II

How should I touch your years with mine,Yours flushed with dawn, a flightFor all ecstacy of light, of rose, of flame,Mine shadowed even now by night!Yet, child, blown by the dawn-wind of your name,Tossed by the sunlight in your eyes,Sped by the glow upon your lips, you came,Seeking my shadow and my rest.

Tell me what made you run to me?Was it the long, unsheltered way from dawn to dusk,The hot, unclouded, copper day of truth,Was it some legend of men’s tears and strife,Some tale of cowards prospering in the sun,Some sin red-flung across the lilies that men love?Or terror which the old forget, fearsFollowing as you fled, some shameOf fact too awful for your youth to bear?

Back to your sun-path now you runAnd on with wing of bird and flight of sun.Your youth upon its golden wayForgets it ever asked for rest,Forgets my desolated day.To me you left your tears,Your fears a-tremble,And hunger in mine eyes for you.And I? I leave you free.

Words glimmering like candles in the duskYou tell your golden tale of Italy,—Ravello and its starlit, tranquil seaAmong massed trees sleep-hung with jewelled fruit;Antiquity against a shadowed sky,And everywhere old gardens where men lovedSo long ago, and the moon rose on vowsAnd thirsty human lips aching to meet;And the moon set on darkling ivory-petalled rowsOf lilies and on hands dim with loneliness:—Below, Amalfi’s campanile playsIts even-song, full chant and antiphon,A wish, a hope, a call from star to star.O, Compassionate One, night-long with you I harkThe travelling of that music lost in space,The echoing of those faithful feet of men,And touch the blurred chalcedony of tears,And breathe those candle-lighted thoughts, faint muskOf old days vanished in silence now!Night-long I dream your face pressed close to mineIs lily of Ravello in its sleep,Touched with some ancient sorrow gardens keep,—An ivory-petalled dream whose ghostly passions shineLike fingers in the dark struggling with fears:—O, set your love for me, my Own, my Sweet,The whiteness of your breast and brow aglowWith God, like candleshine before my feet!

O, Compassionate One, night-long with you I harkThe travelling of that music lost in space,The echoing of those faithful feet of men,And touch the blurred chalcedony of tears,And breathe those candle-lighted thoughts, faint muskOf old days vanished in silence now!Night-long I dream your face pressed close to mineIs lily of Ravello in its sleep,Touched with some ancient sorrow gardens keep,—An ivory-petalled dream whose ghostly passions shineLike fingers in the dark struggling with fears:—O, set your love for me, my Own, my Sweet,The whiteness of your breast and brow aglowWith God, like candleshine before my feet!

Sleep, little town, your moonlit wallsAre hushed with long-ago!Night, like your river, brings to youForgetfulness of woe.Peace, little town! Grave sleep is thisThat aches in love and tears,With singing stream, with shining dream,With sense of other years.

Sleep, little town, your moonlit wallsAre hushed with long-ago!Night, like your river, brings to youForgetfulness of woe.

Peace, little town! Grave sleep is thisThat aches in love and tears,With singing stream, with shining dream,With sense of other years.

Where the salt sea winds her sleeping pathUp the River Seiont in summer time,And daisies flush the aftermathOf stubble corn; and heavy cowsWait by the water’s edge,While cloud-capped Snowdon hills grow dim,And fading Anglesey a crystal rim,—ThenYour spirit comes,A tidal sea,Winding,Up the River Seiont,Past the purple hill;Winding,Past the Castle wall,Winding;—ThenYour spirit comes,Winding,Up the River SeiontTo me.

They lie beside me all the night,They crowd up close to me;And when I turn, they turn;And when I sigh, they cry.Says one: “I am the love you soughtNow wrinkled to an afterthought.”The other whispers in my ear:“You coveted:Behold, I lie here dead!”These are the gifts sleep brings to me,—My dreams of gold and ivory!

There is a stair to climbThat—Christ you keep!—Men stumble thereIt is so steep.

Its steps give scarce foothold,Yet, pilgrim-shod,Hungry, athirst,Men climb to God.

O, little wind of every day,O, little wind of hope,Bring to me loveBeside the way,O, little wind of every day!

There’s vexing work for scanty keep,With tears for daily drink,And but this cupTo bring me sleep,This cup of golden love dream-deep.

O, little wind of every day,O, little wind of hope,Bring to me loveBeside the way,O, little wind of every day!

If you would know my mother-heart,Then wait awhile, be still;Watch for the settling dusky light,The silence, on the hill;And wait awhile, be still.

Love, heed the clap of little hands,Of leaves upon my trees;And hear the travelling of the wind,The moving of the seas;Then wait awhile, be still.

If you would know my mother-heart,But watch the wasting day!The wind steps softly in the corn,The light slips to the hill;Love, wait awhile, be still.

Blossoms shaken from their star formsBack to earth,Flying seedlings warm and waitingDrift in sunlight with the goingOf the birds towards the south!Birds are going!They will sing before they go,Fill the orchard with their mirth:Song of harvest, song of summer, song of springtime,—They remember it was April long ago!We are parting,You are going towards the south!Love was birth.Is this dying,—Death my harvest, grief my summer, tears my springtime?...Well, kiss me kindly,Song is warmest on the mouth!Give me love before you go!

Blossoms shaken from their star formsBack to earth,Flying seedlings warm and waitingDrift in sunlight with the goingOf the birds towards the south!

Birds are going!They will sing before they go,Fill the orchard with their mirth:Song of harvest, song of summer, song of springtime,—They remember it was April long ago!

We are parting,You are going towards the south!Love was birth.Is this dying,—Death my harvest, grief my summer, tears my springtime?...Well, kiss me kindly,Song is warmest on the mouth!Give me love before you go!

A thousand years from nowNo one will know that you and ILifted our arms to touch the skyAnd clasped an empty vow,—No one will know,We loved so long ago!A thousand years from nowWe shall not hear the cry of hopeLinger, remember, echo, grope,While mornings glowAnd evenings come and go!A thousand years from nowNo one will know that we have sleptBreast to each other’s breast and wept,—No one will knowWe loved so long ago!A thousand years from nowWe shall not see love welcome death,Dreams harden into frosted breath,Spring burn the apple boughWhile mornings glowAnd evenings come and go!

A thousand years from nowNo one will know that you and ILifted our arms to touch the skyAnd clasped an empty vow,—No one will know,We loved so long ago!

A thousand years from nowWe shall not hear the cry of hopeLinger, remember, echo, grope,While mornings glowAnd evenings come and go!

A thousand years from nowNo one will know that we have sleptBreast to each other’s breast and wept,—No one will knowWe loved so long ago!

A thousand years from nowWe shall not see love welcome death,Dreams harden into frosted breath,Spring burn the apple boughWhile mornings glowAnd evenings come and go!

This is the place! I knowThe broken door, the ragged bed of bloomWhere poppies grow,Row after row.This is the place.A year ago, her footprintMarked the garden pathWith tender hollow.But now?Time’s step is slow to follow.

This is the place! I knowThe broken door, the ragged bed of bloomWhere poppies grow,Row after row.

This is the place.A year ago, her footprintMarked the garden pathWith tender hollow.

But now?Time’s step is slow to follow.

Sometimes I wake from sleepOnly your name drawing across my lipsIn creeping wind from unlit space,No star sparks flickering on that wind,No signal tree top touched with racing light,No lantern-memory hung to show the way;Only a pathless name,Dark, terrible, meaningless because most near!And yet I never knew you,—Only your name and pain!

In the still woods I find your eyes,I hear your voice once moreAnd the far-singing hermit thrushBeyond our northern door.In the still woods pale repetendsI find of death and griefIn fallen nest and perished beeAnd sepulchre of leaf.

In the still woods I find your eyes,I hear your voice once moreAnd the far-singing hermit thrushBeyond our northern door.

In the still woods pale repetendsI find of death and griefIn fallen nest and perished beeAnd sepulchre of leaf.

It is too long, too long!My heart grows old with grievingFor the touch of you.It is too far, too far!My eyes are dazedWith searching emptiness,—The dark, the blurred horizonWith its dust of other feet.It is too late, too late!Gray thoughts stalk round meWith their death.I strike my tent,I go.Not even dreams can bring you now,—Too long, too far, too late!

It is too long, too long!My heart grows old with grievingFor the touch of you.

It is too far, too far!My eyes are dazedWith searching emptiness,—The dark, the blurred horizonWith its dust of other feet.

It is too late, too late!Gray thoughts stalk round meWith their death.I strike my tent,I go.Not even dreams can bring you now,—Too long, too far, too late!

I shall find you when the tide comes in,—A shell, a sound, a flash of lightTo live with me by day,To dream with me by night.You come and goAs waters flow;You lap me roundYou pour me full;A shell at restYou touch my breast.I feel your will,And I am boundBy light, by sound;To love you still.I shall find you when the tide comes in,—A shell, a sound, a flash of light.Men say you died.They knew not what to say,—I hear the tide,I hear the tide!

I shall find you when the tide comes in,—A shell, a sound, a flash of lightTo live with me by day,To dream with me by night.

You come and goAs waters flow;You lap me roundYou pour me full;A shell at restYou touch my breast.I feel your will,And I am boundBy light, by sound;To love you still.

I shall find you when the tide comes in,—A shell, a sound, a flash of light.Men say you died.They knew not what to say,—I hear the tide,I hear the tide!

At peace with every sweet remembered thingYou lie; with woodland song that died long yearsAgo; with pebbles washed ashore and fearsReleased and feathers broken from the wingThat beat its westward flight towards the sunAnd some far nest beside some unknown sea:I would not answer when you called to me,And now my thought of you is never done.This starlit road with its dark towering pines,Its dust of misty pollen blown in cloudFrom field to field, its silences, its shroudOf clinging dark and all its trailing vinesWhite with moonshine and the priestly dew,We shared. Tonight I travel it alone,—Alone I go towards that glistening stoneWhich marks your rest, my thought a prayer for you.Singing the water rushes past your quiet graveBeneath this little town whose ancient nameSuggests the fair collegiate dream and fameOf Oxford and her clustered towers. With waveThe river winds a garland for your rest—The woven sound of grieving without end.To you I bring the memory of a friendAnd lay these words on your remembered breast.

This starlit road with its dark towering pines,Its dust of misty pollen blown in cloudFrom field to field, its silences, its shroudOf clinging dark and all its trailing vinesWhite with moonshine and the priestly dew,We shared. Tonight I travel it alone,—Alone I go towards that glistening stoneWhich marks your rest, my thought a prayer for you.

Singing the water rushes past your quiet graveBeneath this little town whose ancient nameSuggests the fair collegiate dream and fameOf Oxford and her clustered towers. With waveThe river winds a garland for your rest—The woven sound of grieving without end.To you I bring the memory of a friendAnd lay these words on your remembered breast.

Oh, is there room at your feet, dear one?And is there room at your side?And can you hear the sound of my breathAnd sorrow that cries like a tide?

Oh, may I take your hand, dear one,As the nest enfolds the bird,Lie close to your heart and breast to breastAnd never a spoken word?

What then if the stars be gone, dear one,What then if the wind be still,And words that we spoke long years agoDrift pale and faint and chill?

Our dust shall be warmed by the sun, dear one,Our grief shall fade with the snow;And mingled in spring by sun and rainOur love to a flower blow.

Oh, is there room at your feet, dear one?And is there room at your side?And can you hear the sound of my breathAnd sorrow that cries like a tide?

You have her mouth of grief,—Your parted lips half-shape a moan;You have her brow branded with memory;You have her downcast eyesBrooding like doves above the body’s need;You have her heart of loveWhere music flowsAnd sorrows nurse.O Voice of all lost love and agony,Cecilia, Saint,We beg the healing of your breast,Music at our lipsAnd sleep!

O Voice of all lost love and agony,Cecilia, Saint,We beg the healing of your breast,Music at our lipsAnd sleep!

When spring was in her heart beat,Her lover came from sea;She gave him passion’s lily cup,He gave her thistles three.

When spring was in her heart beat,He filled their lily cupWith bitter dew and star dustAnd frozen spray to sup.

When spring was in her heart beat,He snared the only starStill racing on her dream path:Now other thistles are!

He said a little tinselWould serve her last journee,And nailed a glittering handfulUpon a willow tree.

Now death drags at her heart beatShe sees gray branches weep;They drip but ashen starlight,Singing, “Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!”

Two candles place I at her feet,Two candles at her head;These are the gifts that I would bringTo my Belovèd Dead.

I sought the violet of her eyes,Her eyes were closed in sleep;My love was trembling like a childAnd could not even weep.

I clad her in a purple shroud,Some said it should be white;I said, “The passion of her eyesFound peace in candlelight!”

Sometimes I see her ash-gold hairShimmer within the night;Sometimes I feel her violet eyesSearching for candlelight.

Sometimes I hear her drifting feetThat seek from door to door,Guided by star and blowing wind,Dream-shod forevermore.

When will she come again to meLed by the wind and star?She need not even call my name,I could not wander far.

Two candles place I at her feet,Two candles at her head:Remembrance and OblivionEnfold my lonely dead.

I do not ever remember having seen Rosy Miller;I never met her;Yet lose her I never can.One night at dusk she came down a hill with me,And the stars glowedAnd all the college buildings were laced with window lights,And beyond them were the dark hills.It was the speech of a friend that made her live for me—She was living then—,Rosy Miller, who gave and gave,Who, a child still, had learned the whole meaning of life,Who asked nothing,Who never held a hand out mendicant to others.That was three years ago, that hour at dusk,And now they say she is dead.But that is a mistake:Even for me who never knew her she still lives.

It was the speech of a friend that made her live for me—She was living then—,Rosy Miller, who gave and gave,Who, a child still, had learned the whole meaning of life,Who asked nothing,Who never held a hand out mendicant to others.

That was three years ago, that hour at dusk,And now they say she is dead.But that is a mistake:Even for me who never knew her she still lives.

He loved men with a great soul’s deepest love;He saw in them truth, hope, the very flameOf constancy. And then aloneHe died. Men have forgot his name.

I climb them step by step,—The vanished years.Stumbling I pause to look below,Down wells of time, so black, so deepTheir waters keepNo sound,Nor show a star,Nor hold a memory.

Sometimes I kneel and look aboveThat dark stairwayAt years to come;My fingers clasp my fears,Where my hopes go.Up there, beyond that last, gray step,Afar,Within that roof of mist,What is that shape in flightDim, strong and slow?

“A wing,” some say;Some answer, “Love”;And some say, “NightAnd Sleep.”But I?I do not know.

When that last dawn comes, what will it be?—A plume of fire on a cloud of gray;A shrouded ship in a cocoon sea;A mountain peak with its one gold star;A bird’s nest swung by a silver wind;Or the curve of an arm with its cradled child?What will that last dawn be?And God, what will God be?The plume of fire or the mist-spun ship,The mountain peak with its signal star,The nest blown wide for the coming day,Or the child in the human passionate arms?...I wonder what God will beAnd who shall see!

And God, what will God be?The plume of fire or the mist-spun ship,The mountain peak with its signal star,The nest blown wide for the coming day,Or the child in the human passionate arms?...I wonder what God will beAnd who shall see!

This is the end to which I come,—I who have loved beauty all my days:This grief of tortured flowers,This prison box devised by men,These nails and hasps and graven plates,This narrow room, these curious eyes,This tolling bell,These mumbled words miscalled of God,This brutal stone!O, rather, Love,Lay me on sweet-burning cedar,Free, fragrant with beaded pitch where the clean axe cut,With flame that leaps from singing heart of wood to mine!Then cast me as ash upon the quilted colors of the autumn hills,And I shall be pale lace of windTo kiss your lips, your eyes once more!Or strew me on waterTill I know again its slipping hands of dream,And see its golden deep of sand shadowed with memories,And feel its cradling touch soft as your moving breastIn closeness beyond the reach of words!Or toss me as a featherTo some little shepherd moon and flock of starsWhere, in the slow-rolling of prodigious hoursRound the blown crust of other worlds,Space beyond space,I shall find you,—even as here!

O, rather, Love,Lay me on sweet-burning cedar,Free, fragrant with beaded pitch where the clean axe cut,With flame that leaps from singing heart of wood to mine!Then cast me as ash upon the quilted colors of the autumn hills,And I shall be pale lace of windTo kiss your lips, your eyes once more!

Or strew me on waterTill I know again its slipping hands of dream,And see its golden deep of sand shadowed with memories,And feel its cradling touch soft as your moving breastIn closeness beyond the reach of words!

Or toss me as a featherTo some little shepherd moon and flock of starsWhere, in the slow-rolling of prodigious hoursRound the blown crust of other worlds,Space beyond space,I shall find you,—even as here!

Shall I come again?Again to see the reeds,Yellowing now?“Bye and bye!Bye and bye!”Lake rushes cry.Shall I come againTo these willow leavesFalling now?Their joy was brief!The willow leafKnows grief.Shall I breathe againGray balsam dripping amberOn the mould?What knows the yearOf any fear,—Of any amber tear!September 27, 1920.

Shall I come again?Again to see the reeds,Yellowing now?

“Bye and bye!Bye and bye!”Lake rushes cry.

Shall I come againTo these willow leavesFalling now?

Their joy was brief!The willow leafKnows grief.

Shall I breathe againGray balsam dripping amberOn the mould?

What knows the yearOf any fear,—Of any amber tear!

September 27, 1920.

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