Selections fromTHE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET

How swift the summer goes,Forget-me-not, pink, rose.The young grass when I startedAnd now the hay is carted,And now my song is ended,And all the summer spended;The blackbird’s second broodRouts beech leaves in the wood;The pink and rose have speeded,Forget-me-not has seededOnly the winds that blew,The rain that makes things new,The earth that hides things old,And blessings manifold.O lovely lily clean,O lily springing green,O lily bursting white,Dear lily of delight,Spring in my heart agenThat I may flower to men.

O lovely lily clean,O lily springing green,O lily bursting white,Dear lily of delight,Spring in my heart agenThat I may flower to men.

Some of life’s sad ones are too strong to die,Grief doesn’t kill them as it kills the weak,Sorrow is not for those who sit and cryLapped in the love of turning t’other cheek,But for the noble souls austere and bleakWho have had the bitter dose and drained the cupAnd wait for Death face fronted, standing up.As the last man upon the sinking ship,Seeing the brine creep brightly on the deck,Hearing aloft the slatting topsails rip,Ripping to rags among the topmast’s wreck,Yet hoists the new red ensign without speck,That she, so fair, may sink with colours flying,So the old widowed mother kept from dying.She tottered home, back to the little roomIt was all over for her, but for life;She drew the blinds, and trembled in the gloom;“I sat here thus when I was wedded wife;Sorrow sometimes, and joy; but always strife.Struggle to live except just at the last,O God, I thank Thee for the mercies past.Harry, my man, when we were courting; eh ...The April morning up the Cony-gree.How grand he looked upon our wedding day.‘I wish we’d had the bells,’ he said to me;And we’d the moon that evening, I and he,And dew come wet, oh, I remember how,And we come home to where I’m sitting now.And he lay dead here, and his son was born here;He never saw his son, his little Jim.And now I’m all alone here, left to mourn here,And there are all his clothes, but never him.He’s down under the prison in the dim,With quicklime working on him to the bone,The flesh I made with many and many a groan.And then he ran so, he was strong at running,Always a strong one, like his dad at that.In summertimes I done my sewing sunning,And he’d be sprawling, playing with the cat.And neighbours brought their knitting out to chatTill five o’clock; he had his tea at five;How sweet life was when Jimmy was alive.”And sometimes she will walk the cindery mile,Singing, as she and Jimmy used to do,Singing “The parson’s dog lep over a stile,”Along the path where water lilies grew.The stars are placid on the evening’s blue,Burning like eyes so calm, so unafraid.On all that God has given and man has made.Burning they watch, and mothlike owls come out,The redbreast warbles shrilly once and stops;The homing cowman gives his dog a shout,The lamps are lighted in the village shops.Silence; the last bird passes; in the copseThe hazels cross the moon, a nightjar spins,Dew wets the grass, the nightingale begins.Singing her crazy song the mother goes,Singing as though her heart were full of peace,Moths knock the petals from the dropping rose,Stars make the glimmering pool a golden fleece,The moon droops west, but still she does not cease,The little mice peep out to hear her sing,Until the inn-man’s cockerel shakes his wing.And in the sunny dawns of hot Julys,The labourers going to meadow see her there.Rubbing the sleep out of their heavy eyes,They lean upon the parapet to stare;They see her plaiting basil in her hair,Basil, the dark red wound-wort, cops of clover,The blue self-heal and golden Jacks of Dover.Dully they watch her, then they turn to goTo that high Shropshire upland of late hay;Her singing lingers with them as they mow,And many times they try it, now grave, now gay,Till, with full throat, over the hills away,They lift it clear; oh, very clear it towersMixed with the swish of many falling flowers.

As the last man upon the sinking ship,Seeing the brine creep brightly on the deck,Hearing aloft the slatting topsails rip,Ripping to rags among the topmast’s wreck,Yet hoists the new red ensign without speck,That she, so fair, may sink with colours flying,So the old widowed mother kept from dying.

She tottered home, back to the little roomIt was all over for her, but for life;She drew the blinds, and trembled in the gloom;“I sat here thus when I was wedded wife;Sorrow sometimes, and joy; but always strife.Struggle to live except just at the last,O God, I thank Thee for the mercies past.Harry, my man, when we were courting; eh ...The April morning up the Cony-gree.How grand he looked upon our wedding day.‘I wish we’d had the bells,’ he said to me;And we’d the moon that evening, I and he,And dew come wet, oh, I remember how,And we come home to where I’m sitting now.And he lay dead here, and his son was born here;He never saw his son, his little Jim.And now I’m all alone here, left to mourn here,And there are all his clothes, but never him.He’s down under the prison in the dim,With quicklime working on him to the bone,The flesh I made with many and many a groan.

And then he ran so, he was strong at running,Always a strong one, like his dad at that.In summertimes I done my sewing sunning,And he’d be sprawling, playing with the cat.And neighbours brought their knitting out to chatTill five o’clock; he had his tea at five;How sweet life was when Jimmy was alive.”

And sometimes she will walk the cindery mile,Singing, as she and Jimmy used to do,Singing “The parson’s dog lep over a stile,”Along the path where water lilies grew.The stars are placid on the evening’s blue,Burning like eyes so calm, so unafraid.On all that God has given and man has made.

Burning they watch, and mothlike owls come out,The redbreast warbles shrilly once and stops;The homing cowman gives his dog a shout,The lamps are lighted in the village shops.Silence; the last bird passes; in the copseThe hazels cross the moon, a nightjar spins,Dew wets the grass, the nightingale begins.

Singing her crazy song the mother goes,Singing as though her heart were full of peace,Moths knock the petals from the dropping rose,Stars make the glimmering pool a golden fleece,The moon droops west, but still she does not cease,The little mice peep out to hear her sing,Until the inn-man’s cockerel shakes his wing.

And in the sunny dawns of hot Julys,The labourers going to meadow see her there.Rubbing the sleep out of their heavy eyes,They lean upon the parapet to stare;They see her plaiting basil in her hair,Basil, the dark red wound-wort, cops of clover,The blue self-heal and golden Jacks of Dover.Dully they watch her, then they turn to goTo that high Shropshire upland of late hay;Her singing lingers with them as they mow,And many times they try it, now grave, now gay,Till, with full throat, over the hills away,They lift it clear; oh, very clear it towersMixed with the swish of many falling flowers.

Darker it grew, still darker, and the starsBurned golden, and the fiery fishes came.The wire-note loudened from the straining spars;The sheet-blocks clacked together always the same;The rushing fishes streaked the seas with flame,Racing the one speed noble as their own:What unknown joy was in those fish unknown!Names in the darkness passed and voices cried;The red spark glowed and died, the faces seemedAs things remembered when a brain has died,To all but high intenseness deeply dreamed.Like hissing spears the fishes’ fire streamed,And on the clipper rushed with tossing mast,A bath of flame broke round her as she passed.The watch was set, the night came, and the menHid from the moon in shadowed nooks to sleep,Bunched like the dead; still, like the dead, as whenPlague in a city leaves none even to weep.The ship’s track brightened to a mile-broad sweep;The mate there felt her pulse, and eyed the spars:South-west by south she staggered under the stars.

Names in the darkness passed and voices cried;The red spark glowed and died, the faces seemedAs things remembered when a brain has died,To all but high intenseness deeply dreamed.Like hissing spears the fishes’ fire streamed,And on the clipper rushed with tossing mast,A bath of flame broke round her as she passed.

The watch was set, the night came, and the menHid from the moon in shadowed nooks to sleep,Bunched like the dead; still, like the dead, as whenPlague in a city leaves none even to weep.The ship’s track brightened to a mile-broad sweep;The mate there felt her pulse, and eyed the spars:South-west by south she staggered under the stars.

Down in his bunk the Dauber lay awakeThinking of his unfitness for the sea.Each failure, each derision, each mistake,There in the life not made for such as he;A morning grim with trouble sure to be,A noon of pain from failure, and a nightBitter with men’s contemning and despite.This in the first beginning, the green leaf,Still in the Trades before bad weather fell;What harvest would he reap of hate and griefWhen the loud Horn made every life a hell?When the sick ship lay over, clanging her bell,And no time came for painting or for drawing,But all hands fought, and icy death came clawing?The green bunk curtains moved, the brass rings clicked,The Cook cursed in his sleep, turning and turning,The moonbeam’s moving finger touched and picked,And all the stars in all the sky were burning.“This is the art I’ve come for, and am learning,The sea and ships and men and travelling things.It is most proud, whatever pain it brings.”He leaned upon his arm and watched the lightSliding and fading to the steady roll;This he would some day paint, the ship at night,And sleeping seamen tired to the soul;The space below the bunks as black as coal,Gleams upon chests, upon the unlit lamp,The ranging door-hook, and the locker clamp.This he would paint, and that, and all these scenes,And proud ships carrying on, and men their minds,And blues of rollers toppling into greens,And shattering into white that bursts and blinds,And scattering ships running erect like hinds,And men in oilskins beating down a sailHigh on the yellow yard, in snow, in hail,With faces ducked down from the slanting driveOf half-thawed hail mixed with half-frozen spray,The roaring canvas, like a thing alive,Shaking the mast, knocking their hands away,The foot-ropes jerking to the tug and sway,The savage eyes salt-reddened at the rims,And icicles on the south-wester brims.And sunnier scenes would grow under his brush,The tropic dawn with all things dropping dew,The darkness and the wonder and the hush,The insensate grey before the marvel grew;Then the veil lifted from the trembling blue,The walls of sky burst in, the flower, the rose,All the expanse of heaven a mind that glows.He turned out of his bunk; the Cook still tossed,One of the other two spoke in his sleep,A cockroach scuttled where the moonbeam crossed;Outside there was the ship, the night, the deep.“It is worth while,” the youth said; “I will keepTo my resolve, I’ll learn to paint all this.My Lord, my God, how beautiful it is!”Outside was the ship’s rush to the wind’s hurry,A resonant wire-hum from every rope,The broadening bow-wash in a fiery flurry,The leaning masts in their majestic slope,And all things strange with moonlight: filled with hopeBy all that beauty going as man bade,He turned and slept in peace. Eight bells were made.

This in the first beginning, the green leaf,Still in the Trades before bad weather fell;What harvest would he reap of hate and griefWhen the loud Horn made every life a hell?When the sick ship lay over, clanging her bell,And no time came for painting or for drawing,But all hands fought, and icy death came clawing?

The green bunk curtains moved, the brass rings clicked,The Cook cursed in his sleep, turning and turning,The moonbeam’s moving finger touched and picked,And all the stars in all the sky were burning.“This is the art I’ve come for, and am learning,The sea and ships and men and travelling things.It is most proud, whatever pain it brings.”

He leaned upon his arm and watched the lightSliding and fading to the steady roll;This he would some day paint, the ship at night,And sleeping seamen tired to the soul;The space below the bunks as black as coal,Gleams upon chests, upon the unlit lamp,The ranging door-hook, and the locker clamp.

This he would paint, and that, and all these scenes,And proud ships carrying on, and men their minds,And blues of rollers toppling into greens,And shattering into white that bursts and blinds,And scattering ships running erect like hinds,And men in oilskins beating down a sailHigh on the yellow yard, in snow, in hail,

With faces ducked down from the slanting driveOf half-thawed hail mixed with half-frozen spray,The roaring canvas, like a thing alive,Shaking the mast, knocking their hands away,The foot-ropes jerking to the tug and sway,The savage eyes salt-reddened at the rims,And icicles on the south-wester brims.

And sunnier scenes would grow under his brush,The tropic dawn with all things dropping dew,The darkness and the wonder and the hush,The insensate grey before the marvel grew;Then the veil lifted from the trembling blue,The walls of sky burst in, the flower, the rose,All the expanse of heaven a mind that glows.

He turned out of his bunk; the Cook still tossed,One of the other two spoke in his sleep,A cockroach scuttled where the moonbeam crossed;Outside there was the ship, the night, the deep.“It is worth while,” the youth said; “I will keepTo my resolve, I’ll learn to paint all this.My Lord, my God, how beautiful it is!”

Outside was the ship’s rush to the wind’s hurry,A resonant wire-hum from every rope,The broadening bow-wash in a fiery flurry,The leaning masts in their majestic slope,And all things strange with moonlight: filled with hopeBy all that beauty going as man bade,He turned and slept in peace. Eight bells were made.

Even now they shifted suits of sails; they bentThe storm-suit ready for the expected time;The mighty wester that the Plate had lentHad brought them far into the wintry clime.At dawn, out of the shadow, there was rime,The dim Magellan Clouds were frosty clear,The wind had edge, the testing-time was near.And then he wondered if the tales were liesTold by old hands to terrify the new,For, since the ship left England, only twiceHad there been need to start a sheet or clew,Then only royals, for an hour or two,And no seas broke aboard, nor was it cold.What were these gales of which the stories told?The thought went by. He had heard the Bosun tellToo often, and too fiercely, not to knowThat being off the Horn in June is hell:Hell of continual toil in ice and snow,Frostbitten hell in which the westers blowShrieking for days on end, in which the seasGulf the starved seamen till their marrows freeze.Such was the weather he might look to find,Such was the work expected: there remainedFirmly to set his teeth, resolve his mind,And be the first, however much it pained,And bring his honour round the Horn unstained,And win his mates’ respect; and thence, untainted,Be ranked as man however much he painted.He drew deep breath; a gantline swayed aloftA lower topsail, hard with rope and leather,Such as men’s frozen fingers fight with oftBelow the Ramirez in Cape Horn weather.The arms upon the yard hove all together,Lighting the head along; a thought occurredWithin the painter’s brain like a bright bird:That this, and so much like it, of man’s toil,Compassed by naked manhood in strange places,Was all heroic, but outside the coilWithin which modern art gleams or grimaces;That if he drew that line of sailors’ facesSweating the sail, their passionate play and change,It would be new, and wonderful, and strange.That that was what his work meant; it would beA training in new vision, a revealingOf passionate men in battle with the sea,High on an unseen stage, shaking and reeling;And men through him would understand their feeling,Their might, their misery, their tragic power,And all by suffering pain a little hour;High on the yard with them, feeling their pain,Battling with them; and it had not been done.He was a door to new worlds in the brain,A window opening letting in the sun,A voice saying, “Thus is bread fetched and ports won,And life lived out at sea where men existSolely by man’s strong brain and sturdy wrist.”So he decided, as he cleaned his brasses,Hearing without, aloft, the curse, the shoutWhere the taut gantline passes and repasses,Heaving new topsails to be lighted out.It was most proud, however self might doubt,To share man’s tragic toil and paint it true.He took the offered Fate: this he would do.That night the snow fell between six and seven,A little feathery fall so light, so dry,An aimless dust out of a confused heaven,Upon an air no steadier than a sigh;The powder dusted down and wandered bySo purposeless, so many, and so cold,Then died, and the wind ceased and the ship rolled.Rolled till she clanged, rolled till the brain was tired,Marking the acme of the heaves, the pauseWhile the sea-beauty rested and respired,Drinking great draughts of roller at her hawse.Flutters of snow came aimless upon flaws.“Lock up your paints,” the Mate said, speaking light:“This is the Horn; you’ll join my watch to-night!”

And then he wondered if the tales were liesTold by old hands to terrify the new,For, since the ship left England, only twiceHad there been need to start a sheet or clew,Then only royals, for an hour or two,And no seas broke aboard, nor was it cold.What were these gales of which the stories told?

The thought went by. He had heard the Bosun tellToo often, and too fiercely, not to knowThat being off the Horn in June is hell:Hell of continual toil in ice and snow,Frostbitten hell in which the westers blowShrieking for days on end, in which the seasGulf the starved seamen till their marrows freeze.

Such was the weather he might look to find,Such was the work expected: there remainedFirmly to set his teeth, resolve his mind,And be the first, however much it pained,And bring his honour round the Horn unstained,And win his mates’ respect; and thence, untainted,Be ranked as man however much he painted.

He drew deep breath; a gantline swayed aloftA lower topsail, hard with rope and leather,Such as men’s frozen fingers fight with oftBelow the Ramirez in Cape Horn weather.The arms upon the yard hove all together,Lighting the head along; a thought occurredWithin the painter’s brain like a bright bird:

That this, and so much like it, of man’s toil,Compassed by naked manhood in strange places,Was all heroic, but outside the coilWithin which modern art gleams or grimaces;That if he drew that line of sailors’ facesSweating the sail, their passionate play and change,It would be new, and wonderful, and strange.

That that was what his work meant; it would beA training in new vision, a revealingOf passionate men in battle with the sea,High on an unseen stage, shaking and reeling;And men through him would understand their feeling,Their might, their misery, their tragic power,And all by suffering pain a little hour;

High on the yard with them, feeling their pain,Battling with them; and it had not been done.He was a door to new worlds in the brain,A window opening letting in the sun,A voice saying, “Thus is bread fetched and ports won,And life lived out at sea where men existSolely by man’s strong brain and sturdy wrist.”

So he decided, as he cleaned his brasses,Hearing without, aloft, the curse, the shoutWhere the taut gantline passes and repasses,Heaving new topsails to be lighted out.It was most proud, however self might doubt,To share man’s tragic toil and paint it true.He took the offered Fate: this he would do.

That night the snow fell between six and seven,A little feathery fall so light, so dry,An aimless dust out of a confused heaven,Upon an air no steadier than a sigh;The powder dusted down and wandered bySo purposeless, so many, and so cold,Then died, and the wind ceased and the ship rolled.

Rolled till she clanged, rolled till the brain was tired,Marking the acme of the heaves, the pauseWhile the sea-beauty rested and respired,Drinking great draughts of roller at her hawse.Flutters of snow came aimless upon flaws.“Lock up your paints,” the Mate said, speaking light:“This is the Horn; you’ll join my watch to-night!”

All through the windless night the clipper rolledIn a great swell with oily gradual heavesWhich rolled her down until her time-bells tolled,Clang, and the weltering water moaned like beeves.The thundering rattle of slatting shook the sheaves,Startles of water made the swing ports gush,The sea was moaning and sighing and saying “Hush!”It was all black and starless. Peering downInto the water, trying to pierce the gloom,One saw a dim, smooth, oily glitter of brownHeaving and dying away and leaving roomFor yet another. Like the march of doomCame those great powers of marching silences;Then fog came down, dead-cold, and hid the seas.They set the Dauber to the foghorn. ThereHe stood upon the poop, making to soundOut of the pump the sailors’ nasal blare,Listening lest ice should make the note resound.She bayed there like a solitary houndLost in a covert; all the watch she bayed.The fog, come closelier down, no answer made.Denser it grew, until the ship was lost.The elemental hid her; she was mergedIn mufflings of dark death, like a man’s ghost,New to the change of death, yet thither urged.Then from the hidden waters something surged—Mournful, despairing, great, greater than speech,A noise like one slow wave on a still beach.Mournful, and then again mournful, and stillOut of the night that mighty voice arose;The Dauber at his foghorn felt the thrill.Who rode that desolate sea? What forms were those?Mournful, from things defeated, in the throesOf memory of some conquered hunting-ground,Out of the night of death arose the sound.“Whales!” said the mate. They stayed there all night longAnswering the horn. Out of the night they spoke,Defeated creatures who had suffered wrong,But were still noble underneath the stroke.They filled the darkness when the Dauber woke;The men came peering to the rail to hear,And the sea sighed, and the fog rose up sheer.So the night past, but then no morning broke—Only a something showed that night was dead.A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke,And the fog drew away and hung like lead.Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red;Like glowering gods at watch it did appear,And sometimes drew away, and then drew near.Like islands, and like chasms, and like hell,But always mighty and red, gloomy and ruddy,Shutting the visible sea in like a well;Slow heaving in vast ripples, blank and muddy,Where the sun should have risen it streaked bloody.The day was still-born; all the sea-fowl scatteringSplashed the still water, mewing, hovering, clattering.Then Polar snow came down little and light,Till all the sky was hidden by the small,Most multitudinous drift of dirty whiteTumbling and wavering down and covering all;Covering the sky, the sea, the clipper tall,Furring the ropes with white, casing the mast,Coming on no known air, but blowing past.And all the air seemed full of gradual moan,As though in those cloud-chasms the horns were blowingThe mort for gods cast out and overthrown,Or for the eyeless sun plucked out and going.Slow the low gradual moan came in the snowing;The Dauber felt the prelude had begun.The snowstorm fluttered by; he saw the sunShow and pass by, gleam from one towering prisonInto another, vaster and more grim,Which in dull crags of darkness had arisenTo muffle-to a final door on him.The gods upon the dull crags lowered dim,The pigeons chattered, quarrelling in the track.In the south-west the dimness dulled to black.Then came the cry of “Call all hands on deck!”The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come:Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck,And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.Down clattered flying kites and staysails: someSang out in quick, high calls; the fairleads skirled,And from the south-west came the end of the world.

It was all black and starless. Peering downInto the water, trying to pierce the gloom,One saw a dim, smooth, oily glitter of brownHeaving and dying away and leaving roomFor yet another. Like the march of doomCame those great powers of marching silences;Then fog came down, dead-cold, and hid the seas.

They set the Dauber to the foghorn. ThereHe stood upon the poop, making to soundOut of the pump the sailors’ nasal blare,Listening lest ice should make the note resound.She bayed there like a solitary houndLost in a covert; all the watch she bayed.The fog, come closelier down, no answer made.

Denser it grew, until the ship was lost.The elemental hid her; she was mergedIn mufflings of dark death, like a man’s ghost,New to the change of death, yet thither urged.Then from the hidden waters something surged—Mournful, despairing, great, greater than speech,A noise like one slow wave on a still beach.

Mournful, and then again mournful, and stillOut of the night that mighty voice arose;The Dauber at his foghorn felt the thrill.Who rode that desolate sea? What forms were those?Mournful, from things defeated, in the throesOf memory of some conquered hunting-ground,Out of the night of death arose the sound.

“Whales!” said the mate. They stayed there all night longAnswering the horn. Out of the night they spoke,Defeated creatures who had suffered wrong,But were still noble underneath the stroke.They filled the darkness when the Dauber woke;The men came peering to the rail to hear,And the sea sighed, and the fog rose up sheer.

So the night past, but then no morning broke—Only a something showed that night was dead.A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke,And the fog drew away and hung like lead.Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red;Like glowering gods at watch it did appear,And sometimes drew away, and then drew near.

Like islands, and like chasms, and like hell,But always mighty and red, gloomy and ruddy,Shutting the visible sea in like a well;Slow heaving in vast ripples, blank and muddy,Where the sun should have risen it streaked bloody.The day was still-born; all the sea-fowl scatteringSplashed the still water, mewing, hovering, clattering.

Then Polar snow came down little and light,Till all the sky was hidden by the small,Most multitudinous drift of dirty whiteTumbling and wavering down and covering all;Covering the sky, the sea, the clipper tall,Furring the ropes with white, casing the mast,Coming on no known air, but blowing past.

And all the air seemed full of gradual moan,As though in those cloud-chasms the horns were blowingThe mort for gods cast out and overthrown,Or for the eyeless sun plucked out and going.Slow the low gradual moan came in the snowing;The Dauber felt the prelude had begun.The snowstorm fluttered by; he saw the sunShow and pass by, gleam from one towering prisonInto another, vaster and more grim,Which in dull crags of darkness had arisenTo muffle-to a final door on him.The gods upon the dull crags lowered dim,The pigeons chattered, quarrelling in the track.In the south-west the dimness dulled to black.

Then came the cry of “Call all hands on deck!”The Dauber knew its meaning; it was come:Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck,And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.Down clattered flying kites and staysails: someSang out in quick, high calls; the fairleads skirled,And from the south-west came the end of the world.

Night fell, and all night long the Dauber layCovered upon the table; all night longThe pitiless storm exulted at her prey,Huddling the waters with her icy thong.But to the covered shape she did no wrong.He lay beneath the sailcloth. Bell by bellThe night wore through; the stars rose, the stars fell.Blowing most pitiless cold out of clear skyThe wind roared all night long; and all night throughThe green seas on the deck went washing by,Flooding the half-deck; bitter hard it blew.But little of it all the Dauber knew;The sopping bunks, the floating chests, the wet,The darkness, and the misery, and the sweat.He was off duty. So it blew all night,And when the watches changed the men would comeDripping within the door to strike a lightAnd stare upon the Dauber lying dumb,And say, “He come a cruel thump, poor chum.”Or, “He’d a-been a fine big man”; or, “He ...A smart young seaman he was getting to be.”Or, “Damn it all, it’s what we’ve all to face!...I knew another fellow one time ...” thenCame a strange tale of death in a strange placeOut on the sea, in ships, with wandering men.In many ways Death puts us into pen.The reefers came down tired and looked and slept.Below the skylight little dribbles crept.Along the painted woodwork, glistening, slow,Following the roll and dripping, never fast,But dripping on the quiet form below,Like passing time talking to time long past.And all night long “Ai, ai!” went the wind’s blast,And creaming water swished below the pale,Unheeding body stretched beneath the sail.At dawn they sewed him up, and at eight bellsThey bore him to the gangway, wading deep,Through the green-clutching, white-toothed water-hellsThat flung his carriers over in their sweep.They laid an old red ensign on the heap,And all hands stood bare-headed, stooping, swaying,Washed by the sea while the old man was prayingOut of a borrowed prayer-book. At a signThey twitched the ensign back and tipped the grating.A creamier bubbling broke the bubbling brine.The muffled figure tilted to the weighting;It dwindled slowly down, slowly gyrating.Some craned to see; it dimmed, it disappeared;The last green milky bubble blinked and cleared.“Mister, shake out your reefs,” the Captain called.“Out topsail reefs!” the Mate cried; then all handsHurried, the great sails shook, and all hands hauled,Singing that desolate song of lonely lands,Of how a lover came in dripping bands,Green with the wet and cold, to tell his loverThat Death was in the sea, and all was over.Fair came the falling wind; a seaman saidThe Dauber was a Jonah; once againThe clipper held her course, showing red lead,Shattering the sea-tops into golden rain.The waves bowed down before her like blown grain;Onwards she thundered, on; her voyage was short,Before the tier’s bells rang her into port.Cheerly they rang her in, those beating bells,The new-come beauty stately from the sea,Whitening the blue heave of the drowsy swells,Treading the bubbles down. With three times threeThey cheered her moving beauty in, and sheCame to her berth so noble, so superb;Swayed like a queen, and answered to the curb.Then in the sunset’s flush they went aloft,And unbent sails in that most lovely hour,When the light gentles and the wind is soft,And beauty in the heart breaks like a flower.Working aloft they saw the mountain tower,Snow to the peak; they heard the launchmen shout;And bright along the bay the lights came out.And then the night fell dark, and all night longThe pointed mountain pointed at the stars,Frozen, alert, austere; the eagle’s songScreamed from her desolate screes and splintered scars.On her intense crags where the air is sparseThe stars looked down; their many golden eyesWatched her and burned, burned out, and came to rise.Silent the finger of the summit stood,Icy in pure, thin air, glittering with snows.Then the sun’s coming turned the peak to blood,And in the rest-house the muleteers arose.And all day long, where only the eagle goes,Stones, loosened by the sun, fall; the stones fallingFill empty gorge on gorge with echoes calling.

Blowing most pitiless cold out of clear skyThe wind roared all night long; and all night throughThe green seas on the deck went washing by,Flooding the half-deck; bitter hard it blew.But little of it all the Dauber knew;The sopping bunks, the floating chests, the wet,The darkness, and the misery, and the sweat.

He was off duty. So it blew all night,And when the watches changed the men would comeDripping within the door to strike a lightAnd stare upon the Dauber lying dumb,And say, “He come a cruel thump, poor chum.”Or, “He’d a-been a fine big man”; or, “He ...A smart young seaman he was getting to be.”

Or, “Damn it all, it’s what we’ve all to face!...I knew another fellow one time ...” thenCame a strange tale of death in a strange placeOut on the sea, in ships, with wandering men.In many ways Death puts us into pen.The reefers came down tired and looked and slept.Below the skylight little dribbles crept.

Along the painted woodwork, glistening, slow,Following the roll and dripping, never fast,But dripping on the quiet form below,Like passing time talking to time long past.And all night long “Ai, ai!” went the wind’s blast,And creaming water swished below the pale,Unheeding body stretched beneath the sail.

At dawn they sewed him up, and at eight bellsThey bore him to the gangway, wading deep,Through the green-clutching, white-toothed water-hellsThat flung his carriers over in their sweep.They laid an old red ensign on the heap,And all hands stood bare-headed, stooping, swaying,Washed by the sea while the old man was praying

Out of a borrowed prayer-book. At a signThey twitched the ensign back and tipped the grating.A creamier bubbling broke the bubbling brine.The muffled figure tilted to the weighting;It dwindled slowly down, slowly gyrating.Some craned to see; it dimmed, it disappeared;The last green milky bubble blinked and cleared.

“Mister, shake out your reefs,” the Captain called.“Out topsail reefs!” the Mate cried; then all handsHurried, the great sails shook, and all hands hauled,Singing that desolate song of lonely lands,Of how a lover came in dripping bands,Green with the wet and cold, to tell his loverThat Death was in the sea, and all was over.

Fair came the falling wind; a seaman saidThe Dauber was a Jonah; once againThe clipper held her course, showing red lead,Shattering the sea-tops into golden rain.The waves bowed down before her like blown grain;Onwards she thundered, on; her voyage was short,Before the tier’s bells rang her into port.

Cheerly they rang her in, those beating bells,The new-come beauty stately from the sea,Whitening the blue heave of the drowsy swells,Treading the bubbles down. With three times threeThey cheered her moving beauty in, and sheCame to her berth so noble, so superb;Swayed like a queen, and answered to the curb.

Then in the sunset’s flush they went aloft,And unbent sails in that most lovely hour,When the light gentles and the wind is soft,And beauty in the heart breaks like a flower.Working aloft they saw the mountain tower,Snow to the peak; they heard the launchmen shout;And bright along the bay the lights came out.

And then the night fell dark, and all night longThe pointed mountain pointed at the stars,Frozen, alert, austere; the eagle’s songScreamed from her desolate screes and splintered scars.On her intense crags where the air is sparseThe stars looked down; their many golden eyesWatched her and burned, burned out, and came to rise.

Silent the finger of the summit stood,Icy in pure, thin air, glittering with snows.Then the sun’s coming turned the peak to blood,And in the rest-house the muleteers arose.And all day long, where only the eagle goes,Stones, loosened by the sun, fall; the stones fallingFill empty gorge on gorge with echoes calling.

Between the barren pasture and the woodThere is a patch of poultry-stricken grass,Where, in old time, Ryemeadows’ Farmhouse stood,And human fate brought tragic things to pass.A spring comes bubbling up there, cold as glass,It bubbles down, crusting the leaves with lime,Babbling the self-same song that it has sung through time.Ducks gobble at the selvage of the brook,But still it slips away, the cold hill-spring,Past the Ryemeadows’ lonely woodland nookWhere many a stubble gray-goose preens her wing,On, by the woodland side. You hear it singPast the lone copse where poachers set their wires,Past the green hill once grim with sacrificial fires.Another water joins it; then it turns,Runs through the Ponton Wood, still turning west,Past foxgloves, Canterbury bells, and ferns,And many a blackbird’s, many a thrush’s nest;The cattle tread it there; then, with a zestIt sparkles out, babbling its pretty chatterThrough Foxholes Farm, where it gives white-faced cattle water.Under the road it runs, and now it slipsPast the great ploughland, babbling, drop and linn,To the moss’d stumps of elm trees which it lips,And blackberry-bramble-trails where eddies spin.Then, on its left, some short-grassed fields begin,Red-clayed and pleasant, which the young spring fillsWith the never-quiet joy of dancing daffodils.There are three fields where daffodils are found;The grass is dotted blue-gray with their leaves;Their nodding beauty shakes along the groundUp to a fir-clump shutting out the eavesOf an old farm where always the wind grievesHigh in the fir boughs, moaning; people callThis farm The Roughs, but some call it the Poor Maid’s Hall.There, when the first green shoots of tender cornShow on the plough; when the first drift of whiteStars the black branches of the spiky thorn,And afternoons are warm and evenings light,The shivering daffodils do take delight,Shaking beside the brook, and grass comes green,And blue dog-violets come and glistening celandine.And there the pickers come, picking for townThose dancing daffodils; all day they pick;Hard-featured women, weather-beaten brown,Or swarthy-red, the colour of old brick.At noon they break their meats under the rick.The smoke of all three farms lifts blue in airAs though man’s passionate mind had never suffered there.And sometimes as they rest an old man comes,Shepherd or carter, to the hedgerow-side,And looks upon their gangrel tribe, and hums,And thinks all gone to wreck since master died;And sighs over a passionate harvest-tideWhich Death’s red sickle reaped under those hills,There, in the quiet fields among the daffodils.

Ducks gobble at the selvage of the brook,But still it slips away, the cold hill-spring,Past the Ryemeadows’ lonely woodland nookWhere many a stubble gray-goose preens her wing,On, by the woodland side. You hear it singPast the lone copse where poachers set their wires,Past the green hill once grim with sacrificial fires.

Another water joins it; then it turns,Runs through the Ponton Wood, still turning west,Past foxgloves, Canterbury bells, and ferns,And many a blackbird’s, many a thrush’s nest;The cattle tread it there; then, with a zestIt sparkles out, babbling its pretty chatterThrough Foxholes Farm, where it gives white-faced cattle water.

Under the road it runs, and now it slipsPast the great ploughland, babbling, drop and linn,To the moss’d stumps of elm trees which it lips,And blackberry-bramble-trails where eddies spin.Then, on its left, some short-grassed fields begin,Red-clayed and pleasant, which the young spring fillsWith the never-quiet joy of dancing daffodils.

There are three fields where daffodils are found;The grass is dotted blue-gray with their leaves;Their nodding beauty shakes along the groundUp to a fir-clump shutting out the eavesOf an old farm where always the wind grievesHigh in the fir boughs, moaning; people callThis farm The Roughs, but some call it the Poor Maid’s Hall.

There, when the first green shoots of tender cornShow on the plough; when the first drift of whiteStars the black branches of the spiky thorn,And afternoons are warm and evenings light,The shivering daffodils do take delight,Shaking beside the brook, and grass comes green,And blue dog-violets come and glistening celandine.

And there the pickers come, picking for townThose dancing daffodils; all day they pick;Hard-featured women, weather-beaten brown,Or swarthy-red, the colour of old brick.At noon they break their meats under the rick.The smoke of all three farms lifts blue in airAs though man’s passionate mind had never suffered there.

And sometimes as they rest an old man comes,Shepherd or carter, to the hedgerow-side,And looks upon their gangrel tribe, and hums,And thinks all gone to wreck since master died;And sighs over a passionate harvest-tideWhich Death’s red sickle reaped under those hills,There, in the quiet fields among the daffodils.

The steaming river loitered like old bloodOn which the tugboat bearing Michael beat,Past whitened horse bones sticking in the mud.The reed stems looked like metal in the heat.Then the banks fell away, and there were neat;Red herds of sullen cattle drifting slow.A fish leaped, making rings, making the dead blood flow.Wormed hard-wood piles were driv’n in the river bank,The steamer threshed alongside with sick screwsChurning the mud below her till it stank;Big gassy butcher-bubbles burst on the ooze.There Michael went ashore; as glad to loseOne not a native there, the Gauchos flungHis broken gear ashore, one waved, a bell was rung.The bowfast was cast off, the screw revolved,Making a bloodier bubbling; rattling ropeFell to the hatch, the engine’s tune resolvedInto its steadier beat of rise and slope;The steamer went her way; and Michael’s hopeDied as she lessened; he was there alone.The lowing of the cattle made a gradual moan.He thought of Mary, but the thought was dim;That was another life, lived long before.His mind was in new worlds which altered him.The startling present left no room for more.The sullen river lipped, the sky, the shoreWere vaster than of old, and lonely, lonely.Sky and low hills of grass and moaning cattle only.

Wormed hard-wood piles were driv’n in the river bank,The steamer threshed alongside with sick screwsChurning the mud below her till it stank;Big gassy butcher-bubbles burst on the ooze.There Michael went ashore; as glad to loseOne not a native there, the Gauchos flungHis broken gear ashore, one waved, a bell was rung.

The bowfast was cast off, the screw revolved,Making a bloodier bubbling; rattling ropeFell to the hatch, the engine’s tune resolvedInto its steadier beat of rise and slope;The steamer went her way; and Michael’s hopeDied as she lessened; he was there alone.The lowing of the cattle made a gradual moan.

He thought of Mary, but the thought was dim;That was another life, lived long before.His mind was in new worlds which altered him.The startling present left no room for more.The sullen river lipped, the sky, the shoreWere vaster than of old, and lonely, lonely.Sky and low hills of grass and moaning cattle only.

Soon he was at the Foxholes, at the placeWhither, from over sea, his heart had turnedOften at evening-ends in times of grace.But little outward change his eye discerned;A red rose at her bedroom window burned,Just as before. Even as of old the waspsPoised at the yellow plums; the gate creaked on its haspsAnd the white fantails sidled on the roofJust as before; their pink feet, even as of old,Printed the frosty morning’s rime with proof.Still the zew-tallat’s thatch was green with mould;The apples on the withered boughs were gold.Men and the times were changed: “And I,” said he,“Will go and not return, since she is not for me.“I’ll go, for it would be a scurvy thingTo spoil her marriage, and besides, she caresFor that half-priest she married with the ring.Small joy for me in seeing how she wears,Or seeing what he takes and what she shares.That beauty and those ways: she had such ways,There in the daffodils in those old April days.So with an impulse of good will he turned,Leaving that place of daffodils; the roadWas paven sharp with memories which burned;He trod them strongly under as he strode.At the Green Turning’s forge the furnace glowed;Red dithying sparks flew from the crumpled softFold from the fire’s heart; down clanged the hammers oft.That was a bitter place to pass, for thereMary and he had often, often stayedTo watch the horseshoe growing in the glare.It was a tryst in childhood when they strayed.There was a stile beside the forge; he laidHis elbows on it, leaning, looking down.The river-valley stretched with great trees turning brown.Infinite, too, because it reached the sky,And distant spires arose and distant smoke;The whiteness on the blue went stilly by;Only the clinking forge the stillness broke.Ryemeadows brook was there; The Roughs, the oakWhere the White Woman walked; the black firs showedAround the Occleve homestead, Mary’s new abode.A long, long time he gazed at that fair place,So well remembered from of old; he sighed.“I will go down and look upon her face,See her again, whatever may betide.Hell is my future; I shall soon have died,But I will take to hell one memory more;She shall not see nor know; I shall be gone before;“Before they turn the dogs upon me, even.I do not mean to speak; but only see.Even the devil gets a peep at heaven;One peep at her shall come to hell with me;One peep at her, no matter what may be.”He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope.Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope.* * * *A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyondRinged in The Roughs upon the side he neared;Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond;Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared.He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered.The drooping fir trees let their darkness trailBlack like a pirate’s masts bound under easy sail.The garden with its autumn flowers was there;Few that his wayward memory linked with her.Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare,But honey-hunting bees still made a stir.Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender,And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised;The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced.He could not see her there. Windows were wide,Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook.Smoke, like the house’s breathing, floated, sighed;Among the trembling firs strange ways it took.But still no Mary’s presence blessed his look;The house was still as if deserted, hushed.Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed.Fragrance that gave his memory’s guard a hintOf times long past, of reapers in the corn,Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint,When first the berry reddens on the thorn.Memories of her that fragrance brought. ForlornThat vigil of the watching outcast grew;He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew.The windows of the kitchen opened wide.Again the fragrance came; a woman spoke;Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside.A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke.Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke;Pourri was being made; the listener heardThings lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred.While an old woman made remarks to oneWho was not the beloved: Michael learnedThat Roger’s wife at Upton had a son,And that the red geraniums should be turned;A hen was missing, and a rick was burned;Our Lord commanded patience; here it broke;The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke.Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door;A dairymaid, whom he remembered well,Lined, now, with age, and grayer than before,Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell.He saw the dining-room; he could not tellIf Mary were within: inly he knewThat she was coming now, that she would be in blue.Blue with a silver locket at the throat,And that she would be there, within there, near,With the little blushes that he knew by rote,And the gray eyes so steadfast and so dear,The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear,Speaking to her belov’d within the room.The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom,Watching intently from below the boughs,While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay,Eyed the high clouds and went within the house.His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray.Dinner began within with much to say.Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke.Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke.Nor could her lover see her from the yew;She was not there at table; she was ill,Ill, or away perhaps—he wished he knew.Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still.“If sick,” he thought, “the maid or Lion willTake food to her.” He watched; the dinner ended.The staircase was not used; none climbed it, none descended.“Not here,” he thought; but wishing to be sure,He waited till the Occleves went to field,Then followed, round the house, another lure,Using the well-known privet as his shield.He meant to run a risk; his heart was steeled.He knew of old which bedroom would be hers;He crouched upon the north front in among the firs.The house stared at him with its red-brick blank,Its vacant window-eyes; its open door,With old wrought bridle ring-hooks at each flank,Swayed on a creaking hinge as the wind bore.Nothing had changed; the house was as before,The dull red brick, the windows sealed or wide:“I will go in,” he said. He rose and stepped inside.None could have seen him coming; all was still;He listened in the doorway for a sign.Above, a rafter creaked, a stir, a thrillMoved, till the frames clacked on the picture line.“Old Mother Occleve sleeps, the servants dine,”He muttered, listening. “Hush.” A silence brooded.Far off the kitchen dinner clattered; he intruded.Still, to his right, the best room door was locked.Another door was at his left; he stayed.Within, a stately timepiece ticked and tockedTo one who slumbered breathing deep; it madeAn image of Time’s going and man’s trade.He looked: Old Mother Occleve lay asleep,Hands crossed upon her knitting, rosy, breathing deep.He tiptoed up the stairs which creaked and cracked.The landing creaked; the shut doors, painted gray,Loomed, as if shutting in some dreadful act.The nodding frames seemed ready to betray.The east room had been closed in Michael’s day,Being the best; but now he guessed it hers;The fields of daffodils lay next it, past the firs.Just as he reached the landing, Lion cried,Somewhere below, “I’ll get it.” Lion’s feetStruck on the flagstones with a hasty stride,“He’s coming up,” thought Michael, “we shall meet,”He snatched the nearest door for his retreat,Opened with thieves’ swift silence, dared not close,But stood within, behind it. Lion’s footsteps rose,Running two steps at once, while Michael stood,Not breathing, only knowing that the roomWas someone’s bedroom smelling of old wood,Hung with engravings of the day of doom.The footsteps stopped; and Lion called, to whom?A gentle question, tapping at a door,And Michael shifted feet, and creakings took the floor.The footsteps recommenced, a door-catch clacked;Within an eastern room the footsteps passed.Drawers were pulled loudly open and ransacked,Chattels were thrust aside and overcast.What could the thing be that he sought? At lastHis voice said, “Here it is.” The wormèd floorCreaked with returning footsteps down the corridor.The footsteps came as though the walker read,Or added rows of figures by the way;There was much hesitation in the tread;Lion seemed pondering which, to go or stay;Then, seeing the door, which covered Michael, sway,He swiftly crossed and shut it. “Always oneFor order,” Michael muttered; “Now be swift, my son.”The action seemed to break the walker’s mood;The footsteps passed downstairs, along the hall,Out at the door and off towards the wood.“Gone,” Michael muttered. “Now to hazard all.”Outside, the frames still nodded on the wall.Michael stepped swiftly up the floor to tryThe door where Lion tapped and waited for reply.It was the eastmost of the rooms which lookOver the fields of daffodils; the boundScanned from its windows is Ryemeadows brook,Banked by gnarled apple trees and rising ground.Most gently Michael tapped; he heard no sound,Only the blind-pull tapping with the wind;The kitchen-door was opened; kitchen-clatter dinned.A woman walked along the hall below,Humming; a maid, he judged; the footsteps died,Listening intently still, he heard them go,Then swiftly turned the knob and went inside.The blind-pull at the window volleyed wide;The curtains streamed out like a waterfall;The pictures of the fox-hunt clacked along the wall.No one was there; no one; the room was hers.A book of praise lay open on the bed;The clothes-press smelt of many lavenders,Her spirit stamped the room; herself was fled.Here she found peace of soul like daily bread,Here, with her lover Lion; Michael gazed;He would have been the sharer had he not been crazed.He took the love-gift handkerchief again;He laid it on her table, near the glass,So opened that the broidered name was plain;“Plain,” he exclaimed, “she cannot let it pass.It stands and speaks for me as bold as brass.My answer, my heart’s cry, to tell her this,That she is still my darling; all she was she is.“So she will know at least that she was wrong,That underneath the blindness I was true.Fate is the strongest thing, though men are strong;Out from beyond life I was sealed to you.But my blind ways destroyed the cords that drew;And now, the evil done, I know my need;Fate has his way with those who mar what is decreed.“And now, good-bye.” He closed the door behind him,Then stept, with firm swift footstep down the stair,Meaning to go where she would never find him;He would go down through darkness to despair.Out at the door he stept; the autumn airCame fresh upon his face; none saw him go.“Good-bye, my love,” he muttered; “it is better so.”Soon he was on the high road, out of sightOf valley and farm; soon he could see no moreThe oast-house pointing finger take the lightAs tumbling pigeons glittered over; norCould he behold the wind-vane gilded o’er,Swinging above the church; the road swung round.“Now, the last look,” he cried: he saw that holy ground.“Good-bye,” he cried; he could behold it all,Spread out as in a picture; but so clearThat the gold apple stood out from the wall;Like a red jewel stood the grazing steer.Precise, intensely coloured, all brought near,As in a vision, lay that holy ground.“Mary is there,” he moaned, “and I am outward bound.“I never saw this place so beautiful,Never like this. I never saw it glow.Spirit is on this place; it fills it full.So let the die be cast; I will not go.But I will see her face to face and knowFrom her own lips what thoughts she has of me;And if disaster come: right; let disaster be.”Back, by another way, he turned. The sunFired the yew-tops in the Roman woods.Lights in the valley twinkled one by one,The starlings whirled in dropping multitudes.Dusk fingered into one earth’s many moods,Back to The Roughs he walked; he neared the brook;A lamp burned in the farm; he saw; his fingers shook.He had to cross the brook, to cross a fieldWhere daffodils were thick when years were young.Then, were she there, his fortunes should be sealed.Down the mud trackway to the brook he swung;Then while the passion trembled on his tongue,Dim, by the dim bridge-stile, he seemed to seeA figure standing mute; a woman—it was she.She stood quite stilly, waiting for him there.She did not seem surprised; the meeting seemedPlanned from all time by powers in the airTo change their human fates; he even deemedThat in another life this thing had gleamed,This meeting by the bridge. He said, “It’s you.”“Yes, I,” she said, “who else? You must have known; you knew“That I should come here to the brook to see,After your message.” “You were out,” he said.“Gone, and I did not know where you could be.Where were you, Mary, when the thing was laid?”“Old Mrs. Cale is dying, and I stayedLonger than usual, while I read the Word.You could have hardly gone.” She paused, her bosom stirred.“Mary, I sinned,” he said. “Not that, dear, no,”She said; “but, oh, you were unkind, unkind,Never to write a word and leave me so,But out of sight with you is out of mind.”“Mary, I sinned,” he said, “and I was blind.Oh, my beloved, are you Lion’s wife?”“Belov’d sounds strange,” she answered, “in my present life.“But it is sweet to hear it, all the same.It is a language little heard by meAlone, in that man’s keeping, with my shame.I never thought such miseries could be.I was so happy in you, Michael. HeCame when I felt you changed from what I thought you.Even now it is not love, but jealousy that brought you.”“That is untrue,” he said. “I am in hell.You are my heart’s beloved, Mary, you.By God, I know your beauty now too well.We are each other’s, flesh and soul, we two.”“That was sweet knowledge once,” she said; “we knewThat truth of old. Now, in a strange man’s bed,I read it in my soul, and find it written red.”“Is he a brute?” he asked. “No,” she replied.“I did not understand what it would mean.And now that you are back, would I had died;Died, and the misery of it not have been.Lion would not be wrecked, nor I unclean.I was a proud one once, and now I’m tame;Oh, Michael, say some word to take away my shame.”She sobbed; his arms went round her; the night heardIntense fierce whispering passing, soul to soul,Love running hot on many a murmured word,Love’s passionate giving into new control.Their present misery did but blow the coal,Did but entangle deeper their two wills,While the brown brook ran on by buried daffodils.

And the white fantails sidled on the roofJust as before; their pink feet, even as of old,Printed the frosty morning’s rime with proof.Still the zew-tallat’s thatch was green with mould;The apples on the withered boughs were gold.Men and the times were changed: “And I,” said he,“Will go and not return, since she is not for me.

“I’ll go, for it would be a scurvy thingTo spoil her marriage, and besides, she caresFor that half-priest she married with the ring.Small joy for me in seeing how she wears,Or seeing what he takes and what she shares.That beauty and those ways: she had such ways,There in the daffodils in those old April days.

So with an impulse of good will he turned,Leaving that place of daffodils; the roadWas paven sharp with memories which burned;He trod them strongly under as he strode.At the Green Turning’s forge the furnace glowed;Red dithying sparks flew from the crumpled softFold from the fire’s heart; down clanged the hammers oft.

That was a bitter place to pass, for thereMary and he had often, often stayedTo watch the horseshoe growing in the glare.It was a tryst in childhood when they strayed.There was a stile beside the forge; he laidHis elbows on it, leaning, looking down.The river-valley stretched with great trees turning brown.

Infinite, too, because it reached the sky,And distant spires arose and distant smoke;The whiteness on the blue went stilly by;Only the clinking forge the stillness broke.Ryemeadows brook was there; The Roughs, the oakWhere the White Woman walked; the black firs showedAround the Occleve homestead, Mary’s new abode.

A long, long time he gazed at that fair place,So well remembered from of old; he sighed.“I will go down and look upon her face,See her again, whatever may betide.Hell is my future; I shall soon have died,But I will take to hell one memory more;She shall not see nor know; I shall be gone before;

“Before they turn the dogs upon me, even.I do not mean to speak; but only see.Even the devil gets a peep at heaven;One peep at her shall come to hell with me;One peep at her, no matter what may be.”He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope.Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope.* * * *A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyondRinged in The Roughs upon the side he neared;Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond;Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared.He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered.The drooping fir trees let their darkness trailBlack like a pirate’s masts bound under easy sail.

The garden with its autumn flowers was there;Few that his wayward memory linked with her.Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare,But honey-hunting bees still made a stir.Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender,And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised;The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced.

He could not see her there. Windows were wide,Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook.Smoke, like the house’s breathing, floated, sighed;Among the trembling firs strange ways it took.But still no Mary’s presence blessed his look;The house was still as if deserted, hushed.Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed.

Fragrance that gave his memory’s guard a hintOf times long past, of reapers in the corn,Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint,When first the berry reddens on the thorn.Memories of her that fragrance brought. ForlornThat vigil of the watching outcast grew;He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew.

The windows of the kitchen opened wide.Again the fragrance came; a woman spoke;Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside.A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke.Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke;Pourri was being made; the listener heardThings lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred.

While an old woman made remarks to oneWho was not the beloved: Michael learnedThat Roger’s wife at Upton had a son,And that the red geraniums should be turned;A hen was missing, and a rick was burned;Our Lord commanded patience; here it broke;The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke.

Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door;A dairymaid, whom he remembered well,Lined, now, with age, and grayer than before,Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell.He saw the dining-room; he could not tellIf Mary were within: inly he knewThat she was coming now, that she would be in blue.

Blue with a silver locket at the throat,And that she would be there, within there, near,With the little blushes that he knew by rote,And the gray eyes so steadfast and so dear,The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear,Speaking to her belov’d within the room.The gate clicked, Lion came: the outcast hugged the gloom,

Watching intently from below the boughs,While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay,Eyed the high clouds and went within the house.His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray.Dinner began within with much to say.Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke.Mary, it seemed, was gone; the loved voice never spoke.

Nor could her lover see her from the yew;She was not there at table; she was ill,Ill, or away perhaps—he wished he knew.Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still.“If sick,” he thought, “the maid or Lion willTake food to her.” He watched; the dinner ended.The staircase was not used; none climbed it, none descended.

“Not here,” he thought; but wishing to be sure,He waited till the Occleves went to field,Then followed, round the house, another lure,Using the well-known privet as his shield.He meant to run a risk; his heart was steeled.He knew of old which bedroom would be hers;He crouched upon the north front in among the firs.

The house stared at him with its red-brick blank,Its vacant window-eyes; its open door,With old wrought bridle ring-hooks at each flank,Swayed on a creaking hinge as the wind bore.Nothing had changed; the house was as before,The dull red brick, the windows sealed or wide:“I will go in,” he said. He rose and stepped inside.

None could have seen him coming; all was still;He listened in the doorway for a sign.Above, a rafter creaked, a stir, a thrillMoved, till the frames clacked on the picture line.“Old Mother Occleve sleeps, the servants dine,”He muttered, listening. “Hush.” A silence brooded.Far off the kitchen dinner clattered; he intruded.

Still, to his right, the best room door was locked.Another door was at his left; he stayed.Within, a stately timepiece ticked and tockedTo one who slumbered breathing deep; it madeAn image of Time’s going and man’s trade.He looked: Old Mother Occleve lay asleep,Hands crossed upon her knitting, rosy, breathing deep.

He tiptoed up the stairs which creaked and cracked.The landing creaked; the shut doors, painted gray,Loomed, as if shutting in some dreadful act.The nodding frames seemed ready to betray.The east room had been closed in Michael’s day,Being the best; but now he guessed it hers;The fields of daffodils lay next it, past the firs.

Just as he reached the landing, Lion cried,Somewhere below, “I’ll get it.” Lion’s feetStruck on the flagstones with a hasty stride,“He’s coming up,” thought Michael, “we shall meet,”He snatched the nearest door for his retreat,Opened with thieves’ swift silence, dared not close,But stood within, behind it. Lion’s footsteps rose,

Running two steps at once, while Michael stood,Not breathing, only knowing that the roomWas someone’s bedroom smelling of old wood,Hung with engravings of the day of doom.The footsteps stopped; and Lion called, to whom?A gentle question, tapping at a door,And Michael shifted feet, and creakings took the floor.

The footsteps recommenced, a door-catch clacked;Within an eastern room the footsteps passed.Drawers were pulled loudly open and ransacked,Chattels were thrust aside and overcast.What could the thing be that he sought? At lastHis voice said, “Here it is.” The wormèd floorCreaked with returning footsteps down the corridor.

The footsteps came as though the walker read,Or added rows of figures by the way;There was much hesitation in the tread;Lion seemed pondering which, to go or stay;Then, seeing the door, which covered Michael, sway,He swiftly crossed and shut it. “Always oneFor order,” Michael muttered; “Now be swift, my son.”

The action seemed to break the walker’s mood;The footsteps passed downstairs, along the hall,Out at the door and off towards the wood.“Gone,” Michael muttered. “Now to hazard all.”Outside, the frames still nodded on the wall.Michael stepped swiftly up the floor to tryThe door where Lion tapped and waited for reply.

It was the eastmost of the rooms which lookOver the fields of daffodils; the boundScanned from its windows is Ryemeadows brook,Banked by gnarled apple trees and rising ground.Most gently Michael tapped; he heard no sound,Only the blind-pull tapping with the wind;The kitchen-door was opened; kitchen-clatter dinned.

A woman walked along the hall below,Humming; a maid, he judged; the footsteps died,Listening intently still, he heard them go,Then swiftly turned the knob and went inside.The blind-pull at the window volleyed wide;The curtains streamed out like a waterfall;The pictures of the fox-hunt clacked along the wall.

No one was there; no one; the room was hers.A book of praise lay open on the bed;The clothes-press smelt of many lavenders,Her spirit stamped the room; herself was fled.Here she found peace of soul like daily bread,Here, with her lover Lion; Michael gazed;He would have been the sharer had he not been crazed.

He took the love-gift handkerchief again;He laid it on her table, near the glass,So opened that the broidered name was plain;“Plain,” he exclaimed, “she cannot let it pass.It stands and speaks for me as bold as brass.My answer, my heart’s cry, to tell her this,That she is still my darling; all she was she is.

“So she will know at least that she was wrong,That underneath the blindness I was true.Fate is the strongest thing, though men are strong;Out from beyond life I was sealed to you.But my blind ways destroyed the cords that drew;And now, the evil done, I know my need;Fate has his way with those who mar what is decreed.

“And now, good-bye.” He closed the door behind him,Then stept, with firm swift footstep down the stair,Meaning to go where she would never find him;He would go down through darkness to despair.Out at the door he stept; the autumn airCame fresh upon his face; none saw him go.“Good-bye, my love,” he muttered; “it is better so.”

Soon he was on the high road, out of sightOf valley and farm; soon he could see no moreThe oast-house pointing finger take the lightAs tumbling pigeons glittered over; norCould he behold the wind-vane gilded o’er,Swinging above the church; the road swung round.“Now, the last look,” he cried: he saw that holy ground.

“Good-bye,” he cried; he could behold it all,Spread out as in a picture; but so clearThat the gold apple stood out from the wall;Like a red jewel stood the grazing steer.Precise, intensely coloured, all brought near,As in a vision, lay that holy ground.“Mary is there,” he moaned, “and I am outward bound.

“I never saw this place so beautiful,Never like this. I never saw it glow.Spirit is on this place; it fills it full.So let the die be cast; I will not go.But I will see her face to face and knowFrom her own lips what thoughts she has of me;And if disaster come: right; let disaster be.”

Back, by another way, he turned. The sunFired the yew-tops in the Roman woods.Lights in the valley twinkled one by one,The starlings whirled in dropping multitudes.Dusk fingered into one earth’s many moods,Back to The Roughs he walked; he neared the brook;A lamp burned in the farm; he saw; his fingers shook.

He had to cross the brook, to cross a fieldWhere daffodils were thick when years were young.Then, were she there, his fortunes should be sealed.Down the mud trackway to the brook he swung;Then while the passion trembled on his tongue,Dim, by the dim bridge-stile, he seemed to seeA figure standing mute; a woman—it was she.

She stood quite stilly, waiting for him there.She did not seem surprised; the meeting seemedPlanned from all time by powers in the airTo change their human fates; he even deemedThat in another life this thing had gleamed,This meeting by the bridge. He said, “It’s you.”“Yes, I,” she said, “who else? You must have known; you knew

“That I should come here to the brook to see,After your message.” “You were out,” he said.“Gone, and I did not know where you could be.Where were you, Mary, when the thing was laid?”“Old Mrs. Cale is dying, and I stayedLonger than usual, while I read the Word.You could have hardly gone.” She paused, her bosom stirred.

“Mary, I sinned,” he said. “Not that, dear, no,”She said; “but, oh, you were unkind, unkind,Never to write a word and leave me so,But out of sight with you is out of mind.”“Mary, I sinned,” he said, “and I was blind.Oh, my beloved, are you Lion’s wife?”“Belov’d sounds strange,” she answered, “in my present life.

“But it is sweet to hear it, all the same.It is a language little heard by meAlone, in that man’s keeping, with my shame.I never thought such miseries could be.I was so happy in you, Michael. HeCame when I felt you changed from what I thought you.Even now it is not love, but jealousy that brought you.”

“That is untrue,” he said. “I am in hell.You are my heart’s beloved, Mary, you.By God, I know your beauty now too well.We are each other’s, flesh and soul, we two.”“That was sweet knowledge once,” she said; “we knewThat truth of old. Now, in a strange man’s bed,I read it in my soul, and find it written red.”

“Is he a brute?” he asked. “No,” she replied.“I did not understand what it would mean.And now that you are back, would I had died;Died, and the misery of it not have been.Lion would not be wrecked, nor I unclean.I was a proud one once, and now I’m tame;Oh, Michael, say some word to take away my shame.”

She sobbed; his arms went round her; the night heardIntense fierce whispering passing, soul to soul,Love running hot on many a murmured word,Love’s passionate giving into new control.Their present misery did but blow the coal,Did but entangle deeper their two wills,While the brown brook ran on by buried daffodils.

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