Where, a hidden heart of fire,Strives the moon in her desireStill to pierce the leafy fretHer celestial seat to get.

Like the web the Fates do spin

Helpless man to cradle in—

Hung, with life, upon a thread,

Here I swing, and, o’er my head,

Maze of apples, boughs and leaves,

Meshed wherein, my thought enweaves

Tapestry, phantasmic, strange,

Shot with shifting dyes of change:

So my shallow bark and frail

Spreads a rich emblazoned sail,

Filled, as now the summer breeze

Fans my brain and stirs the trees,

Where, a hidden heart of fire,

Strives the moon in her desire

Still to pierce the leafy fret

Her celestial seat to get.

Cynthia’s self that silver shape,Boskage dark, she doth escape,Long her gleaming body hidForth from its embraces slid,Doth naked, glorious, emergeUpon the lucent starry verge.

Cynthia’s self that silver shape,

Boskage dark, she doth escape,

Long her gleaming body hid

Forth from its embraces slid,

Doth naked, glorious, emerge

Upon the lucent starry verge.

Let me linger in the wood,Hear the sound of pipings rude,Watch the shapes of nymph and fawn,Centaurs fleet across the lawn,Satyrs brown, in rhythmic dance,By the stream great Pan, perchance,Hidden in the vocal reed—All the happy antique breed.

Let me linger in the wood,

Hear the sound of pipings rude,

Watch the shapes of nymph and fawn,

Centaurs fleet across the lawn,

Satyrs brown, in rhythmic dance,

By the stream great Pan, perchance,

Hidden in the vocal reed—

All the happy antique breed.

I would turn again the book,Yet again to steal a look,Back to where Time’s firstling ran—Arboreal ancestral man:Wooing shy his dusky mate,Wild-eyed, half articulate:In his rude canoe, askance,See him poise his flint-tipped lance,Flashing in the ardent noonO’er the sedgy broad lagoon,When Thames reeds the river-horseCrushed in his unconscious force.

I would turn again the book,

Yet again to steal a look,

Back to where Time’s firstling ran—

Arboreal ancestral man:

Wooing shy his dusky mate,

Wild-eyed, half articulate:

In his rude canoe, askance,

See him poise his flint-tipped lance,

Flashing in the ardent noon

O’er the sedgy broad lagoon,

When Thames reeds the river-horse

Crushed in his unconscious force.

Swinging on the pendent boughHad he sweet content enow?Basking in the primal sunRecked he how his race should run?How, for forest night of trees,Cities spreading, dense as these,Where the shade of gilded pride,Starved and savage men, should hideHuman vampires, hawks and flies,Gliding snakes and lustrous eyes,Dainty beauty, plumaged fair,Hollow masks for smiling care,Hopeless toil that smileth not,Misery, untold, forgot—Where the throng of fashion flaunts,Where, in dark unwholesome haunts,Lurks a darker race, to prowlDesert streets when night doth scowl,Desert stoney streets, and bare,’Neath a strange electric glare,Fiery eyed to track them down,Homeless on the heartless town.

Swinging on the pendent bough

Had he sweet content enow?

Basking in the primal sun

Recked he how his race should run?

How, for forest night of trees,

Cities spreading, dense as these,

Where the shade of gilded pride,

Starved and savage men, should hide

Human vampires, hawks and flies,

Gliding snakes and lustrous eyes,

Dainty beauty, plumaged fair,

Hollow masks for smiling care,

Hopeless toil that smileth not,

Misery, untold, forgot—

Where the throng of fashion flaunts,

Where, in dark unwholesome haunts,

Lurks a darker race, to prowl

Desert streets when night doth scowl,

Desert stoney streets, and bare,

’Neath a strange electric glare,

Fiery eyed to track them down,

Homeless on the heartless town.

Ah! could early man, or late,Set his ways, or Nature’s, straight,Who life’s stream doth careless pour,Lets the cup brim o’er and o’er,Who will drink, or, drinking, dream,With the chosen skim the cream,Struggle with the ravening swine,For residue, or helpless whine,Lazarus at Dives’ gate,Dives at his feast of state,Rising with a hungry heart,As, one by one, life’s guests depart.

Ah! could early man, or late,

Set his ways, or Nature’s, straight,

Who life’s stream doth careless pour,

Lets the cup brim o’er and o’er,

Who will drink, or, drinking, dream,

With the chosen skim the cream,

Struggle with the ravening swine,

For residue, or helpless whine,

Lazarus at Dives’ gate,

Dives at his feast of state,

Rising with a hungry heart,

As, one by one, life’s guests depart.

Could we chain those monsters upThat on human lives do sup—Shameless lust of rule and gold,Lawless greed grown overbold,Vice and drink with palsied handRiding down the joyless land—Then, if humanity could beFrom these, and other tyrants, freeTo win its bread—to win, I wot,Vine, and fig, and breathing plot,Joy in work, and joy in leisure,Love and art to fill life’s measure,Force and fraud might vainly rageTo see, new born, the golden age.

Could we chain those monsters up

That on human lives do sup—

Shameless lust of rule and gold,

Lawless greed grown overbold,

Vice and drink with palsied hand

Riding down the joyless land—

Then, if humanity could be

From these, and other tyrants, free

To win its bread—to win, I wot,

Vine, and fig, and breathing plot,

Joy in work, and joy in leisure,

Love and art to fill life’s measure,

Force and fraud might vainly rage

To see, new born, the golden age.

Sailing thus, as thought doth steer,With the moon through cloud and clear,Fancy flutt’ring at the prow,Sirens singing soft and low,From the opal shores and streams,Where they dye the cloth of dreams—From the present and the pastHave I touched the land at last!Voyaging the world aroundYet anchored still to English ground.

Sailing thus, as thought doth steer,

With the moon through cloud and clear,

Fancy flutt’ring at the prow,

Sirens singing soft and low,

From the opal shores and streams,

Where they dye the cloth of dreams—

From the present and the past

Have I touched the land at last!

Voyaging the world around

Yet anchored still to English ground.

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