The Earth remembers many, many things,Kept of her pride, a rich and ancient lore,—The fading footprints of her transient Springs,Her nameless cities, and the stones they wore.Anointed shrines that men had perished for,And women who were music for their times,These, and the world's long iliads of war,Will haunt her heart like dear, remembered rhymes.I have imagined how it might be so,When Earth takes home this wandering dust again,There may be stories I shall come to know,Of tragic queens and towns and valiant men,—Old honoured tales that Earth may tell to me,As mothers do, for children at the knee.
The Earth remembers many, many things,Kept of her pride, a rich and ancient lore,—The fading footprints of her transient Springs,Her nameless cities, and the stones they wore.Anointed shrines that men had perished for,And women who were music for their times,These, and the world's long iliads of war,Will haunt her heart like dear, remembered rhymes.
I have imagined how it might be so,When Earth takes home this wandering dust again,There may be stories I shall come to know,Of tragic queens and towns and valiant men,—Old honoured tales that Earth may tell to me,As mothers do, for children at the knee.
Young girls love a slender birch,Tall and blowing in the wind,Silvered in the sun and rain,And beautifully thinned.Old men love an apple-treeTwisted and gnarled as they;But when new blossoms line the bough,The old men look away.
Young girls love a slender birch,Tall and blowing in the wind,Silvered in the sun and rain,And beautifully thinned.
Old men love an apple-treeTwisted and gnarled as they;But when new blossoms line the bough,The old men look away.
What old historic dust gives back the rose!What crumbled empires yield the creeping vine!And purple grapes have sucked a pleasant wineFrom ramparts that had bowed to sudden blows.Where now the unregarded river flows,Old dissolute cities, their debauches done,Lift up a slender blossom to the sun,Steeped in the thoughtful silence where it grows.Where Splendour was, no Splendour is today:Ruin has wrought upon the crowns of kings,Their throne-rooms all are green and tender things ...And wonder dies,—save in the patient wayOf these slow transmutations in the dust:Beauty from power, lilies out of lust.
What old historic dust gives back the rose!What crumbled empires yield the creeping vine!And purple grapes have sucked a pleasant wineFrom ramparts that had bowed to sudden blows.Where now the unregarded river flows,Old dissolute cities, their debauches done,Lift up a slender blossom to the sun,Steeped in the thoughtful silence where it grows.
Where Splendour was, no Splendour is today:Ruin has wrought upon the crowns of kings,Their throne-rooms all are green and tender things ...And wonder dies,—save in the patient wayOf these slow transmutations in the dust:Beauty from power, lilies out of lust.
The Spring came to this street with spinning tops,And marbles rolling where the yards were bare,With parti-coloured bonnets in the shops,And young girls' laughter on the sterile air.Through open windows and from stair to stair,Went women's voices, calling each to each,And in the cramped and crowded little square,The ancient hush of soft and tender speech.For all the lack of green things coming in,That magic that was marbles in the street,That swept the stairs, and moved the tops to spin,Was wine and music, potent still and sweet,As when it swayed those graceful girls of Troy,And set to dreaming many a Trojan boy.
The Spring came to this street with spinning tops,And marbles rolling where the yards were bare,With parti-coloured bonnets in the shops,And young girls' laughter on the sterile air.Through open windows and from stair to stair,Went women's voices, calling each to each,And in the cramped and crowded little square,The ancient hush of soft and tender speech.
For all the lack of green things coming in,That magic that was marbles in the street,That swept the stairs, and moved the tops to spin,Was wine and music, potent still and sweet,As when it swayed those graceful girls of Troy,And set to dreaming many a Trojan boy.
Roses, roses at her door,Roses bringing something moreThan one Summer to her door,—Beauty, beauty evermore.Roses that were GuinivereIn a far-off golden year,Hair that blinded like the sun,Hands that never would have doneWith the white spells that they wrought,Till a city came to naught,—Hands and hair and hearts, at last,Dust! Till now, their slumbers past,Roses bloom about her door,Beauty, beauty evermore....Trojan maidens who had beenStill, white faces through the dinOf those chariots gone by,Stars above a troubled sky—Beauty passing to re-pass,Pearl-white feet across the grass,Crowns of beauty that they woreGiven to the dust for moreRoses, roses at her door....All old tales of beauty dead,Hands and hair and lifted head,Gone from cities long forgot:Rimini and Camelot,Lovers who had been like light,Summertime and dream ... and Night ...Now, their night of sleeping gone,Roses rise above the lawn.Roses, roses at her door,Roses bringing something moreThan one Summer to her door ...Beauty, beauty evermore.
Roses, roses at her door,Roses bringing something moreThan one Summer to her door,—Beauty, beauty evermore.
Roses that were GuinivereIn a far-off golden year,Hair that blinded like the sun,Hands that never would have doneWith the white spells that they wrought,Till a city came to naught,—Hands and hair and hearts, at last,Dust! Till now, their slumbers past,Roses bloom about her door,Beauty, beauty evermore....Trojan maidens who had beenStill, white faces through the dinOf those chariots gone by,Stars above a troubled sky—Beauty passing to re-pass,Pearl-white feet across the grass,Crowns of beauty that they woreGiven to the dust for moreRoses, roses at her door....All old tales of beauty dead,Hands and hair and lifted head,Gone from cities long forgot:Rimini and Camelot,Lovers who had been like light,Summertime and dream ... and Night ...Now, their night of sleeping gone,Roses rise above the lawn.
Roses, roses at her door,Roses bringing something moreThan one Summer to her door ...Beauty, beauty evermore.
All purged, at last, are glories in the dust,—Those temples that were worship for a day.The gallant banners of a people's trust,And hands and lips—and Aprils brief as they.Beyond their lighted moment in the sun,They bore away their splendours and their stains;Now they are dust, the cleansing ritual done,And only their dim holiness remains.Since I am somehow fashioned out of these,The quickened dust of city, saint and grass,Of holy altars and old mysteries,—Let me be mindful of them where I pass,Dishonouring not this garment among men,Lest I be shamed when I am dust again.
All purged, at last, are glories in the dust,—Those temples that were worship for a day.The gallant banners of a people's trust,And hands and lips—and Aprils brief as they.Beyond their lighted moment in the sun,They bore away their splendours and their stains;Now they are dust, the cleansing ritual done,And only their dim holiness remains.
Since I am somehow fashioned out of these,The quickened dust of city, saint and grass,Of holy altars and old mysteries,—Let me be mindful of them where I pass,Dishonouring not this garment among men,Lest I be shamed when I am dust again.
Here is the record of their splendid days:The curving prow, the tall and stately mast,And all the width and wonder of their ways,Reduced to little printed words, at last;TheHelen Doverdocks, theMary AnnDeparts for Ceylon and the Eastern trade;Arrived:The Queen, with cargoes from Japan,AndRichard Kidd, a tramp, andSilver Maid.The narrow print is wide enough for these:But here: "Reported missing" ... the type fails,The column breaks for white and angry seas,The jagged spars thrust through, and flapping sailsFlagging farewells to wind and sky and shore,Arrive at silent ports, and leave no more.
Here is the record of their splendid days:The curving prow, the tall and stately mast,And all the width and wonder of their ways,Reduced to little printed words, at last;TheHelen Doverdocks, theMary AnnDeparts for Ceylon and the Eastern trade;Arrived:The Queen, with cargoes from Japan,AndRichard Kidd, a tramp, andSilver Maid.
The narrow print is wide enough for these:But here: "Reported missing" ... the type fails,The column breaks for white and angry seas,The jagged spars thrust through, and flapping sailsFlagging farewells to wind and sky and shore,Arrive at silent ports, and leave no more.
With what bright symbols have we learned, at last,To write the epic of the tender Springs!—We, who were dumb so many centuries past,Who found no word for frail and lovely things.In tongue-tied wonder at the blossoming earth,We watched the trailing seasons loiter by,Too inarticulate of their transient worth,Beyond the saddened utterance of a sigh.What Aprils taught us, children at the knee,Word by slow word, the language April knows!What Summers broke that brooding reverie,Through patient iterations of the rose!—Ah, dearest tutors of our lisping-time,Today we bring you of our brightest rhyme.
With what bright symbols have we learned, at last,To write the epic of the tender Springs!—We, who were dumb so many centuries past,Who found no word for frail and lovely things.In tongue-tied wonder at the blossoming earth,We watched the trailing seasons loiter by,Too inarticulate of their transient worth,Beyond the saddened utterance of a sigh.
What Aprils taught us, children at the knee,Word by slow word, the language April knows!What Summers broke that brooding reverie,Through patient iterations of the rose!—Ah, dearest tutors of our lisping-time,Today we bring you of our brightest rhyme.
These frail, white blooms have lit the Summer nightLike ghosts of beauty that had gone too soon,—With something less than any glimmering lightThat sways and faints and trembles in the moon.I think the Earth, grown half-regretful, now,Of faces that were lovely of old time,Lifts here again dim hands and hair and brow,In loveliness more fragile than a rhyme.So that the listening night has somehow learnedA way of prescient waiting through the dark,For half-forgotten loveliness returned,—Too frail and dim for eyes like ours to markMore than a ghostly glimmer on the air,That once was lighted brows and hands and hair.
These frail, white blooms have lit the Summer nightLike ghosts of beauty that had gone too soon,—With something less than any glimmering lightThat sways and faints and trembles in the moon.I think the Earth, grown half-regretful, now,Of faces that were lovely of old time,Lifts here again dim hands and hair and brow,In loveliness more fragile than a rhyme.
So that the listening night has somehow learnedA way of prescient waiting through the dark,For half-forgotten loveliness returned,—Too frail and dim for eyes like ours to markMore than a ghostly glimmer on the air,That once was lighted brows and hands and hair.
The Spring has crowned the startled grass with light,And lit each apple-tree with blooms of May,Her footprints flowering through the silent night,Show where she went her hurried, careless way ...A magic that awakens and goes by,Too care-free to be bound, too fickle-fleet,Leaves helpless legions staring at the sky,Confronted with a later, sure defeat.A bird, half-hid among the apple boughs,Sings and sings on above the blossoming earth,A high, clear music of eternal vowsTo transient joy ... and joy's eternal worth ...Above the certain wreck, this dauntless thing,Caught up and hurled from ruined Spring to Spring.
The Spring has crowned the startled grass with light,And lit each apple-tree with blooms of May,Her footprints flowering through the silent night,Show where she went her hurried, careless way ...A magic that awakens and goes by,Too care-free to be bound, too fickle-fleet,Leaves helpless legions staring at the sky,Confronted with a later, sure defeat.
A bird, half-hid among the apple boughs,Sings and sings on above the blossoming earth,A high, clear music of eternal vowsTo transient joy ... and joy's eternal worth ...Above the certain wreck, this dauntless thing,Caught up and hurled from ruined Spring to Spring.
Who knows what endless practices are held,Before bright pencils mark the April earth——Where grasses learn how gaiety is spelled,And jonquils trace the golden writs of mirth;Some slow, imperfect patterns must be wroughtSome, cast aside in dark, abandoned crypts,Before the swift, impulsive hands are taughtTo shape the Spring's illuminated scripts.What gifted fingers are so quick to mouldAnd form aright the thin Aprilian line,The frail, fair lettering in green and gold!—What art has taught that intricate design,From which those later scriveners composeSuch final, crowning rubrics as the rose!
Who knows what endless practices are held,Before bright pencils mark the April earth——Where grasses learn how gaiety is spelled,And jonquils trace the golden writs of mirth;Some slow, imperfect patterns must be wroughtSome, cast aside in dark, abandoned crypts,Before the swift, impulsive hands are taughtTo shape the Spring's illuminated scripts.
What gifted fingers are so quick to mouldAnd form aright the thin Aprilian line,The frail, fair lettering in green and gold!—What art has taught that intricate design,From which those later scriveners composeSuch final, crowning rubrics as the rose!
Moonlight is memory ... though the sun forget,And moonlight lingers by a crumbling wall,And grass-grown walks where flagging-stones are setFor feet that pass that way no more at all.Summers gone by, and laughter that is still,And hair whose gold is hidden from the sun,—Moonlight remembering on a lonesome hillMight half return them, one by ghostly one.Suns mark the days ... but moonlight knows no time,Finding old springs in every lighted face,Old musics in a whisper hushed like rhyme:And Summers that have gone and left no trace,Are one with each new Summer come to flower,Moving in moonlight through a haunted hour.
Moonlight is memory ... though the sun forget,And moonlight lingers by a crumbling wall,And grass-grown walks where flagging-stones are setFor feet that pass that way no more at all.Summers gone by, and laughter that is still,And hair whose gold is hidden from the sun,—Moonlight remembering on a lonesome hillMight half return them, one by ghostly one.
Suns mark the days ... but moonlight knows no time,Finding old springs in every lighted face,Old musics in a whisper hushed like rhyme:And Summers that have gone and left no trace,Are one with each new Summer come to flower,Moving in moonlight through a haunted hour.
He never could grow old, for gay RomanceWalks with him daily through our crowded ways,Illumining each common circumstance,And rearing splendid dreams about his days.Whether he walks or rides, it is the same,He is the grey-haired knight, his cane for lance,On some adventure for a lady's name,With fancied kings and queens for confidants.Folk that he meets—woman or man or boy—All play a rôle in some forgotten place:His carriage is a chariot at Troy,And somewhere, at the end, is Helen's face ...I like to wonder, when he looks at me,What glorious thing, that instant, I may be.
He never could grow old, for gay RomanceWalks with him daily through our crowded ways,Illumining each common circumstance,And rearing splendid dreams about his days.Whether he walks or rides, it is the same,He is the grey-haired knight, his cane for lance,On some adventure for a lady's name,With fancied kings and queens for confidants.
Folk that he meets—woman or man or boy—All play a rôle in some forgotten place:His carriage is a chariot at Troy,And somewhere, at the end, is Helen's face ...I like to wonder, when he looks at me,What glorious thing, that instant, I may be.
O, Lady like a tea-cup,A flower, or a fan,What dear, archaic fancyDevised you as it ranThrough gone Arcadian summersOf sweet and gentle airs,Of roses at the casement,And slippers on the stairs?O, Lady like a poemOut of the olden time,Be now the fading patternOf this archaic rhyme.
O, Lady like a tea-cup,A flower, or a fan,What dear, archaic fancyDevised you as it ranThrough gone Arcadian summersOf sweet and gentle airs,Of roses at the casement,And slippers on the stairs?O, Lady like a poemOut of the olden time,Be now the fading patternOf this archaic rhyme.
Since we have learned how beauty comes and goes:A phantom fading from the hills like light,Summer and slow disaster in the rose,An April face that wanders toward the night,—It is not strange that we who linger here,Are haunted by the colours of the sky,The ghost of beauty in the stricken year,The thought of beauty gone too swiftly by.So that men strive with chisel, pen and brush,To save the lifted brow, the transient spring,Happy if they may fix the fading blush,Or make the mood a memorable thing,And snare one glowing hour from fleeting time,A golden bird, caged in a golden rhyme.
Since we have learned how beauty comes and goes:A phantom fading from the hills like light,Summer and slow disaster in the rose,An April face that wanders toward the night,—It is not strange that we who linger here,Are haunted by the colours of the sky,The ghost of beauty in the stricken year,The thought of beauty gone too swiftly by.
So that men strive with chisel, pen and brush,To save the lifted brow, the transient spring,Happy if they may fix the fading blush,Or make the mood a memorable thing,And snare one glowing hour from fleeting time,A golden bird, caged in a golden rhyme.
These walls will not forget, through later days,How they had bloomed with lifted, tossing headsOf swaying girls who thronged these ordered waysLike windy tulips blowing in their beds.Stones may remember laughter down a hall,And eyes more bright than blossoms in the grass,—A dream to haunt them—after all and all—When they are dust with dusty things that pass.So that some wind of beauty, waking then,Whose breath shall be new summertimes for earth,Will stir these scattered stones to dreams, again,Of blowing shapes, of brightening eyes and mirth,And corridors, like windy tulip beds,Of swaying girls and beautiful, bright heads.
These walls will not forget, through later days,How they had bloomed with lifted, tossing headsOf swaying girls who thronged these ordered waysLike windy tulips blowing in their beds.Stones may remember laughter down a hall,And eyes more bright than blossoms in the grass,—A dream to haunt them—after all and all—When they are dust with dusty things that pass.
So that some wind of beauty, waking then,Whose breath shall be new summertimes for earth,Will stir these scattered stones to dreams, again,Of blowing shapes, of brightening eyes and mirth,And corridors, like windy tulip beds,Of swaying girls and beautiful, bright heads.
... And still, they say, when nights are nearly spent,And watchmen take their doze, before relief,He comes to walk upon the battlement,And all his brow is clouded with a grief.From end to end, from end to end he goes,Muttering his maledictions—and a nameOf one who drowned, it seems—though no one knows,For there's a madness in his words, they claim.
... And still, they say, when nights are nearly spent,And watchmen take their doze, before relief,He comes to walk upon the battlement,And all his brow is clouded with a grief.From end to end, from end to end he goes,Muttering his maledictions—and a nameOf one who drowned, it seems—though no one knows,For there's a madness in his words, they claim.
I think your soul goes clad in dominoes,Haunting old gardens that are always June,To sit within the shadow of a rose,And strum and sing your every fragile tune.For all we meet you where the great world rides,You have no league with anything we are:Your life is all entangled in the tidesOf goblin moons and musics and a star.You talk to us of what the moment brings,Of earnest men and worlds of work-a-day,Of stocks and stores and half a hundred things,—And all the while, your soul is leagues away,Troubling old ghostly gardens where it goes,Motlied with moonlight and your dominoes.
I think your soul goes clad in dominoes,Haunting old gardens that are always June,To sit within the shadow of a rose,And strum and sing your every fragile tune.For all we meet you where the great world rides,You have no league with anything we are:Your life is all entangled in the tidesOf goblin moons and musics and a star.
You talk to us of what the moment brings,Of earnest men and worlds of work-a-day,Of stocks and stores and half a hundred things,—And all the while, your soul is leagues away,Troubling old ghostly gardens where it goes,Motlied with moonlight and your dominoes.
Walking these long, late twilights of the Spring,Where all the fret of life seems nothing worth,And grief, itself, a half-forgotten thing,Less keen than these cool odours of the earth,—I sometimes think we find the secret gateThat gives on gardens of enchanted light,Restoring glories that we lost of late,To quiet wisdom and more certain sight.A holier mood will haunt our stubborn will,Till we shall see revealments through the grass,And stop, abashed, before a daffodil,A shining weed, a stone on ways we pass,Stand with bared head before the evening star,And know these holy things for what they are.
Walking these long, late twilights of the Spring,Where all the fret of life seems nothing worth,And grief, itself, a half-forgotten thing,Less keen than these cool odours of the earth,—I sometimes think we find the secret gateThat gives on gardens of enchanted light,Restoring glories that we lost of late,To quiet wisdom and more certain sight.
A holier mood will haunt our stubborn will,Till we shall see revealments through the grass,And stop, abashed, before a daffodil,A shining weed, a stone on ways we pass,Stand with bared head before the evening star,And know these holy things for what they are.
I shall discover ... after all and all ...From what alembic issues forth the Spring,What cryptic finger, moving by a wall,Leaves tulip writs in tulip colouring;I shall have knowledge of the tug and gripOf tender roots where they are thrust and curled,And what frail doors are opened to let slipThe hidden spear into the lighted world.So I shall know the mint of daffodils,In darkened rooms where colour comes to birth,The mouldy chamber where the rose distilsA sweetness that is Summer for the earth ...And all the strange, alchemic, secret spell,I shall discover, ... but I shall not tell.
I shall discover ... after all and all ...From what alembic issues forth the Spring,What cryptic finger, moving by a wall,Leaves tulip writs in tulip colouring;I shall have knowledge of the tug and gripOf tender roots where they are thrust and curled,And what frail doors are opened to let slipThe hidden spear into the lighted world.
So I shall know the mint of daffodils,In darkened rooms where colour comes to birth,The mouldy chamber where the rose distilsA sweetness that is Summer for the earth ...And all the strange, alchemic, secret spell,I shall discover, ... but I shall not tell.
You, who would never leave us to our sleeping,But ever nosed us out of bed to play,How can we ever think of you as keepingSo strangely still, as stirless as the clay?We cannot think you dead to games and laughter;Surely in some bright place beyond the sun,Girls race and play, and you go racing after,And lie across their feet when games are done.Who knows, but in our separate times and placesWhen we have slept the last, last sleep away,You yet may come, your nose against our faces,And wake us to our bright, immortal play...And if you startle us with rude surprise,You'll beg—and win—forgiveness with those eyes.
You, who would never leave us to our sleeping,But ever nosed us out of bed to play,How can we ever think of you as keepingSo strangely still, as stirless as the clay?We cannot think you dead to games and laughter;Surely in some bright place beyond the sun,Girls race and play, and you go racing after,And lie across their feet when games are done.
Who knows, but in our separate times and placesWhen we have slept the last, last sleep away,You yet may come, your nose against our faces,And wake us to our bright, immortal play...And if you startle us with rude surprise,You'll beg—and win—forgiveness with those eyes.
I think these stars that draw so strangely near,That lean and listen for the turning earth,Are never wholly careless when they hearThe murmur of her hushed and quiet mirth,—But looking out upon a world in bloom,They half-remember, and they heed and hark:An old, old sweetness in the scented gloom,An old, old music in the singing dark.Their own full Summers gone, such æons past,Bird-song and bloom and swallow from the sky,These dead, desireless worlds find here, at last,Something remembered when the earth turns by,Sweet with these blowing odours they had known,This happy music that was once their own.
I think these stars that draw so strangely near,That lean and listen for the turning earth,Are never wholly careless when they hearThe murmur of her hushed and quiet mirth,—But looking out upon a world in bloom,They half-remember, and they heed and hark:An old, old sweetness in the scented gloom,An old, old music in the singing dark.
Their own full Summers gone, such æons past,Bird-song and bloom and swallow from the sky,These dead, desireless worlds find here, at last,Something remembered when the earth turns by,Sweet with these blowing odours they had known,This happy music that was once their own.
Men building ships, and women cooking meals,The mothering girl-child with her doll in arms,The ploughman trudging at his horse's heels,The fires we lay, our chill at war's alarms:—These epic, ancient gestures of the raceHave still the greatness of those great who wroughtIn other days than ours, who keep their placeAlong our shadowy borderlands of thought.A word evokes them,—aye, a lifted handStirs slumbrous queens whose sceptres were upraisedFor life or death in what forgotten land!—Where cowherds pass, old Grecian kine are grazed,And many a rocking-horse and laughing boyLead back the tragic chariots of Troy.
Men building ships, and women cooking meals,The mothering girl-child with her doll in arms,The ploughman trudging at his horse's heels,The fires we lay, our chill at war's alarms:—These epic, ancient gestures of the raceHave still the greatness of those great who wroughtIn other days than ours, who keep their placeAlong our shadowy borderlands of thought.
A word evokes them,—aye, a lifted handStirs slumbrous queens whose sceptres were upraisedFor life or death in what forgotten land!—Where cowherds pass, old Grecian kine are grazed,And many a rocking-horse and laughing boyLead back the tragic chariots of Troy.
There is a magic in the shining name,A legacy that beauty yields to speech,Something more quick and subtle than her fame,—Who else had blown beyond our stunted reach.By what occult divining does the willFashion the cryptic word whose sound and senseEvoke the trembling image, lovely still,Of something lost but for this recompense?There have been ships whose names were music's own;But speak them—and the lifted prows go by!Women who stir as from the sculptor's stone,For syllables still tender as a sigh ...And banished Aprils that we saw and heard,Return their lights and colours ... in a word.
There is a magic in the shining name,A legacy that beauty yields to speech,Something more quick and subtle than her fame,—Who else had blown beyond our stunted reach.By what occult divining does the willFashion the cryptic word whose sound and senseEvoke the trembling image, lovely still,Of something lost but for this recompense?
There have been ships whose names were music's own;But speak them—and the lifted prows go by!Women who stir as from the sculptor's stone,For syllables still tender as a sigh ...And banished Aprils that we saw and heard,Return their lights and colours ... in a word.
You have come home with old seas in your speech,And glimmering sea-roads meeting in your mind:The curve of creeping silver up the beach,And mornings whose white splendours daze and blind.You have brought word of ships and where they go,Their names like music, and the flags they fly:Steamer ... and barque ... and churning tug and tow,And a lone sail at sunset blowing by.Shoreline and mist have still their ancient way:Through all your speech the sea's long rise and fallSound their slow musics in the words you say:—And I who sit and listen to it all,Am like an absent lover who would hearNews of one loved, incalculably dear.
You have come home with old seas in your speech,And glimmering sea-roads meeting in your mind:The curve of creeping silver up the beach,And mornings whose white splendours daze and blind.You have brought word of ships and where they go,Their names like music, and the flags they fly:Steamer ... and barque ... and churning tug and tow,And a lone sail at sunset blowing by.
Shoreline and mist have still their ancient way:Through all your speech the sea's long rise and fallSound their slow musics in the words you say:—And I who sit and listen to it all,Am like an absent lover who would hearNews of one loved, incalculably dear.
The mild-eyed Oxen and the gentle Ass,By manger or in pastures that they graze,Lift their slow heads to watch us where we pass,A reminiscent wonder in their gaze.Their low humility is like a crown,A grave distinction they have come to wear,—Their look gone past us—to a little Town,And a white miracle that happened there.An old, old vision haunts those quiet eyes,Where proud remembrance drifts to them again,Of Something that has made them humbly wise,—These burden-bearers for the race of men—And lightens every load they lift or pull,Something that chanced because the Inn was full.
The mild-eyed Oxen and the gentle Ass,By manger or in pastures that they graze,Lift their slow heads to watch us where we pass,A reminiscent wonder in their gaze.Their low humility is like a crown,A grave distinction they have come to wear,—Their look gone past us—to a little Town,And a white miracle that happened there.
An old, old vision haunts those quiet eyes,Where proud remembrance drifts to them again,Of Something that has made them humbly wise,—These burden-bearers for the race of men—And lightens every load they lift or pull,Something that chanced because the Inn was full.
... So she came back to you and me,She who had been the lovely third ...A little, blue ghost in time for tea;Smiling and grave and with no wordOf how things fare with such as she,But suddenly lonely when she heard,In that still place, the fragile clinkOf tea cups, and her own dear name,'Twas like her to be touched, I think,With smiling pity for you and me;—So, in a breathless haste, she came,A little, blue ghost in time for tea.
... So she came back to you and me,She who had been the lovely third ...A little, blue ghost in time for tea;
Smiling and grave and with no wordOf how things fare with such as she,But suddenly lonely when she heard,
In that still place, the fragile clinkOf tea cups, and her own dear name,'Twas like her to be touched, I think,
With smiling pity for you and me;—So, in a breathless haste, she came,A little, blue ghost in time for tea.
Remembering sunlight on the steepled square,Remembering April's way with little streets,And pouter pigeons coasting down the air,Spilling a beauty, like white-crested fleets,—I have imagined, in these pain-racked days,The look of grasses thrusting through the earth,Of tender shoots along green-bordered ways,Of hedges, and their first, frail blossoming mirth.I have imagined, too, in some such wiseDeath may allow, within her darkened room,Some subtle intimation of wide skies,Of startled grasses, and the hedge in bloom,—And we may know when some far spring comes down,Wearing her magic slippers through the town.
Remembering sunlight on the steepled square,Remembering April's way with little streets,And pouter pigeons coasting down the air,Spilling a beauty, like white-crested fleets,—I have imagined, in these pain-racked days,The look of grasses thrusting through the earth,Of tender shoots along green-bordered ways,Of hedges, and their first, frail blossoming mirth.
I have imagined, too, in some such wiseDeath may allow, within her darkened room,Some subtle intimation of wide skies,Of startled grasses, and the hedge in bloom,—And we may know when some far spring comes down,Wearing her magic slippers through the town.
The cool, sweet earth is cool and sweet indeed,To flesh that fever makes a cinder of,—An angel with cool hands to cup his need,In ministrations, kinder yet than love.There, a cool cheek to lay against his own,And rest for that hot blood's too restless will,His hands to curve on root or clod or stone;—And deep-dug earth is very, very still.Yet some, remembering happiness he hadOf living things, of leaf and sun and air,Could pity him his prison, and be sad,—Not knowing how he is companioned there,Nor how, for such as he and his great need,The cool, sweet earth is cool and sweet indeed.
The cool, sweet earth is cool and sweet indeed,To flesh that fever makes a cinder of,—An angel with cool hands to cup his need,In ministrations, kinder yet than love.There, a cool cheek to lay against his own,And rest for that hot blood's too restless will,His hands to curve on root or clod or stone;—And deep-dug earth is very, very still.
Yet some, remembering happiness he hadOf living things, of leaf and sun and air,Could pity him his prison, and be sad,—Not knowing how he is companioned there,Nor how, for such as he and his great need,The cool, sweet earth is cool and sweet indeed.
The spring comes in to me like spring in Rome,—As year by year those ruins, dead to mirth,Sense a strange quickening in the sweetened loam,Where new, returning Aprils take the earth;Something they lost, so many centuries gone,Something too swift and subtle for a word,Is half-remembered—in a shattered faun,A stained and broken bird-bath, and its bird.But otherwise, all alien comes the Spring,Touching but not transforming what they are:Flowers in the cranny but a foolish thing,Grass in the pavements, foreign as a star ...Each reminiscent, half-insensate stoneMocked with new life it cannot call its own.
The spring comes in to me like spring in Rome,—As year by year those ruins, dead to mirth,Sense a strange quickening in the sweetened loam,Where new, returning Aprils take the earth;Something they lost, so many centuries gone,Something too swift and subtle for a word,Is half-remembered—in a shattered faun,A stained and broken bird-bath, and its bird.
But otherwise, all alien comes the Spring,Touching but not transforming what they are:Flowers in the cranny but a foolish thing,Grass in the pavements, foreign as a star ...Each reminiscent, half-insensate stoneMocked with new life it cannot call its own.
All through my fevered nights, their grey ghosts came,The great, cool sailing ships blown softly by,More fair than any beauty that we name,Girdled of water, chrismed of the sky.I cannot tell what hidden bales of prize,What mystic spell may haunt the wraiths of ships,But these were secret healing on my eyes,And these were cooling water at my lips.It may be, when the final fever ends,And flesh burns out, at last, and pulses fail,They will not know, my grieved and stricken friends,How in that instant I had given hailTo one white ship come ghostwise in from sea,And how at last that it is well with me.
All through my fevered nights, their grey ghosts came,The great, cool sailing ships blown softly by,More fair than any beauty that we name,Girdled of water, chrismed of the sky.I cannot tell what hidden bales of prize,What mystic spell may haunt the wraiths of ships,But these were secret healing on my eyes,And these were cooling water at my lips.
It may be, when the final fever ends,And flesh burns out, at last, and pulses fail,They will not know, my grieved and stricken friends,How in that instant I had given hailTo one white ship come ghostwise in from sea,And how at last that it is well with me.
A fragrance lingers, though the rains be done;And apple-trees have shaken from their hairThe thin and shining blossoms, one by one,Starring the roadway like a silver stair.And something softer than the rain comes by,Older and dearer than these bright, new days:An odour ... or a trick of lights that lieFamiliar on these grass-grown, rutted ways.This lane in May is such a haunted thing,For all the newness of the rain-wet trees:An old, old May, remembered of the Spring,Returning ghostwise on such days as these,Moves in the blowing odours where they pass,Trailing these scattered blossoms in the grass.
A fragrance lingers, though the rains be done;And apple-trees have shaken from their hairThe thin and shining blossoms, one by one,Starring the roadway like a silver stair.And something softer than the rain comes by,Older and dearer than these bright, new days:An odour ... or a trick of lights that lieFamiliar on these grass-grown, rutted ways.
This lane in May is such a haunted thing,For all the newness of the rain-wet trees:An old, old May, remembered of the Spring,Returning ghostwise on such days as these,Moves in the blowing odours where they pass,Trailing these scattered blossoms in the grass.
Behind these falling curtains of the rain,Beauty goes by, a phantom on the hill,A timid fugitive beyond the lane,In rainy silver,—and so shy and stillThat only peering eyes of some hid bird,Or furry ears that listened by a stone,Could guess at Something neither seen nor heard,Finding escape, and faring by, alone.For eyes like ours, too faint a thing and fleet,Too lightly running for such ears to hearThe stealthy going of those weightless feet;No thrilling sight or sound of her comes near,Only the shining grasses where they lie,Give hint of silver slippers hasting by.
Behind these falling curtains of the rain,Beauty goes by, a phantom on the hill,A timid fugitive beyond the lane,In rainy silver,—and so shy and stillThat only peering eyes of some hid bird,Or furry ears that listened by a stone,Could guess at Something neither seen nor heard,Finding escape, and faring by, alone.
For eyes like ours, too faint a thing and fleet,Too lightly running for such ears to hearThe stealthy going of those weightless feet;No thrilling sight or sound of her comes near,Only the shining grasses where they lie,Give hint of silver slippers hasting by.
He has always a wise and knowing air:For him there is no mystery in the mould,Where seeds put on the shimmering things they wear,And come to birth in yellow, green, and gold.His quizzical, grey eyes can somehow markThe silver shaft of sunlight where it goes,Still radiant and undarkened in the dark,To find the seed room of the hidden rose.For him the secret alchemies are plain;He tells most surely how these things befall,In words grown intimate with roots and rain;And yet, he is so tender of it all,So wise and kind in ways of leaf and sod,Sometimes I think him very like to God.
He has always a wise and knowing air:For him there is no mystery in the mould,Where seeds put on the shimmering things they wear,And come to birth in yellow, green, and gold.His quizzical, grey eyes can somehow markThe silver shaft of sunlight where it goes,Still radiant and undarkened in the dark,To find the seed room of the hidden rose.
For him the secret alchemies are plain;He tells most surely how these things befall,In words grown intimate with roots and rain;And yet, he is so tender of it all,So wise and kind in ways of leaf and sod,Sometimes I think him very like to God.
Here where the snow comes whitely down,All worldiness is done;The saintly, silent little TownIs like a nun;Most holy in her street and spire,Most perfectly at rest,—Ah, God, who knows what hid desireIs in her breast,Where peony or daffodilOr wayward rose begins,Burning her drifted bosom, still,Like secret sins.
Here where the snow comes whitely down,All worldiness is done;The saintly, silent little TownIs like a nun;
Most holy in her street and spire,Most perfectly at rest,—Ah, God, who knows what hid desireIs in her breast,
Where peony or daffodilOr wayward rose begins,Burning her drifted bosom, still,Like secret sins.
Day fades with fading colours from the sky,And blue smoke blowing where the hills are gold,Is all a tale of loveliness gone by:Summer is ended, and the year is old,Beauty and bloom are wet leaves in the grass,And music is a lone wind on the hill,Crying that all things beautiful must pass,Crying that beauty is remembered still.There will be wood-mist moving by the gate,There will be gathering to the fire by night,The greying ashes falling in the grate,—And long remembering, in the failing light,Of ghosts returning for a wisp of fame,Cloudy and brief along the smoke and flame.
Day fades with fading colours from the sky,And blue smoke blowing where the hills are gold,Is all a tale of loveliness gone by:Summer is ended, and the year is old,Beauty and bloom are wet leaves in the grass,And music is a lone wind on the hill,Crying that all things beautiful must pass,Crying that beauty is remembered still.
There will be wood-mist moving by the gate,There will be gathering to the fire by night,The greying ashes falling in the grate,—And long remembering, in the failing light,Of ghosts returning for a wisp of fame,Cloudy and brief along the smoke and flame.