DEAD MAN'S MORRICE

NOT with a flash that rends the blueShall fall the avenging sword.Gently as the evening dewDescends the mighty Lord.His dreadful balances are madeTo move with moon and tide;Yet shall not mercy be afraidNor justice be denied.The dreams that seemed to waste away,The kindliness forgot,Were singing in your heart todayAlthough you knew them not.The sun shall not forget his road,Nor the high stars their rhyme,The traveller with the heavier loadHas one less hill to climb.And, though a darker shadow fallOn every struggling age,How shall it be if, after all,He share our pilgrimage?The end we mourn is not the end.The dust has nimble wings.But truth and beauty have a friendAt the deep heart of things.He will not speak? What friend beliesHis love with idle breath?We read it in each others' eyes,And ask no more in death.DEAD MAN'S MORRICETHERE came a crowder to the Mermaid Inn,One dark May night,Fiddling a tune that quelled our motley din,With quaint delight,It haunts me yet, as old lost airs will do,A phantom strain:Look for me once, lest I should look for you,And look in vain.In that old wood, where ghosts of lovers walk,At fall of day,Gleaning such fragments of their ancient talkAs poor ghosts may,From leaves that brushed their faces, wet with dew,Or tears, or rain,...Look for me once, lest I should look for you,And look in vain.Have we not seen them—pale forgotten shadesThat do return,Groping for those dim paths, those fragrant glades,Those nooks of fern,Only to find that, of the may they knew,No wraiths remain;Yet they still look, as I should look for you,And look in vain.They see those happier ghosts that waned away—Whither, who knows?—Ghosts that come back with music and the may,And Spring's first rose,Lover and lass, to sing the old burden through,Stave and refrain:Look for me once, lest I should look for you,And look in vain.So, after death, if in that starless deep,I lose your eyes,I'll haunt familiar places. I'll not keepTryst in the skies.I'll haunt the whispering elms that found us true,The old grass-grown lane.Look for me there, lest I should look for you,And look in vain.There, as of old, under the dreaming moon,A phantom throngFloats through the fern, to a ghostly morrice tune,A thin sweet song,Hands link with hands, eyes drown in eyes anew,Lips meet again....Look for me, once, lest I should look for you,And look in vain.THE OLD FOOL IN THE WOOD"IF I could whisper you all I know,"Said the Old Fool in the Wood,"You'd never say that green leaves grow.You'd say, 'Ah, what a happy moodThe Master must be in today,To think such thoughts,'That's what you'd say.""If I could whisper you all I've heard,"Said the Old Fool in the fern,"You'd never say the song of a bird.You'd say, 'I'll listen, and p'raps I'll learnOne word of His joy as He passed this way,One syllable more,'That's what you'd say.""If I could tell you all the rest,"Said the Old Fool under the skies,"You'd hug your griefs against your breastAnd whisper with love-lit eyes,'I am one with the sorrow that made the may,And the pulse of His heart,'That's what you'd say."A NEW MADRIGAL TO AN OLD MELODY(It is supposed that Shadow-of-a-Leaf uses the word "clear" in a more ancient sense of "beautiful.")AS along a dark pine-bough, in slender white mysteryThe moon lay to listen, above the thick fern,In a deep dreaming wood that is older than historyI heard a lad sing, and I stilled me to learn;So rarely he lilted his long-forgot litany,—Fall, April; fall, April, in dew on our dearth!Bring balm, and bring poppy, bring deep sleepy dittanyFor Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.Then I drew back the branches. I saw him that chanted it.I saw his fool's bauble. I knew his old grief.I knew that old greenwood and the shadow that haunted it,—My fool, my lost jester, myShadow-of-a-Leaf!And "why," I said, "why, all this while, have you left me soLuckless in melody, lonely in mirth?""Oh, why," he sang, "why has this world then bereft me soSoon of my Marian, so long laid in earth?"In the years that are gone," he said, "love was more fortunate.Grief was our minstrel of things that endure.Now, ashes and dust and this world grow importunate.Time has no sorrow that time cannot cure.Once, we could lose, and the loss was worth cherishing.Now, we may win, but, O, where is the worth?Memory and true love," he whispered, "are perishing,With Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.""Ah, no!" I said, "no! Since we grieve for our grief again,Touch the old strings! Let us try the old stave!And memory may wake, like myShadow-of-a-Leafagain,Singing of hope, in the dark, by a grave."So we sang it together—that long-forgot litany:—Fall, April; fall, April; bring new grief to birth.Bring wild herb of grace, and bring deep healing dittany,For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.THE LOST BATTLEIT is not over yet—the fightWhere those immortal dreamers failed.They stormed the citadels of nightAnd the night praised them—and prevailed.So long ago the cause was lostWe scarce distinguish friend from foe;But—if the dead can help it most—The armies of the dead will grow.The world has all our banners now,And filched our watchwords for its own.The world has crowned the "rebel's" browAnd millions crowd his lordly throne.The masks have altered. Names are names;They praise the "truth" that is not true.The "rebel" that the world acclaimsIs not the rebel Shelley knew.We may not build that Commonweal.We may not reach the goal we set.But there's a flag they dare not steal.Forward! It is not over yet.We shall be dust and under dustBefore we end that ancient wrong;But here's a sword that cannot rust,And where's the death can touch a song?So, when our bodies rot in earthThe singing souls that once were ours,Weaponed with light and helmed with mirth,Shall front the kingdoms and the powers.The ancient lie is on its throne,And half the living still forget;But, since the dead are all our own,Courage, it is not over yet.RIDDLES OF MERLINAS I was walkingAlone by the sea,"What is that whisper?"Said Merlin to me."Only," I answered,"The sigh of the wave"—"Oh, no," replied Merlin,"'Tis the grass on your grave."As I lay dreamingIn churchyard ground"Listen," said Merlin,"What is that sound?""The green grass is growing,"I answered; but heChuckled, "Oh, no!'Tis the sound of the sea."As I went homewardAt dusk by the shore,"What is that crimson?"Said Merlin once more."Only the sun," I said."Sinking to rest"—"Sunset for East," he said,"Sunrise for West."THE SYMPHONYWONDER in happy eyesFades, fades away:And the angel-coloured skiesWhisper farewell.Loveliness over the strings of the heart may strayIn fugitive melodies;But Oh, the hand of the Master must not stay,Even for a breath;For to prolong one joy, or even to dwellOn one rich chord of pain,Beyond the pulse of the song, would untune heavenAnd drown the stars in death.So youth with its love-note dies;And beauty fades in the air,To make the master-symphony immortal,And find new life and deeper wonder there.PEACEGIVE me the pulse of the tide againAnd the slow lapse of the leaves,The rustling gold of a field of grainAnd a bird in the nested eaves;And a fishing-smack in the old harbourWhere all was happy and young;And an echo or two of the songs I knewWhen songs could still be sung.For I would empty my heart of allThis world's implacable roar,And I would turn to my home, and fallAsleep in my home once more;And I would forget what the cities say,And the folly of all the wise,And turn to my own true folk this day,And the love in their constant eyes.There is peace, peace, where the sea-birds wheel,And peace in the breaking wave;And I have a broken heart to heal,And a broken soul to save.THE OPEN DOOROMYSTERY of life,That, after all our strife,Defeats, mistakes,Just as, at last, we seeThe road to victory,The tired heart breaks.Just as the long years giveKnowledge of how to live,Life's end draws near;As if, that gift being ours,God needed our new powersIn worlds elsewhere.There, if the soul whose wingsWere won in suffering, springsTo life anew,Justice would have some roomFor hope beyond the tomb,And mercy, too.And since, without this dreamNo light, no faintest gleamAnswers our "why";But earth and all its raceMust pass and leave no traceOn that blind sky;Shall reason close that doorOn all we struggled for,Seal the soul's doom;Make of this universeOne wild answering curse,One lampless tomb?Mine be the dream, the creedThat leaves for God, indeed,For God, and man,One open door wherebyTo prove His world no lieAnd crown His plan.IMMORTAL SAILSNOW, in a breath, we'll burst those gates of gold,And ransack heaven before our moment fails.Now, in a breath, before we, too, grow old,We'll mount and sing and spread immortal sails.It is not time that makes eternity.Love and an hour may quite out-run the years,And give us more to hear and more to seeThan life can wash away with all its tears.Dear, when we part, at last, that sunset skyShall not be touched with deeper hues than this;But we shall ride the lightning ere we dieAnd seize our brief infinitude of bliss,With time to spare for all that heaven can tell,While eyes meet eyes, and look their last farewell.THE MATIN-SONG OF FRIAR TUCKI.IF souls could sing to heaven's high KingAs blackbirds pipe on earth,How those delicious courts would ringWith gusts of lovely mirth!What white-robed throng could lift a songSo mellow with righteous gleeAs this brown bird that all day longDelights my hawthorn tree.Hark! That's the thrushWith speckled breastFrom yon white bushChaunting his best,Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!II.If earthly dreams be touched with gleamsOf Paradisal air,Some wings, perchance, of earth may glanceAround our slumbers there;Some breaths of may might drift our wayWith scents of leaf and loam,Some whistling bird at dawn be heardFrom those old woods of home.Hark! That's the thrushWith speckled breastFrom yon white bushChaunting his best,Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!III.No King or priest shall mar my feastWhere'er my soul may range.I have no fear of heaven's good cheerUnless our Master change.But when death's night is dying away,If I might choose my bliss,My love should say, at break of day,With her first waking kiss:-Hark! That's the thrushWith speckled breast,From yon white bushChaunting his best,Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!FIVE CRITICISMSI.(On many recent novels by the conventional unconventionalists.)OLD PANTALOON, lean-witted, dour and rich,After grim years of soul-destroying greed,Weds Columbine, that April-blooded witch"Too young" to know that gold was not her need.Then enters Pierrot, young, rebellious, warm,With well-lined purse, to teach the fine-souled wifeThat the old fool's gold should aid a world-reform(Confused with sex). This wrecks the old fool's life.O, there's no doubt that Pierrot was clever,Quick to break hearts and quench the dying flame;But why, for his own pride, does Pierrot neverChoose his own mate, work for his own high aim,Stand on his feet, and pay for his own tune?Why scold, cheat, rob and kill poor Pantaloon?II.(On a certain goddess, acclaimed as "new" but known in Babylon.)ISAW the assembled artists of our dayWaiting for light, for music and for song.A woman stood before them, fresh as MayAnd beautiful; but, in that modish throng,None heeded her. They said, "In our first youthSurely, long since, your hair was touched with grey.""I do not change," she answered. "I am Truth.""Old and banal," they sneered, and turned away.Then came a formless thing, with breasts dyed scarlet.The roses in her hair were green and blue."I am new," she said. "I change, andDeath knows why."Then with the eyes and gesture of a harlotShe led them all forth, whinneying, "New, how new!Tell us your name!" She answered, "The New Lie."III.(On Certain of the Bolsheviki "Idealists.")WITH half the force and thought you waste in rageOver your neighbor's house, or heart of stone,You might have built your own new heritage,O fools, have you no hands, then, of your own?Where is your pride? Is this your answer still,This the red flag that burns above our strife,This the new cry that rings from Pisgah hill,"Our neighbor's money, or our neighbor's life"?Be prouder. Let us build that nobler stateWith our own hands, with our own muscle and brain!Your very victories die in hymns of hate;And your own envies are your heaviest chain.Is there no rebel proud enough to say"We'll stand on our own feet, and win the day"?IV.(On Certain Realists.)YOU with the quick sardonic eyeFor all the mockeries of life,Beware, in this dark masque of things that seem,Lest even that tragic irony,Which you discern in this our mortal strife,Trick you and trap you, also, with a dream.Last night I saw a dead man borne alongThe city streets, passing a boisterous throngThat never ceased to laugh and shout and dance:And yet, and yet,For all the poison bitter minds might brewFrom themes like this, I knewThat the stern Truth would not permit her glanceThus to be foiled by flying straws of chance,For her keen eyes on deeper skies are set,And laws that tragic ironists forget.She saw the dead man's life, from birth to death,—All that he knew of love and sin and pain,Success and failure (not as this world sees),His doubts, his passions, inner loss and gain,And borne on darker tides of constant lawBeyond the margin of this life she sawAll that had left his body with the breath.These things, to her, were still realities.If any mourned for him unseen,She saw them, too.If none, she'd not pretendHis clay were colder, or his God less true,Or that his grave, at length, would be less green.She'd not denyThe boundless depths of her eternal skyBrooding above a boundless universe,Because he seemed to man's unseeing eyeGoing a little further to fare worse;Nor would she assume he lacked that unseen friendWhom even the tragic ironists declareWere better than the seen, in his last end.Oh, then, beware, beware,Lest in the strong name of "reality"You mock yourselves anew with shapes of air,Lest it be you, agnostics, who re-writeThe fettering creeds of night,Affirm you know your own Unknowable,And lock the wingéd soul in a new hell;Lest it be you, lip-worshippers of Truth,Who break the heart of youth;Lest it be you, the realists, who fightWith shadows, and forget your own pure light;Lest it be you who, with a little shroudSnatched from the sightless faces of the dead,Hoodwink the world, and keep the mourner bowedIn dust, real dust, with stones, real stones, for bread;Lest, as you look one eighth of an inch beneathThe yellow skin of death,You dream yourselves discoverers of the skullThat oldmemento moriof our faith;Lest it be you who hunt a flying wraithThrough this dissolving stuff of hill and cloud;Lest it be you, who, at the last, annulYour covenant with your kind;Lest it be you who darken heart and mind,Sell the strong soul in bondage to a dream,And fetter us once more to things that seem.V(An Answer)[After reading an article in a leading London journal by an "intellectual" who attacked one of the noblest poets and greatest artists of a former century (or any century) on the ground that his high ethical standards were incompatible with the new lawlessness. This vicious lawlessness the writer described definitely, and he paid his tribute to dishonour as openly and brutally as any of the Bolsheviki could have done. I had always known that this was the real ground of the latter-day onslaught on some of the noblest literature of the past; but I had never seen it openly confessed before. The time has now surely come when, if our civilization is to make any fight at all against the new "red ruin and breaking up of laws," we must cease to belaud our slack-minded, latter-day "literature of rebellion" for its cleverness in making scraps of paper out of the plain laws of right and wrong. It has been doing this for more than twenty-five years, and the same has become fashionable among those who are too busy to read carefully or understand fully what pitfalls are being prepared for their own feet and the feet of their children.]IIF this were true, England indeed were dead.If the wild fashion of that poisonous hourWherein the new Salome, clothed with power,Wriggled and hissed, with hands and feet so red,Should even now demand that glorious head,Whose every word was like an English flower,Whose every song an English April shower,Whose every thought immortal wine and bread;If this were true, if England should preferDarkness, corruption, and the adulterous crew,Shakespeare and Browning would cry shame on her,And Milton would deny the land he knew;And those who died in Flanders yesterdayWould thank their God they sleep in cleaner clay.IIIt is not true. Only these "rebel" wings,These glittering clouds of "intellectual" fliesOut of the stagnant pools of midnight riseFrom the old dead creeds, with carrion-poisoned stingsThey strike at noble and ignoble things,Immortal Love with the old world's out-worn lies,But even now, a wind from clearer skiesDissolves in smoke their coteries and wings.See, their divorced idealist re-divorcesThe wife he stole from his own stealing friend!Andthesewould pluck the high stars from their courses,And mock the fools that praise them, till the end!Well, let the whole world praise them. Truth can waitTill our new England shall unlock the gate.IIIYes. Let the fools go paint themselves with woad,For we've a jest between us, Truth and I.We know that those who live by fashion dieAlso by fashion, and that mode kills mode.We know the great new age is on the road,And death is at the heart of every lie.But we've a jest between us, Truth and I.And we have locked the doors to our abode.Yet if some great new "rebel" in his prideShould pass that way and hear us laughing lowLike lovers, in the darkness, side by side,He might catch this:—"The dullards do not knowThat names are names. New 'rebel' is old 'thrall.'"And we're the lonely dreamers after all.THE COMPANIONSHOW few are they that voyage through the nightOn that eternal quest,For that strange light beyond our light,That rest beyond our rest.And they who, seeking beauty, once descryHer face, to most unknown;Thenceforth like changelings from the skyMust walk their road alone.So once I dreamed. So idle was my mood;But now, before these eyes,From those foul trenches, black with blood,What radiant legions rise!And loveliness over the wounded earth awakesLike wild-flowers in the Spring.Out of the mortal chrysalis breaksImmortal wing on wing.They rise like flowers, they wander on wings of light,Through realms beyond our ken.The loneliest soul is companied tonightBy hosts of unknown men.THE LITTLE ROADSTHE great roads are all grown overThat seemed so firm and white.The deep black forests have covered them.How should I walk aright?How should I thread these tangled mazes,Or grope to that far off light?I stumble round the thickets, and they turn meBack to the thickets and the night.Yet, sometimes, at a word, an elfin pass-word,(O, thin, deep, sweet with beaded rain!)There shines, through a mist of ragged-robins,The old lost April-coloured lane,That leads me from myself; for, at a whisper,Where the strong limbs thrust in vain,At a breath, if my heart help another heart,The path shines out for me again.A thin thread, a rambling lane for loversTo the light of the world's one May,Where the white dropping flakes may wet our facesAs we lift them to the bloom-bowed spray:O Master, shall we ask Thee, then, for high-roads,Or down upon our knees and prayThat Thou wilt ever lose us in Thy little lanes,And lead us by a wandering way.SUNLIGHT AND SEAGIVE me the sunlight and the seaAnd who shall take my heaven from me?Light of the Sun, Life of the Sun,O happy, bold companion,Whose golden laughters round me run,Making wine of the blue airWith wild-rose kisses everywhere,Browning the limb, flushing the cheek,Apple-fragrant, leopard-sleek,Dancing from thy red-curtained EastLike a Nautch-girl to my feast,Proud because her lord, the Spring,Praised the way those anklets ring;Or wandering like a white Greek maidLeaf-dappled through the dancing shade,Where many a green-veined leaf imprintsBreast and limb with emerald tints,That softly net her silken shapeBut let the splendour still escape,While rosy ghosts of roses flowOver the supple rose and snow.But sweetest, fairest is thy face,When we meet, when we embrace,Where the white sand sleeps at noonRound that lonely blue lagoon,Fringed with one white reef of coralWhere the sea-birds faintly quarrelAnd the breakers on the reefFade into a dream of grief,And the palm-trees overheadWhisper that all grief is dead.Sister Sunlight, lead me thenInto thy healing seas again....For when we swim out, side by side,Like a lover with his bride,When thy lips are salt with brine,And thy wild eyes flash in mine,The music of a mightier seaBeats with my blood in harmony.I breast the primal flood of being,Too clear for speech, too near for seeing;And to his heart, new reconciled,The Eternal takes his earth-bound child.Who the essential secret spellsIn those gigantic syllables,—Flowing, ebbing, ebbing, flowing,—Gathers wisdom past all knowing.Song of the Sea, I hear, I hear,That deeper music of the sphere,Catch the rhythm of sun and star,And know what light and darkness are;Ay, faint beginnings of a rhymeThat swells beyond the tides of time;Beat with thy rhythm in blood and breath,And make one song of life and death.I hear, I hear, and rest content,Merged in the primal element,The old element whence life arose,The fount of youth, to which it goes.Give me the sunlight and the seaAnd who shall take my heaven from me?THE ROAD THROUGH CHAOSI.There is one road, one only, to the Light:A narrow way, but Freedom walks therein;A straight, firm road through Chaos and old Night,And all these wandering Jack-o-Lents of Sin.It is the road of Law, where Pilate staysTo hear, at last, the answer to his cry;And mighty sages, groping through their mazeOf eager questions, hear a child reply.Truth? What is Truth?Come, look upon my tables.Begin at your beginnings once again.Twice one is two!Though all the rest be fables,Here's one poor glimpse of Truth to keep you sane.For Truth, at first, is clean accord with fact,Whether in line or thought, or word, or act.II.Then, by those first, those clean, precise, accords,Build to the Lord your temples and your song;The curves of beauty, music's wedded chordsResolving into heaven all hate and wrong.Let harmonies of colour marry and followAnd breaking waves in a rhythmic dance ensue;And all your thought fly free as the wings of the swallow,Whose arrowy curves obey their measure, too.Then shall the marching stars and tides befriend you,And your own heart, and the world's heart, pulse in rhyme;Then shall the mob of the passions that would rend youCrown you their Captain and march on in time.So shall you repossess your struggling soul,Conquer your world, and find the eternal goal.THE NIGHT OF THE LION"And that a reply be received before midnight."British Ultimatum.THEIR Day was at twelve of the night,When the graves give up their dead.And still, from the City, no lightYellows the clouds overhead.Where the Admiral stands there's a star,But his column is lost in the gloom;For the brazen doors are ajar,And the Lion awakes, and the doom.He is not of a chosen race.His strength is the strength of the skies,In whose glory all nations have place,In whose downfall Liberty dies.He is mighty, but he is just.He shall live to the end of years.He shall bring the proud to the dust.He shall raise the weak to the spheres.It is night on the world's great mart,But the brooding hush is awakeWith the march of a steady heartThat calls like the drum of Drake,Come!And a muttering deepAs the pulse of the distant guns,Or the thunder before the leapThro' the rolling thoroughfare runs.And the wounded men go byLike thoughts in the Lion's brain.And the clouds lift on highLike the slow waves of his maneAnd the narrowing lids concealThe furnaces of his eyes.Their gold is gone out. They revealOnly two search-lights of steelSteadily sweeping the skies.And we hoped he had peace in his lairWhere the bones of old tyrannies lay,And the skulls that his cubs have stripped bare,The old skulls they still toss in their play.But the tyrants are risen again,And the last light dies from their path;For the midnight of his maneLifts to the stars with his wrath.From the East to the West he is crouching.He snuffs at the North-East wind.His breast upon Britain is couching.His haunches quiver on Ind.It is night, black night, where he lies;But a kingdom and a fleetShall burn in his terrible eyesWhen he leaps, and the darkness diesWith the War-gods under his feet.Till the day when a little child,Shall lay but a hand on his mane,And his eyes grow golden and mildAnd he stands in the heavens again;Till the day of the seventh seal,Which the Lion alone shall rend,When the stars from their courses reel,His Freedom shall not end.THE WAR WIDOWI.BLACK-VEILED, black-gowned, she rides in bus and train,With eyes that fill too listlessly for tears.Her waxen hands clasp and unclasp again.Good News, they cry. She neither sees nor hears.Good News, perhaps, may crown some far-off king.Good News may peal the glory of the state—Good News may cause the courts of heaven to ring.She sees a hand waved at a garden gate.For her dull ears are tuned to other themes;And her dim eyes can never see aright.She glides—a ghost—through all her April dreams,To meet his eyes at dawn, his lips at night.Wraiths of a truth that others never knew;And yet—for her—the only truth that's true.II.Good News! Good News!There is no way but this.Out of the night a star begins to rise.I know not where my soul's deep Master is;Nor can I hear those angels in the skies;Nor follow him, as childhood used of old,By radiant seas, in those time-hallowed tales.Only, at times, implacable and cold,From this blind gloom, stand out the iron nails.Yet, at this world's heart stands the Eternal Cross,The ultimate frame of moon and star and sun,Where Love with out-stretched arms, in utter loss,Points East and West and makes the whole world one.Good News! Good News!There is no hope, no way,No truth, no life, but leads through Christmas Day.THE BELLTHE Temple Bell was out of tune,That once out-melodied sun and moon.Instead of calling folk to prayerIt spread an evil in the air.Instead of a song, from north to south,It put a lie in the wind's mouth.The very palms beneath it died,So harsh it jarred, so loud it lied.Then the gods told the blue-robed bonze:"Your Bell is only wrought of bronze.Lower it down, cast it again,Or you shall shake the heavens in vain."Then, as the mighty cauldron hissed,Men brought the wealth that no man missed.Yea, they brought silver, they brought gold,And melted them into the seething mould.The miser brought his greening hoard,And the king cast in his sword.Yet, when the Bell in the Temple swung,It jarred the stars with its harsh tongue."Is this your best?" the oracle said,"Then were you better drunk or dead."Once again they melted it down,And the king cast in his crown.Then they poured wine, and bullock's blood,Into the hot, grey, seething flood.They gave it mellowing fruits to eat,And honey-combs to make it sweet.Yet, when they hauled it to the sky,The Bell was one star-shattering lie.So, for the third time and the last,They lowered it down to be re-cast.The white-hot metal seethed anew,And the crowd shrank as the heat grew;But a white-robed woman, queenly and tall,Pressed to the brink before them all,One breast, like a golden fruit lay bare;She held her small son feeding there.She plucked him off, she lifted him high,Like rose-red fruit on the blue sky.She pressed her lips to the budded feet,And murmured softly, "Oh, sweet, my sweet."She whispered, "Gods, that my land may live,I give the best that I have to give!"Then, then, before the throng awoke,Before one cry from their white lips broke,She tossed him into the fiery flood,Her child, her baby, her flesh and blood.And the crisp hissing waves closed roundAnd melted him through without a sound."Too quick for pain," they heard her say,And she sobbed, once, and she turned away.

NOT with a flash that rends the blueShall fall the avenging sword.Gently as the evening dewDescends the mighty Lord.His dreadful balances are madeTo move with moon and tide;Yet shall not mercy be afraidNor justice be denied.The dreams that seemed to waste away,The kindliness forgot,Were singing in your heart todayAlthough you knew them not.The sun shall not forget his road,Nor the high stars their rhyme,The traveller with the heavier loadHas one less hill to climb.And, though a darker shadow fallOn every struggling age,How shall it be if, after all,He share our pilgrimage?The end we mourn is not the end.The dust has nimble wings.But truth and beauty have a friendAt the deep heart of things.He will not speak? What friend beliesHis love with idle breath?We read it in each others' eyes,And ask no more in death.

NOT with a flash that rends the blue

Shall fall the avenging sword.

Gently as the evening dew

Descends the mighty Lord.

His dreadful balances are made

To move with moon and tide;

Yet shall not mercy be afraid

Nor justice be denied.

The dreams that seemed to waste away,

The kindliness forgot,

Were singing in your heart today

Although you knew them not.

The sun shall not forget his road,

Nor the high stars their rhyme,

The traveller with the heavier load

Has one less hill to climb.

And, though a darker shadow fall

On every struggling age,

How shall it be if, after all,

He share our pilgrimage?

The end we mourn is not the end.

The dust has nimble wings.

But truth and beauty have a friend

At the deep heart of things.

He will not speak? What friend belies

His love with idle breath?

We read it in each others' eyes,

And ask no more in death.

THERE came a crowder to the Mermaid Inn,One dark May night,Fiddling a tune that quelled our motley din,With quaint delight,It haunts me yet, as old lost airs will do,A phantom strain:Look for me once, lest I should look for you,And look in vain.In that old wood, where ghosts of lovers walk,At fall of day,Gleaning such fragments of their ancient talkAs poor ghosts may,From leaves that brushed their faces, wet with dew,Or tears, or rain,...Look for me once, lest I should look for you,And look in vain.Have we not seen them—pale forgotten shadesThat do return,Groping for those dim paths, those fragrant glades,Those nooks of fern,Only to find that, of the may they knew,No wraiths remain;Yet they still look, as I should look for you,And look in vain.They see those happier ghosts that waned away—Whither, who knows?—Ghosts that come back with music and the may,And Spring's first rose,Lover and lass, to sing the old burden through,Stave and refrain:Look for me once, lest I should look for you,And look in vain.So, after death, if in that starless deep,I lose your eyes,I'll haunt familiar places. I'll not keepTryst in the skies.I'll haunt the whispering elms that found us true,The old grass-grown lane.Look for me there, lest I should look for you,And look in vain.There, as of old, under the dreaming moon,A phantom throngFloats through the fern, to a ghostly morrice tune,A thin sweet song,Hands link with hands, eyes drown in eyes anew,Lips meet again....Look for me, once, lest I should look for you,And look in vain.

THERE came a crowder to the Mermaid Inn,

One dark May night,

Fiddling a tune that quelled our motley din,

With quaint delight,

It haunts me yet, as old lost airs will do,

A phantom strain:

Look for me once, lest I should look for you,

And look in vain.

In that old wood, where ghosts of lovers walk,

At fall of day,

Gleaning such fragments of their ancient talk

As poor ghosts may,

From leaves that brushed their faces, wet with dew,

Or tears, or rain,...

Look for me once, lest I should look for you,

And look in vain.

Have we not seen them—pale forgotten shades

That do return,

Groping for those dim paths, those fragrant glades,

Those nooks of fern,

Only to find that, of the may they knew,

No wraiths remain;

Yet they still look, as I should look for you,

And look in vain.

They see those happier ghosts that waned away—

Whither, who knows?—

Ghosts that come back with music and the may,

And Spring's first rose,

Lover and lass, to sing the old burden through,

Stave and refrain:

Look for me once, lest I should look for you,

And look in vain.

So, after death, if in that starless deep,

I lose your eyes,

I'll haunt familiar places. I'll not keep

Tryst in the skies.

I'll haunt the whispering elms that found us true,

The old grass-grown lane.

Look for me there, lest I should look for you,

And look in vain.

There, as of old, under the dreaming moon,

A phantom throng

Floats through the fern, to a ghostly morrice tune,

A thin sweet song,

Hands link with hands, eyes drown in eyes anew,

Lips meet again....

Look for me, once, lest I should look for you,

And look in vain.

"IF I could whisper you all I know,"Said the Old Fool in the Wood,"You'd never say that green leaves grow.You'd say, 'Ah, what a happy moodThe Master must be in today,To think such thoughts,'That's what you'd say.""If I could whisper you all I've heard,"Said the Old Fool in the fern,"You'd never say the song of a bird.You'd say, 'I'll listen, and p'raps I'll learnOne word of His joy as He passed this way,One syllable more,'That's what you'd say.""If I could tell you all the rest,"Said the Old Fool under the skies,"You'd hug your griefs against your breastAnd whisper with love-lit eyes,'I am one with the sorrow that made the may,And the pulse of His heart,'That's what you'd say."

"IF I could whisper you all I know,"

Said the Old Fool in the Wood,

"You'd never say that green leaves grow.

You'd say, 'Ah, what a happy mood

The Master must be in today,

To think such thoughts,'

That's what you'd say."

"If I could whisper you all I've heard,"

Said the Old Fool in the fern,

"You'd never say the song of a bird.

You'd say, 'I'll listen, and p'raps I'll learn

One word of His joy as He passed this way,

One syllable more,'

That's what you'd say."

"If I could tell you all the rest,"

Said the Old Fool under the skies,

"You'd hug your griefs against your breast

And whisper with love-lit eyes,

'I am one with the sorrow that made the may,

And the pulse of His heart,'

That's what you'd say."

AS along a dark pine-bough, in slender white mysteryThe moon lay to listen, above the thick fern,In a deep dreaming wood that is older than historyI heard a lad sing, and I stilled me to learn;So rarely he lilted his long-forgot litany,—Fall, April; fall, April, in dew on our dearth!Bring balm, and bring poppy, bring deep sleepy dittanyFor Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.Then I drew back the branches. I saw him that chanted it.I saw his fool's bauble. I knew his old grief.I knew that old greenwood and the shadow that haunted it,—My fool, my lost jester, myShadow-of-a-Leaf!And "why," I said, "why, all this while, have you left me soLuckless in melody, lonely in mirth?""Oh, why," he sang, "why has this world then bereft me soSoon of my Marian, so long laid in earth?"In the years that are gone," he said, "love was more fortunate.Grief was our minstrel of things that endure.Now, ashes and dust and this world grow importunate.Time has no sorrow that time cannot cure.Once, we could lose, and the loss was worth cherishing.Now, we may win, but, O, where is the worth?Memory and true love," he whispered, "are perishing,With Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.""Ah, no!" I said, "no! Since we grieve for our grief again,Touch the old strings! Let us try the old stave!And memory may wake, like myShadow-of-a-Leafagain,Singing of hope, in the dark, by a grave."So we sang it together—that long-forgot litany:—Fall, April; fall, April; bring new grief to birth.Bring wild herb of grace, and bring deep healing dittany,For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.

AS along a dark pine-bough, in slender white mystery

The moon lay to listen, above the thick fern,

In a deep dreaming wood that is older than history

I heard a lad sing, and I stilled me to learn;

So rarely he lilted his long-forgot litany,—

Fall, April; fall, April, in dew on our dearth!

Bring balm, and bring poppy, bring deep sleepy dittany

For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.

Then I drew back the branches. I saw him that chanted it.

I saw his fool's bauble. I knew his old grief.

I knew that old greenwood and the shadow that haunted it,—

My fool, my lost jester, myShadow-of-a-Leaf!

And "why," I said, "why, all this while, have you left me so

Luckless in melody, lonely in mirth?"

"Oh, why," he sang, "why has this world then bereft me so

Soon of my Marian, so long laid in earth?

"In the years that are gone," he said, "love was more fortunate.

Grief was our minstrel of things that endure.

Now, ashes and dust and this world grow importunate.

Time has no sorrow that time cannot cure.

Once, we could lose, and the loss was worth cherishing.

Now, we may win, but, O, where is the worth?

Memory and true love," he whispered, "are perishing,

With Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth."

"Ah, no!" I said, "no! Since we grieve for our grief again,

Touch the old strings! Let us try the old stave!

And memory may wake, like myShadow-of-a-Leafagain,

Singing of hope, in the dark, by a grave."

So we sang it together—that long-forgot litany:—

Fall, April; fall, April; bring new grief to birth.

Bring wild herb of grace, and bring deep healing dittany,

For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.

IT is not over yet—the fightWhere those immortal dreamers failed.They stormed the citadels of nightAnd the night praised them—and prevailed.So long ago the cause was lostWe scarce distinguish friend from foe;But—if the dead can help it most—The armies of the dead will grow.The world has all our banners now,And filched our watchwords for its own.The world has crowned the "rebel's" browAnd millions crowd his lordly throne.The masks have altered. Names are names;They praise the "truth" that is not true.The "rebel" that the world acclaimsIs not the rebel Shelley knew.We may not build that Commonweal.We may not reach the goal we set.But there's a flag they dare not steal.Forward! It is not over yet.We shall be dust and under dustBefore we end that ancient wrong;But here's a sword that cannot rust,And where's the death can touch a song?So, when our bodies rot in earthThe singing souls that once were ours,Weaponed with light and helmed with mirth,Shall front the kingdoms and the powers.The ancient lie is on its throne,And half the living still forget;But, since the dead are all our own,Courage, it is not over yet.

IT is not over yet—the fight

Where those immortal dreamers failed.

They stormed the citadels of night

And the night praised them—and prevailed.

So long ago the cause was lost

We scarce distinguish friend from foe;

But—if the dead can help it most—

The armies of the dead will grow.

The world has all our banners now,

And filched our watchwords for its own.

The world has crowned the "rebel's" brow

And millions crowd his lordly throne.

The masks have altered. Names are names;

They praise the "truth" that is not true.

The "rebel" that the world acclaims

Is not the rebel Shelley knew.

We may not build that Commonweal.

We may not reach the goal we set.

But there's a flag they dare not steal.

Forward! It is not over yet.

We shall be dust and under dust

Before we end that ancient wrong;

But here's a sword that cannot rust,

And where's the death can touch a song?

So, when our bodies rot in earth

The singing souls that once were ours,

Weaponed with light and helmed with mirth,

Shall front the kingdoms and the powers.

The ancient lie is on its throne,

And half the living still forget;

But, since the dead are all our own,

Courage, it is not over yet.

AS I was walkingAlone by the sea,"What is that whisper?"Said Merlin to me."Only," I answered,"The sigh of the wave"—"Oh, no," replied Merlin,"'Tis the grass on your grave."As I lay dreamingIn churchyard ground"Listen," said Merlin,"What is that sound?""The green grass is growing,"I answered; but heChuckled, "Oh, no!'Tis the sound of the sea."As I went homewardAt dusk by the shore,"What is that crimson?"Said Merlin once more."Only the sun," I said."Sinking to rest"—"Sunset for East," he said,"Sunrise for West."

AS I was walking

Alone by the sea,

"What is that whisper?"

Said Merlin to me.

"Only," I answered,

"The sigh of the wave"—

"Oh, no," replied Merlin,

"'Tis the grass on your grave."

As I lay dreaming

In churchyard ground

"Listen," said Merlin,

"What is that sound?"

"The green grass is growing,"

I answered; but he

Chuckled, "Oh, no!

'Tis the sound of the sea."

As I went homeward

At dusk by the shore,

"What is that crimson?"

Said Merlin once more.

"Only the sun," I said.

"Sinking to rest"—

"Sunset for East," he said,

"Sunrise for West."

WONDER in happy eyesFades, fades away:And the angel-coloured skiesWhisper farewell.Loveliness over the strings of the heart may strayIn fugitive melodies;But Oh, the hand of the Master must not stay,Even for a breath;For to prolong one joy, or even to dwellOn one rich chord of pain,Beyond the pulse of the song, would untune heavenAnd drown the stars in death.So youth with its love-note dies;And beauty fades in the air,To make the master-symphony immortal,And find new life and deeper wonder there.

WONDER in happy eyes

Fades, fades away:

And the angel-coloured skies

Whisper farewell.

Loveliness over the strings of the heart may stray

In fugitive melodies;

But Oh, the hand of the Master must not stay,

Even for a breath;

For to prolong one joy, or even to dwell

On one rich chord of pain,

Beyond the pulse of the song, would untune heaven

And drown the stars in death.

So youth with its love-note dies;

And beauty fades in the air,

To make the master-symphony immortal,

And find new life and deeper wonder there.

GIVE me the pulse of the tide againAnd the slow lapse of the leaves,The rustling gold of a field of grainAnd a bird in the nested eaves;And a fishing-smack in the old harbourWhere all was happy and young;And an echo or two of the songs I knewWhen songs could still be sung.For I would empty my heart of allThis world's implacable roar,And I would turn to my home, and fallAsleep in my home once more;And I would forget what the cities say,And the folly of all the wise,And turn to my own true folk this day,And the love in their constant eyes.There is peace, peace, where the sea-birds wheel,And peace in the breaking wave;And I have a broken heart to heal,And a broken soul to save.

GIVE me the pulse of the tide again

And the slow lapse of the leaves,

The rustling gold of a field of grain

And a bird in the nested eaves;

And a fishing-smack in the old harbour

Where all was happy and young;

And an echo or two of the songs I knew

When songs could still be sung.

For I would empty my heart of all

This world's implacable roar,

And I would turn to my home, and fall

Asleep in my home once more;

And I would forget what the cities say,

And the folly of all the wise,

And turn to my own true folk this day,

And the love in their constant eyes.

There is peace, peace, where the sea-birds wheel,

And peace in the breaking wave;

And I have a broken heart to heal,

And a broken soul to save.

OMYSTERY of life,That, after all our strife,Defeats, mistakes,Just as, at last, we seeThe road to victory,The tired heart breaks.Just as the long years giveKnowledge of how to live,Life's end draws near;As if, that gift being ours,God needed our new powersIn worlds elsewhere.There, if the soul whose wingsWere won in suffering, springsTo life anew,Justice would have some roomFor hope beyond the tomb,And mercy, too.And since, without this dreamNo light, no faintest gleamAnswers our "why";But earth and all its raceMust pass and leave no traceOn that blind sky;Shall reason close that doorOn all we struggled for,Seal the soul's doom;Make of this universeOne wild answering curse,One lampless tomb?Mine be the dream, the creedThat leaves for God, indeed,For God, and man,One open door wherebyTo prove His world no lieAnd crown His plan.

OMYSTERY of life,

That, after all our strife,

Defeats, mistakes,

Just as, at last, we see

The road to victory,

The tired heart breaks.

Just as the long years give

Knowledge of how to live,

Life's end draws near;

As if, that gift being ours,

God needed our new powers

In worlds elsewhere.

There, if the soul whose wings

Were won in suffering, springs

To life anew,

Justice would have some room

For hope beyond the tomb,

And mercy, too.

And since, without this dream

No light, no faintest gleam

Answers our "why";

But earth and all its race

Must pass and leave no trace

On that blind sky;

Shall reason close that door

On all we struggled for,

Seal the soul's doom;

Make of this universe

One wild answering curse,

One lampless tomb?

Mine be the dream, the creed

That leaves for God, indeed,

For God, and man,

One open door whereby

To prove His world no lie

And crown His plan.

NOW, in a breath, we'll burst those gates of gold,And ransack heaven before our moment fails.Now, in a breath, before we, too, grow old,We'll mount and sing and spread immortal sails.It is not time that makes eternity.Love and an hour may quite out-run the years,And give us more to hear and more to seeThan life can wash away with all its tears.Dear, when we part, at last, that sunset skyShall not be touched with deeper hues than this;But we shall ride the lightning ere we dieAnd seize our brief infinitude of bliss,With time to spare for all that heaven can tell,While eyes meet eyes, and look their last farewell.

NOW, in a breath, we'll burst those gates of gold,

And ransack heaven before our moment fails.

Now, in a breath, before we, too, grow old,

We'll mount and sing and spread immortal sails.

It is not time that makes eternity.

Love and an hour may quite out-run the years,

And give us more to hear and more to see

Than life can wash away with all its tears.

Dear, when we part, at last, that sunset sky

Shall not be touched with deeper hues than this;

But we shall ride the lightning ere we die

And seize our brief infinitude of bliss,

With time to spare for all that heaven can tell,

While eyes meet eyes, and look their last farewell.

IF souls could sing to heaven's high KingAs blackbirds pipe on earth,How those delicious courts would ringWith gusts of lovely mirth!What white-robed throng could lift a songSo mellow with righteous gleeAs this brown bird that all day longDelights my hawthorn tree.Hark! That's the thrushWith speckled breastFrom yon white bushChaunting his best,Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!

IF souls could sing to heaven's high King

As blackbirds pipe on earth,

How those delicious courts would ring

With gusts of lovely mirth!

What white-robed throng could lift a song

So mellow with righteous glee

As this brown bird that all day long

Delights my hawthorn tree.

Hark! That's the thrush

With speckled breast

From yon white bush

Chaunting his best,

Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!

If earthly dreams be touched with gleamsOf Paradisal air,Some wings, perchance, of earth may glanceAround our slumbers there;Some breaths of may might drift our wayWith scents of leaf and loam,Some whistling bird at dawn be heardFrom those old woods of home.Hark! That's the thrushWith speckled breastFrom yon white bushChaunting his best,Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!

If earthly dreams be touched with gleams

Of Paradisal air,

Some wings, perchance, of earth may glance

Around our slumbers there;

Some breaths of may might drift our way

With scents of leaf and loam,

Some whistling bird at dawn be heard

From those old woods of home.

Hark! That's the thrush

With speckled breast

From yon white bush

Chaunting his best,

Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!

No King or priest shall mar my feastWhere'er my soul may range.I have no fear of heaven's good cheerUnless our Master change.But when death's night is dying away,If I might choose my bliss,My love should say, at break of day,With her first waking kiss:-Hark! That's the thrushWith speckled breast,From yon white bushChaunting his best,Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!

No King or priest shall mar my feast

Where'er my soul may range.

I have no fear of heaven's good cheer

Unless our Master change.

But when death's night is dying away,

If I might choose my bliss,

My love should say, at break of day,

With her first waking kiss:-

Hark! That's the thrush

With speckled breast,

From yon white bush

Chaunting his best,

Te Deum! Te Deum laudamus!

OLD PANTALOON, lean-witted, dour and rich,After grim years of soul-destroying greed,Weds Columbine, that April-blooded witch"Too young" to know that gold was not her need.Then enters Pierrot, young, rebellious, warm,With well-lined purse, to teach the fine-souled wifeThat the old fool's gold should aid a world-reform(Confused with sex). This wrecks the old fool's life.O, there's no doubt that Pierrot was clever,Quick to break hearts and quench the dying flame;But why, for his own pride, does Pierrot neverChoose his own mate, work for his own high aim,Stand on his feet, and pay for his own tune?Why scold, cheat, rob and kill poor Pantaloon?

OLD PANTALOON, lean-witted, dour and rich,

After grim years of soul-destroying greed,

Weds Columbine, that April-blooded witch

"Too young" to know that gold was not her need.

Then enters Pierrot, young, rebellious, warm,

With well-lined purse, to teach the fine-souled wife

That the old fool's gold should aid a world-reform

(Confused with sex). This wrecks the old fool's life.

O, there's no doubt that Pierrot was clever,

Quick to break hearts and quench the dying flame;

But why, for his own pride, does Pierrot never

Choose his own mate, work for his own high aim,

Stand on his feet, and pay for his own tune?

Why scold, cheat, rob and kill poor Pantaloon?

ISAW the assembled artists of our dayWaiting for light, for music and for song.A woman stood before them, fresh as MayAnd beautiful; but, in that modish throng,None heeded her. They said, "In our first youthSurely, long since, your hair was touched with grey.""I do not change," she answered. "I am Truth.""Old and banal," they sneered, and turned away.Then came a formless thing, with breasts dyed scarlet.The roses in her hair were green and blue."I am new," she said. "I change, andDeath knows why."Then with the eyes and gesture of a harlotShe led them all forth, whinneying, "New, how new!Tell us your name!" She answered, "The New Lie."

ISAW the assembled artists of our day

Waiting for light, for music and for song.

A woman stood before them, fresh as May

And beautiful; but, in that modish throng,

None heeded her. They said, "In our first youth

Surely, long since, your hair was touched with grey."

"I do not change," she answered. "I am Truth."

"Old and banal," they sneered, and turned away.

Then came a formless thing, with breasts dyed scarlet.

The roses in her hair were green and blue.

"I am new," she said. "I change, and

Death knows why."

Then with the eyes and gesture of a harlot

She led them all forth, whinneying, "New, how new!

Tell us your name!" She answered, "The New Lie."

WITH half the force and thought you waste in rageOver your neighbor's house, or heart of stone,You might have built your own new heritage,O fools, have you no hands, then, of your own?Where is your pride? Is this your answer still,This the red flag that burns above our strife,This the new cry that rings from Pisgah hill,"Our neighbor's money, or our neighbor's life"?Be prouder. Let us build that nobler stateWith our own hands, with our own muscle and brain!Your very victories die in hymns of hate;And your own envies are your heaviest chain.Is there no rebel proud enough to say"We'll stand on our own feet, and win the day"?

WITH half the force and thought you waste in rage

Over your neighbor's house, or heart of stone,

You might have built your own new heritage,

O fools, have you no hands, then, of your own?

Where is your pride? Is this your answer still,

This the red flag that burns above our strife,

This the new cry that rings from Pisgah hill,

"Our neighbor's money, or our neighbor's life"?

Be prouder. Let us build that nobler state

With our own hands, with our own muscle and brain!

Your very victories die in hymns of hate;

And your own envies are your heaviest chain.

Is there no rebel proud enough to say

"We'll stand on our own feet, and win the day"?

YOU with the quick sardonic eyeFor all the mockeries of life,Beware, in this dark masque of things that seem,Lest even that tragic irony,Which you discern in this our mortal strife,Trick you and trap you, also, with a dream.Last night I saw a dead man borne alongThe city streets, passing a boisterous throngThat never ceased to laugh and shout and dance:And yet, and yet,For all the poison bitter minds might brewFrom themes like this, I knewThat the stern Truth would not permit her glanceThus to be foiled by flying straws of chance,For her keen eyes on deeper skies are set,And laws that tragic ironists forget.She saw the dead man's life, from birth to death,—All that he knew of love and sin and pain,Success and failure (not as this world sees),His doubts, his passions, inner loss and gain,And borne on darker tides of constant lawBeyond the margin of this life she sawAll that had left his body with the breath.These things, to her, were still realities.If any mourned for him unseen,She saw them, too.If none, she'd not pretendHis clay were colder, or his God less true,Or that his grave, at length, would be less green.She'd not denyThe boundless depths of her eternal skyBrooding above a boundless universe,Because he seemed to man's unseeing eyeGoing a little further to fare worse;Nor would she assume he lacked that unseen friendWhom even the tragic ironists declareWere better than the seen, in his last end.Oh, then, beware, beware,Lest in the strong name of "reality"You mock yourselves anew with shapes of air,Lest it be you, agnostics, who re-writeThe fettering creeds of night,Affirm you know your own Unknowable,And lock the wingéd soul in a new hell;Lest it be you, lip-worshippers of Truth,Who break the heart of youth;Lest it be you, the realists, who fightWith shadows, and forget your own pure light;Lest it be you who, with a little shroudSnatched from the sightless faces of the dead,Hoodwink the world, and keep the mourner bowedIn dust, real dust, with stones, real stones, for bread;Lest, as you look one eighth of an inch beneathThe yellow skin of death,You dream yourselves discoverers of the skullThat oldmemento moriof our faith;Lest it be you who hunt a flying wraithThrough this dissolving stuff of hill and cloud;Lest it be you, who, at the last, annulYour covenant with your kind;Lest it be you who darken heart and mind,Sell the strong soul in bondage to a dream,And fetter us once more to things that seem.

YOU with the quick sardonic eye

For all the mockeries of life,

Beware, in this dark masque of things that seem,

Lest even that tragic irony,

Which you discern in this our mortal strife,

Trick you and trap you, also, with a dream.

Last night I saw a dead man borne along

The city streets, passing a boisterous throng

That never ceased to laugh and shout and dance:

And yet, and yet,

For all the poison bitter minds might brew

From themes like this, I knew

That the stern Truth would not permit her glance

Thus to be foiled by flying straws of chance,

For her keen eyes on deeper skies are set,

And laws that tragic ironists forget.

She saw the dead man's life, from birth to death,—

All that he knew of love and sin and pain,

Success and failure (not as this world sees),

His doubts, his passions, inner loss and gain,

And borne on darker tides of constant law

Beyond the margin of this life she saw

All that had left his body with the breath.

These things, to her, were still realities.

If any mourned for him unseen,

She saw them, too.

If none, she'd not pretend

His clay were colder, or his God less true,

Or that his grave, at length, would be less green.

She'd not deny

The boundless depths of her eternal sky

Brooding above a boundless universe,

Because he seemed to man's unseeing eye

Going a little further to fare worse;

Nor would she assume he lacked that unseen friend

Whom even the tragic ironists declare

Were better than the seen, in his last end.

Oh, then, beware, beware,

Lest in the strong name of "reality"

You mock yourselves anew with shapes of air,

Lest it be you, agnostics, who re-write

The fettering creeds of night,

Affirm you know your own Unknowable,

And lock the wingéd soul in a new hell;

Lest it be you, lip-worshippers of Truth,

Who break the heart of youth;

Lest it be you, the realists, who fight

With shadows, and forget your own pure light;

Lest it be you who, with a little shroud

Snatched from the sightless faces of the dead,

Hoodwink the world, and keep the mourner bowed

In dust, real dust, with stones, real stones, for bread;

Lest, as you look one eighth of an inch beneath

The yellow skin of death,

You dream yourselves discoverers of the skull

That oldmemento moriof our faith;

Lest it be you who hunt a flying wraith

Through this dissolving stuff of hill and cloud;

Lest it be you, who, at the last, annul

Your covenant with your kind;

Lest it be you who darken heart and mind,

Sell the strong soul in bondage to a dream,

And fetter us once more to things that seem.

[After reading an article in a leading London journal by an "intellectual" who attacked one of the noblest poets and greatest artists of a former century (or any century) on the ground that his high ethical standards were incompatible with the new lawlessness. This vicious lawlessness the writer described definitely, and he paid his tribute to dishonour as openly and brutally as any of the Bolsheviki could have done. I had always known that this was the real ground of the latter-day onslaught on some of the noblest literature of the past; but I had never seen it openly confessed before. The time has now surely come when, if our civilization is to make any fight at all against the new "red ruin and breaking up of laws," we must cease to belaud our slack-minded, latter-day "literature of rebellion" for its cleverness in making scraps of paper out of the plain laws of right and wrong. It has been doing this for more than twenty-five years, and the same has become fashionable among those who are too busy to read carefully or understand fully what pitfalls are being prepared for their own feet and the feet of their children.]

IF this were true, England indeed were dead.If the wild fashion of that poisonous hourWherein the new Salome, clothed with power,Wriggled and hissed, with hands and feet so red,Should even now demand that glorious head,Whose every word was like an English flower,Whose every song an English April shower,Whose every thought immortal wine and bread;If this were true, if England should preferDarkness, corruption, and the adulterous crew,Shakespeare and Browning would cry shame on her,And Milton would deny the land he knew;And those who died in Flanders yesterdayWould thank their God they sleep in cleaner clay.

IF this were true, England indeed were dead.

If the wild fashion of that poisonous hour

Wherein the new Salome, clothed with power,

Wriggled and hissed, with hands and feet so red,

Should even now demand that glorious head,

Whose every word was like an English flower,

Whose every song an English April shower,

Whose every thought immortal wine and bread;

If this were true, if England should prefer

Darkness, corruption, and the adulterous crew,

Shakespeare and Browning would cry shame on her,

And Milton would deny the land he knew;

And those who died in Flanders yesterday

Would thank their God they sleep in cleaner clay.

It is not true. Only these "rebel" wings,These glittering clouds of "intellectual" fliesOut of the stagnant pools of midnight riseFrom the old dead creeds, with carrion-poisoned stingsThey strike at noble and ignoble things,Immortal Love with the old world's out-worn lies,But even now, a wind from clearer skiesDissolves in smoke their coteries and wings.See, their divorced idealist re-divorcesThe wife he stole from his own stealing friend!Andthesewould pluck the high stars from their courses,And mock the fools that praise them, till the end!Well, let the whole world praise them. Truth can waitTill our new England shall unlock the gate.

It is not true. Only these "rebel" wings,

These glittering clouds of "intellectual" flies

Out of the stagnant pools of midnight rise

From the old dead creeds, with carrion-poisoned stings

They strike at noble and ignoble things,

Immortal Love with the old world's out-worn lies,

But even now, a wind from clearer skies

Dissolves in smoke their coteries and wings.

See, their divorced idealist re-divorces

The wife he stole from his own stealing friend!

Andthesewould pluck the high stars from their courses,

And mock the fools that praise them, till the end!

Well, let the whole world praise them. Truth can wait

Till our new England shall unlock the gate.

Yes. Let the fools go paint themselves with woad,For we've a jest between us, Truth and I.We know that those who live by fashion dieAlso by fashion, and that mode kills mode.We know the great new age is on the road,And death is at the heart of every lie.But we've a jest between us, Truth and I.And we have locked the doors to our abode.Yet if some great new "rebel" in his prideShould pass that way and hear us laughing lowLike lovers, in the darkness, side by side,He might catch this:—"The dullards do not knowThat names are names. New 'rebel' is old 'thrall.'"And we're the lonely dreamers after all.

Yes. Let the fools go paint themselves with woad,

For we've a jest between us, Truth and I.

We know that those who live by fashion die

Also by fashion, and that mode kills mode.

We know the great new age is on the road,

And death is at the heart of every lie.

But we've a jest between us, Truth and I.

And we have locked the doors to our abode.

Yet if some great new "rebel" in his pride

Should pass that way and hear us laughing low

Like lovers, in the darkness, side by side,

He might catch this:—"The dullards do not know

That names are names. New 'rebel' is old 'thrall.'"

And we're the lonely dreamers after all.

HOW few are they that voyage through the nightOn that eternal quest,For that strange light beyond our light,That rest beyond our rest.And they who, seeking beauty, once descryHer face, to most unknown;Thenceforth like changelings from the skyMust walk their road alone.So once I dreamed. So idle was my mood;But now, before these eyes,From those foul trenches, black with blood,What radiant legions rise!And loveliness over the wounded earth awakesLike wild-flowers in the Spring.Out of the mortal chrysalis breaksImmortal wing on wing.They rise like flowers, they wander on wings of light,Through realms beyond our ken.The loneliest soul is companied tonightBy hosts of unknown men.

HOW few are they that voyage through the night

On that eternal quest,

For that strange light beyond our light,

That rest beyond our rest.

And they who, seeking beauty, once descry

Her face, to most unknown;

Thenceforth like changelings from the sky

Must walk their road alone.

So once I dreamed. So idle was my mood;

But now, before these eyes,

From those foul trenches, black with blood,

What radiant legions rise!

And loveliness over the wounded earth awakes

Like wild-flowers in the Spring.

Out of the mortal chrysalis breaks

Immortal wing on wing.

They rise like flowers, they wander on wings of light,

Through realms beyond our ken.

The loneliest soul is companied tonight

By hosts of unknown men.

THE great roads are all grown overThat seemed so firm and white.The deep black forests have covered them.How should I walk aright?How should I thread these tangled mazes,Or grope to that far off light?I stumble round the thickets, and they turn meBack to the thickets and the night.Yet, sometimes, at a word, an elfin pass-word,(O, thin, deep, sweet with beaded rain!)There shines, through a mist of ragged-robins,The old lost April-coloured lane,That leads me from myself; for, at a whisper,Where the strong limbs thrust in vain,At a breath, if my heart help another heart,The path shines out for me again.A thin thread, a rambling lane for loversTo the light of the world's one May,Where the white dropping flakes may wet our facesAs we lift them to the bloom-bowed spray:O Master, shall we ask Thee, then, for high-roads,Or down upon our knees and prayThat Thou wilt ever lose us in Thy little lanes,And lead us by a wandering way.

THE great roads are all grown over

That seemed so firm and white.

The deep black forests have covered them.

How should I walk aright?

How should I thread these tangled mazes,

Or grope to that far off light?

I stumble round the thickets, and they turn me

Back to the thickets and the night.

Yet, sometimes, at a word, an elfin pass-word,

(O, thin, deep, sweet with beaded rain!)

There shines, through a mist of ragged-robins,

The old lost April-coloured lane,

That leads me from myself; for, at a whisper,

Where the strong limbs thrust in vain,

At a breath, if my heart help another heart,

The path shines out for me again.

A thin thread, a rambling lane for lovers

To the light of the world's one May,

Where the white dropping flakes may wet our faces

As we lift them to the bloom-bowed spray:

O Master, shall we ask Thee, then, for high-roads,

Or down upon our knees and pray

That Thou wilt ever lose us in Thy little lanes,

And lead us by a wandering way.

GIVE me the sunlight and the seaAnd who shall take my heaven from me?Light of the Sun, Life of the Sun,O happy, bold companion,Whose golden laughters round me run,Making wine of the blue airWith wild-rose kisses everywhere,Browning the limb, flushing the cheek,Apple-fragrant, leopard-sleek,Dancing from thy red-curtained EastLike a Nautch-girl to my feast,Proud because her lord, the Spring,Praised the way those anklets ring;Or wandering like a white Greek maidLeaf-dappled through the dancing shade,Where many a green-veined leaf imprintsBreast and limb with emerald tints,That softly net her silken shapeBut let the splendour still escape,While rosy ghosts of roses flowOver the supple rose and snow.But sweetest, fairest is thy face,When we meet, when we embrace,Where the white sand sleeps at noonRound that lonely blue lagoon,Fringed with one white reef of coralWhere the sea-birds faintly quarrelAnd the breakers on the reefFade into a dream of grief,And the palm-trees overheadWhisper that all grief is dead.Sister Sunlight, lead me thenInto thy healing seas again....For when we swim out, side by side,Like a lover with his bride,When thy lips are salt with brine,And thy wild eyes flash in mine,The music of a mightier seaBeats with my blood in harmony.I breast the primal flood of being,Too clear for speech, too near for seeing;And to his heart, new reconciled,The Eternal takes his earth-bound child.Who the essential secret spellsIn those gigantic syllables,—Flowing, ebbing, ebbing, flowing,—Gathers wisdom past all knowing.Song of the Sea, I hear, I hear,That deeper music of the sphere,Catch the rhythm of sun and star,And know what light and darkness are;Ay, faint beginnings of a rhymeThat swells beyond the tides of time;Beat with thy rhythm in blood and breath,And make one song of life and death.I hear, I hear, and rest content,Merged in the primal element,The old element whence life arose,The fount of youth, to which it goes.Give me the sunlight and the seaAnd who shall take my heaven from me?

GIVE me the sunlight and the sea

And who shall take my heaven from me?

Light of the Sun, Life of the Sun,

O happy, bold companion,

Whose golden laughters round me run,

Making wine of the blue air

With wild-rose kisses everywhere,

Browning the limb, flushing the cheek,

Apple-fragrant, leopard-sleek,

Dancing from thy red-curtained East

Like a Nautch-girl to my feast,

Proud because her lord, the Spring,

Praised the way those anklets ring;

Or wandering like a white Greek maid

Leaf-dappled through the dancing shade,

Where many a green-veined leaf imprints

Breast and limb with emerald tints,

That softly net her silken shape

But let the splendour still escape,

While rosy ghosts of roses flow

Over the supple rose and snow.

But sweetest, fairest is thy face,

When we meet, when we embrace,

Where the white sand sleeps at noon

Round that lonely blue lagoon,

Fringed with one white reef of coral

Where the sea-birds faintly quarrel

And the breakers on the reef

Fade into a dream of grief,

And the palm-trees overhead

Whisper that all grief is dead.

Sister Sunlight, lead me then

Into thy healing seas again....

For when we swim out, side by side,

Like a lover with his bride,

When thy lips are salt with brine,

And thy wild eyes flash in mine,

The music of a mightier sea

Beats with my blood in harmony.

I breast the primal flood of being,

Too clear for speech, too near for seeing;

And to his heart, new reconciled,

The Eternal takes his earth-bound child.

Who the essential secret spells

In those gigantic syllables,—

Flowing, ebbing, ebbing, flowing,—

Gathers wisdom past all knowing.

Song of the Sea, I hear, I hear,

That deeper music of the sphere,

Catch the rhythm of sun and star,

And know what light and darkness are;

Ay, faint beginnings of a rhyme

That swells beyond the tides of time;

Beat with thy rhythm in blood and breath,

And make one song of life and death.

I hear, I hear, and rest content,

Merged in the primal element,

The old element whence life arose,

The fount of youth, to which it goes.

Give me the sunlight and the sea

And who shall take my heaven from me?

There is one road, one only, to the Light:A narrow way, but Freedom walks therein;A straight, firm road through Chaos and old Night,And all these wandering Jack-o-Lents of Sin.It is the road of Law, where Pilate staysTo hear, at last, the answer to his cry;And mighty sages, groping through their mazeOf eager questions, hear a child reply.Truth? What is Truth?Come, look upon my tables.Begin at your beginnings once again.Twice one is two!Though all the rest be fables,Here's one poor glimpse of Truth to keep you sane.For Truth, at first, is clean accord with fact,Whether in line or thought, or word, or act.

There is one road, one only, to the Light:

A narrow way, but Freedom walks therein;

A straight, firm road through Chaos and old Night,

And all these wandering Jack-o-Lents of Sin.

It is the road of Law, where Pilate stays

To hear, at last, the answer to his cry;

And mighty sages, groping through their maze

Of eager questions, hear a child reply.

Truth? What is Truth?Come, look upon my tables.

Begin at your beginnings once again.

Twice one is two!Though all the rest be fables,

Here's one poor glimpse of Truth to keep you sane.

For Truth, at first, is clean accord with fact,

Whether in line or thought, or word, or act.

Then, by those first, those clean, precise, accords,Build to the Lord your temples and your song;The curves of beauty, music's wedded chordsResolving into heaven all hate and wrong.Let harmonies of colour marry and followAnd breaking waves in a rhythmic dance ensue;And all your thought fly free as the wings of the swallow,Whose arrowy curves obey their measure, too.Then shall the marching stars and tides befriend you,And your own heart, and the world's heart, pulse in rhyme;Then shall the mob of the passions that would rend youCrown you their Captain and march on in time.So shall you repossess your struggling soul,Conquer your world, and find the eternal goal.

Then, by those first, those clean, precise, accords,

Build to the Lord your temples and your song;

The curves of beauty, music's wedded chords

Resolving into heaven all hate and wrong.

Let harmonies of colour marry and follow

And breaking waves in a rhythmic dance ensue;

And all your thought fly free as the wings of the swallow,

Whose arrowy curves obey their measure, too.

Then shall the marching stars and tides befriend you,

And your own heart, and the world's heart, pulse in rhyme;

Then shall the mob of the passions that would rend you

Crown you their Captain and march on in time.

So shall you repossess your struggling soul,

Conquer your world, and find the eternal goal.

THEIR Day was at twelve of the night,When the graves give up their dead.And still, from the City, no lightYellows the clouds overhead.Where the Admiral stands there's a star,But his column is lost in the gloom;For the brazen doors are ajar,And the Lion awakes, and the doom.He is not of a chosen race.His strength is the strength of the skies,In whose glory all nations have place,In whose downfall Liberty dies.He is mighty, but he is just.He shall live to the end of years.He shall bring the proud to the dust.He shall raise the weak to the spheres.It is night on the world's great mart,But the brooding hush is awakeWith the march of a steady heartThat calls like the drum of Drake,Come!And a muttering deepAs the pulse of the distant guns,Or the thunder before the leapThro' the rolling thoroughfare runs.And the wounded men go byLike thoughts in the Lion's brain.And the clouds lift on highLike the slow waves of his maneAnd the narrowing lids concealThe furnaces of his eyes.Their gold is gone out. They revealOnly two search-lights of steelSteadily sweeping the skies.And we hoped he had peace in his lairWhere the bones of old tyrannies lay,And the skulls that his cubs have stripped bare,The old skulls they still toss in their play.But the tyrants are risen again,And the last light dies from their path;For the midnight of his maneLifts to the stars with his wrath.From the East to the West he is crouching.He snuffs at the North-East wind.His breast upon Britain is couching.His haunches quiver on Ind.It is night, black night, where he lies;But a kingdom and a fleetShall burn in his terrible eyesWhen he leaps, and the darkness diesWith the War-gods under his feet.Till the day when a little child,Shall lay but a hand on his mane,And his eyes grow golden and mildAnd he stands in the heavens again;Till the day of the seventh seal,Which the Lion alone shall rend,When the stars from their courses reel,His Freedom shall not end.

THEIR Day was at twelve of the night,

When the graves give up their dead.

And still, from the City, no light

Yellows the clouds overhead.

Where the Admiral stands there's a star,

But his column is lost in the gloom;

For the brazen doors are ajar,

And the Lion awakes, and the doom.

He is not of a chosen race.

His strength is the strength of the skies,

In whose glory all nations have place,

In whose downfall Liberty dies.

He is mighty, but he is just.

He shall live to the end of years.

He shall bring the proud to the dust.

He shall raise the weak to the spheres.

It is night on the world's great mart,

But the brooding hush is awake

With the march of a steady heart

That calls like the drum of Drake,

Come!And a muttering deep

As the pulse of the distant guns,

Or the thunder before the leap

Thro' the rolling thoroughfare runs.

And the wounded men go by

Like thoughts in the Lion's brain.

And the clouds lift on high

Like the slow waves of his mane

And the narrowing lids conceal

The furnaces of his eyes.

Their gold is gone out. They reveal

Only two search-lights of steel

Steadily sweeping the skies.

And we hoped he had peace in his lair

Where the bones of old tyrannies lay,

And the skulls that his cubs have stripped bare,

The old skulls they still toss in their play.

But the tyrants are risen again,

And the last light dies from their path;

For the midnight of his mane

Lifts to the stars with his wrath.

From the East to the West he is crouching.

He snuffs at the North-East wind.

His breast upon Britain is couching.

His haunches quiver on Ind.

It is night, black night, where he lies;

But a kingdom and a fleet

Shall burn in his terrible eyes

When he leaps, and the darkness dies

With the War-gods under his feet.

Till the day when a little child,

Shall lay but a hand on his mane,

And his eyes grow golden and mild

And he stands in the heavens again;

Till the day of the seventh seal,

Which the Lion alone shall rend,

When the stars from their courses reel,

His Freedom shall not end.

BLACK-VEILED, black-gowned, she rides in bus and train,With eyes that fill too listlessly for tears.Her waxen hands clasp and unclasp again.Good News, they cry. She neither sees nor hears.Good News, perhaps, may crown some far-off king.Good News may peal the glory of the state—Good News may cause the courts of heaven to ring.She sees a hand waved at a garden gate.For her dull ears are tuned to other themes;And her dim eyes can never see aright.She glides—a ghost—through all her April dreams,To meet his eyes at dawn, his lips at night.Wraiths of a truth that others never knew;And yet—for her—the only truth that's true.

BLACK-VEILED, black-gowned, she rides in bus and train,

With eyes that fill too listlessly for tears.

Her waxen hands clasp and unclasp again.

Good News, they cry. She neither sees nor hears.

Good News, perhaps, may crown some far-off king.

Good News may peal the glory of the state—

Good News may cause the courts of heaven to ring.

She sees a hand waved at a garden gate.

For her dull ears are tuned to other themes;

And her dim eyes can never see aright.

She glides—a ghost—through all her April dreams,

To meet his eyes at dawn, his lips at night.

Wraiths of a truth that others never knew;

And yet—for her—the only truth that's true.

Good News! Good News!There is no way but this.Out of the night a star begins to rise.I know not where my soul's deep Master is;Nor can I hear those angels in the skies;Nor follow him, as childhood used of old,By radiant seas, in those time-hallowed tales.Only, at times, implacable and cold,From this blind gloom, stand out the iron nails.Yet, at this world's heart stands the Eternal Cross,The ultimate frame of moon and star and sun,Where Love with out-stretched arms, in utter loss,Points East and West and makes the whole world one.Good News! Good News!There is no hope, no way,No truth, no life, but leads through Christmas Day.

Good News! Good News!There is no way but this.

Out of the night a star begins to rise.

I know not where my soul's deep Master is;

Nor can I hear those angels in the skies;

Nor follow him, as childhood used of old,

By radiant seas, in those time-hallowed tales.

Only, at times, implacable and cold,

From this blind gloom, stand out the iron nails.

Yet, at this world's heart stands the Eternal Cross,

The ultimate frame of moon and star and sun,

Where Love with out-stretched arms, in utter loss,

Points East and West and makes the whole world one.

Good News! Good News!There is no hope, no way,

No truth, no life, but leads through Christmas Day.

THE Temple Bell was out of tune,That once out-melodied sun and moon.Instead of calling folk to prayerIt spread an evil in the air.Instead of a song, from north to south,It put a lie in the wind's mouth.The very palms beneath it died,So harsh it jarred, so loud it lied.Then the gods told the blue-robed bonze:"Your Bell is only wrought of bronze.Lower it down, cast it again,Or you shall shake the heavens in vain."Then, as the mighty cauldron hissed,Men brought the wealth that no man missed.Yea, they brought silver, they brought gold,And melted them into the seething mould.The miser brought his greening hoard,And the king cast in his sword.Yet, when the Bell in the Temple swung,It jarred the stars with its harsh tongue."Is this your best?" the oracle said,"Then were you better drunk or dead."Once again they melted it down,And the king cast in his crown.Then they poured wine, and bullock's blood,Into the hot, grey, seething flood.They gave it mellowing fruits to eat,And honey-combs to make it sweet.Yet, when they hauled it to the sky,The Bell was one star-shattering lie.So, for the third time and the last,They lowered it down to be re-cast.The white-hot metal seethed anew,And the crowd shrank as the heat grew;But a white-robed woman, queenly and tall,Pressed to the brink before them all,One breast, like a golden fruit lay bare;She held her small son feeding there.She plucked him off, she lifted him high,Like rose-red fruit on the blue sky.She pressed her lips to the budded feet,And murmured softly, "Oh, sweet, my sweet."She whispered, "Gods, that my land may live,I give the best that I have to give!"Then, then, before the throng awoke,Before one cry from their white lips broke,She tossed him into the fiery flood,Her child, her baby, her flesh and blood.And the crisp hissing waves closed roundAnd melted him through without a sound."Too quick for pain," they heard her say,And she sobbed, once, and she turned away.

THE Temple Bell was out of tune,

That once out-melodied sun and moon.

Instead of calling folk to prayer

It spread an evil in the air.

Instead of a song, from north to south,

It put a lie in the wind's mouth.

The very palms beneath it died,

So harsh it jarred, so loud it lied.

Then the gods told the blue-robed bonze:

"Your Bell is only wrought of bronze.

Lower it down, cast it again,

Or you shall shake the heavens in vain."

Then, as the mighty cauldron hissed,

Men brought the wealth that no man missed.

Yea, they brought silver, they brought gold,

And melted them into the seething mould.

The miser brought his greening hoard,

And the king cast in his sword.

Yet, when the Bell in the Temple swung,

It jarred the stars with its harsh tongue.

"Is this your best?" the oracle said,

"Then were you better drunk or dead."

Once again they melted it down,

And the king cast in his crown.

Then they poured wine, and bullock's blood,

Into the hot, grey, seething flood.

They gave it mellowing fruits to eat,

And honey-combs to make it sweet.

Yet, when they hauled it to the sky,

The Bell was one star-shattering lie.

So, for the third time and the last,

They lowered it down to be re-cast.

The white-hot metal seethed anew,

And the crowd shrank as the heat grew;

But a white-robed woman, queenly and tall,

Pressed to the brink before them all,

One breast, like a golden fruit lay bare;

She held her small son feeding there.

She plucked him off, she lifted him high,

Like rose-red fruit on the blue sky.

She pressed her lips to the budded feet,

And murmured softly, "Oh, sweet, my sweet."

She whispered, "Gods, that my land may live,

I give the best that I have to give!"

Then, then, before the throng awoke,

Before one cry from their white lips broke,

She tossed him into the fiery flood,

Her child, her baby, her flesh and blood.

And the crisp hissing waves closed round

And melted him through without a sound.

"Too quick for pain," they heard her say,

And she sobbed, once, and she turned away.

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