XLIV.

"Nay, Nino, kneel not; let me hear thee speak. We must not tarry long; the dawn is nigh." So rises he, for very gladness weak; But half in fear that yet the dream may fly, He touches mutely mouth and brow and cheek; Till in his ear she 'gins to plead and sigh: "Dear love, forgive me for that cruel tale, That stung thine heart and made thy lips so pale."

XLV.

And so he folds her softly with quick sighs, And both with murmurs warm and musical Talk and retalk, with dim or smiling eyes, Of old delights and sweeter days to fall: And yet not long, for, ere the starlit skies Grow pale above the city's eastern wall, They rise, with lips and happy hands withdrawn, And pass out softly into the dawn.

XLVI.

For Nino knows the captain of a ship, The friend of many journeys, who may be This very morn will let his cables slip For the warm coast of sunny Sicily. There in Palermo, at the harbour's lip, A brother lives, of tried fidelity: So to the quays by hidden ways they wend In the pale morn, nor do they miss their friend.

XLVII.

And ere the shadow of another night Hath darkened Pisa, many a foe shall stray Through Nino's home, with eyes malignly bright In wolfish quest, but shall not find his prey: The while those lovers in their white-winged flight Shall see far out upon the twilight grey, Behind, the glimmer of the sea, before, The dusky outlines of a kindlier shore.



THE CHILD'S MUSIC LESSON.

Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all? Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so? Full many a wrong note falls, but let it fall! Each note to me is like a golden glow; Each broken cadence like a morning call; Nay, clear and smooth I would not have you go, Soft little hands, upon the curtained threshold set Of this long life of labour, and unrestful fret.

Soft sunlight flickers on the checkered green: Warm winds are stirring round my dreaming seat: Among the yellow pumpkin blooms, that lean Their crumpled rims beneath the heavy heat, The striped bees in lazy labour glean From bell to bell with golden-feathered feet; Yet even here the voices of hard life go by; Outside, the city strains with its eternal cry.

Here, as I sit—the sunlight on my face, And shadows of green leaves upon mine eyes— My heart, a garden in a hidden place, Is full of folded buds of memories. Stray hither then with all your old time grace, Child-voices, trembling from the uncertain keys; Play on, ye little fingers, touch the settled gloom, And quickly, one by one, my waiting buds will bloom.

Ah me, I may not set my feet again In any part of that old garden dear, Or pluck one widening blossom, for my pain; But only at the wicket gaze I here: Old scents creep into mine inactive brain, Smooth scents of things, I may not come anear; I see, far off, old beaten pathways they adorn; I cannot feel with hands the blossom or the thorn.

Toil on, sweet hands; once more I see the child; The little child, that was myself, appears, And all the old-time beauties, undefined, Shine back to me across the opening years, Quick griefs, that made the tender bosom wild, Short blinding gusts, that died in passionate tears, Sweet life, with all its change, that now so happy seems, With all its child-heart glories, and untutored dreams.

Play on into the golden sunshine so, Sweeter than all great artists' labouring: I too was like you once, an age ago: God keep you, dimpled fingers, for you bring Quiet gliding ghosts to me of joy and woe, No certain things at all that thrill or sting, But only sounds and scents and savours of things bright, No joy or aching pain; but only dim delight.



AN ATHENIAN REVERIE.

How the returning days, one after one, Come ever in their rhythmic round, unchanged, Yet from each looped robe for every man Some new thing falls. Happy is he Who fronts them without fear, and like the gods Looks out unanxiously on each day's gift With calmly curious eye. How many things Even in a little space, both good and ill, Have fallen on me, and yet in all of them The keen experience or the smooth remembrance Hath found some sweet. It scarcely seems a month Since we saw Crete; so swiftly sped the days, Borne onward with how many changing scenes, Filled with how many crowding memories. Not soon shall I forget them, the stout ship, All the tense labour with the windy sea, The cloud-wrapped heights of Crete, beheld far off, And white Cytaeon with its stormy pier, The fruitful valleys, the wild mountain road, And those long days of ever-vigilant toil, Scarcely with sleepless craft and unmoved front Escaping robbers, that quiet restful eve At rich Gortyna, where we lay and watched The dripping foliage, and the darkening fields, And over all huge-browed above the night Ida's great summit with it's fiery crown; And then once more the stormy treacherous sea, The noisy ship, the seamen's vehement cries, That battled with the whistling wind, the feet Reeling upon the swaying deck, and eyes Strained anxiously toward land; ah, with what joy At last the busy pier at Nauplia, Rest and firm shelter for our racking brains: Most sweet of all, most dear to memory That journey with Euktemon through the hills By fair Cleonae and the lofty pass; Then Corinth with its riotous jollity, Remembered like a reeling dream; and here Good Theron's wedding, and this festal day; And I, chief helper in its various rites, Not least, commissioned through these wakeful hours To dream before the quiet thalamos, Unsleeping, like some full-grown bearded Eros, The guardian of love's sweetest mysteries. To-morrow I shall hear again the din Of the loosed cables, and the rowers' chaunt, The rattled cordage and the plunging oars. Once more the bending sail shall bear us on Across the level of the laughing sea. Ere mid-day we shall see far off behind us, Faint as the summit of a sultry cloud, The white Acropolis. Past Sunium With rushing keel, the long Euboean strand, Hymettus and the pine-dark hills shall fade Into the dusk: at Andros we shall water, And ere another starlight hush the shores From seaward valleys catch upon the wind The fragrance of old Chian vintages. At Chios many things shall fall, but none Can trace the future; rather let me dream Of what is now, and what hath been, for both Are fraught with life.

Here the unbroken silence Awakens thought and makes remembrance sweet. How solidly the brilliant moonlight shines Into the courts; beneath the colonnades How dense the shadows. I can scarcely see Yon painted Dian on the darkened wall; Yet how the gloom hath made her real. What sound, Piercing the leafy covert of her couch, Hath startled her. Perchance some prowling wolf, Or luckless footsteps of the stealthy Pan, Creeping at night among the noiseless steeps And hollows of the Erymanthian woods, Roused her from sleep. With listening head, Snatched bow, and quiver lightly slung, she stands, And peers across that dim and motionless glade, Beckoning about her heels the wakeful dogs; Yet Dian, thus alert, is but a dream, Making more real this brooding quietness. How strong and wonderful is night! Mankind Has yielded all to one sweet helplessness: Thought, labour, strife and all activities Have ebbed like fever. The smooth tide of sleep, Rolling across the fields of Attica, Hath covered all the labouring villages. Even great Athens with her busy hands And busier tongues lies quiet beneath it's waves. Only a steady murmur seems to come Up from her silentness, as if the land Were breathing heavily in dreams. Abroad No creature stirs, not even the reveller, Staggering, unlanterned, from the cool Piraeus, With drunken shout. The remnants of the feast, The crumpled cushions and the broken wreathes, Lie scattered in yon shadowy court, whose stones Through the warm hours drink up the staining wine. The bridal oxen in their well-filled stalls Sleep, mindless of the happy weight they drew. The torch is charred; the garlands at the door, So gay at morning with their bright festoons, Hang limp and withered; and the joyous flutes Are empty of all sound. Only my brain Holds now in it's remote unsleeping depths The echo of the tender hymenaeos And memory of the modest lips that sang it. Within the silent thalamos the queen, The sea-sprung radiant Cytherean reigns, And with her smiling lips and fathomless eyes Regards the lovers, knowing that this hour Is theirs once only. Earth and thought and time Lie far beyond them, a great gulf of joy, Absorbing fear, regret and every grief, A warm eternity: or now perchance Night and the very weight of happiness, Unsought, have turned upon their tremulous eyes The mindless stream of sleep; nor do they care If dawn should never come.

How joyously These hours have gone with all their pictured scenes, A string of golden beads for memory To finger over in her moods, or stay The hunger of some wakeful hour like this, The flowers, the myrtles, the gay bridal train, The flutes and pensive voices, the white robes, The shower of sweet-meats, and the jovial feast, The bride cakes, and the teeming merriment, Most beautiful of all, most sweet to name, The good Lysippe with her down-cast eyes, Touched with soft fear, half scared at all the noise, Whose tears were ready as her laughter, fresh, And modest as some pink anemone. How young she looked, and how her smiling lips Betrayed her happiness. Ah, who can tell, How often, when no watchful eye was near, Her eager fingers, trembling and ashamed, Essayed the apple-pips, or strewed the floor With broken poppy petals. Next to her, Theron himself the gladest goodliest figure, His honest face ruddy with health and joy, And smiling like the AEgean, when the sun Hangs high in heaven, and the freshening wind Comes in from Melos, rippling all its floor: And there was Manto too, the good old crone, So dear to children with her store of tales, Warmed with new life: how to her old grey face And withered limbs the very dance of youth Seemed to return, and in her aged eyes The waning fire rekindled: little Maeon, That mischievous satyr with his tipsy wreath, Who kept us laughing at his pranks, and made Old Pyrrho angry. Him too sleep hath bound Upon his rough-hewn couch with subtle thong, Crowding his brain with odd fantastic shapes. Even in sleep his little limbs, I think, Twitch restlessly, and still his tongue gibes on With inarticulate murmur. Ah, quaint Maeon! And Manto, poor old Manto, what dim dreams Of darkly-moving chaos and slow shapes Of things that creep encumbered with huge burdens Gloom and infest her through these dragging hours, Haunting the wavering soul, so near the grave? But all things journey to the same quiet end At last, life, joy and every form of motion. Nothing stands still. Not least inevitable, The sad recession of this passionate love, Whose panting fires, so soon and with such grief, Burn down to ash.

Ai! Ai! 'tis a strange madness To give up thought, ambition, liberty, And all the rooted custom of our days, Even life itself for one all pampering dream, That withers like those garlands at the door; And yet I have seen many excellent men Besotted thus, and some that bore till death, In the crook'd vision and embittered tongue, The effect of this strange poison, like a scar, An ineradicable hurt; but Fate, Who deals more wondrously in this disease Even than in others, yet doth sometimes will To make the same thing unto different men Evil or good. Was not Demetrios happy, Who wore his fetters with such grace, and spent On Chione, the Naxian, that shrewd girl, His fortune and his youth, yet, while she lived, Enjoyed the rich reward? He seemed like one, That trod on wind, and I remember well, How when she died in that remorseless plague, And I alone stood with him at the pyre, He shook me with his helpless passionate grief. And honest Agathon, the married man, Whose boyish fondness for his pretty wife We smiled at, and yet envied; at the close Of each day's labour how he posted home, And thence no bait, however plumed, could draw him. We laughed, but envied him. How sweet she looked That morning at the Dyonisia, With her rare eyes and modest girlish grace, Leading her two small children by the palm. I too might marry, if the faithful gods Would promise me such joy as Agathon's. Perhaps some day—but no, I am not one To clip my wings, and wind about my feet A net, whose self-made meshes are as stern As they are soft. To me is ever present The outer world with its untravelled paths, The wanderer's dream, the itch to see new things. A single tie could never bind me fast, For life, this joyous, busy, ever-changing life, Is only dear to me with liberty, With space of earth for feet to travel in And space of mind for thought.

Not so for all; To most men life is but a common thing, The hours a sort of coin to barter with, Whose worth is reckoned by the sum they buy In gold, or power, or pleasure; each short day That brings not these deemed fruitless as dry sand. Their lives are but a blind activity, And death to them is but the end of motion, Grey children who have madly eat and drunk, Won the high seats or filled their chests with gold. And yet for all their years have never seen The picture of their lives, or how life looks To him who hath the deep uneager eye, How sweet and large and beautiful it was, How strange the part they played. Like him who sits Beneath some mighty tree, with half-closed eyes, At ease rejoicing in its murmurous shade, Yet never once awakes from his dull dream To mark with curious joy the kingly trunk, The sweeping boughs and tower of leaves that gave it, Even so the most of men; they take the gift, And care not for the giver. Strange indeed Are they, and pitiable beyond measure, Who, thus unmindful of their wretchedness, Crowd at life's bountiful gates, like fattening beggars, Greedy and blind. For see how rich a thing Life is to him who sees, to whom each hour Brings some fresh wonder to be brooded on, Adds some new group or studied history To that wrought sculpture, that our watchful dreams Cast up upon the broad expanse of time, As in a never-finished frieze, not less The little things that most men pass unmarked Than those that shake mankind. Happy is he, Who, as a watcher, stands apart from life, From all life and his own, and thus from all, Each thought, each deed, and each hour's brief event, Draws the full beauty, sucks its meaning dry. For him this life shall be a tranquil joy. He shall be quiet and free. To him shall come No gnawing hunger for the coarser touch, No mad ambition with its fateful grasp; Sorrow itself shall sway him like a dream.

How full life is; how many memories Flash, and shine out, when thought is sharply stirred; How the mind works, when once the wheels are loosed, How nimbly, with what swift activity. I think, 'tis strange that men should ever sleep, There are so many things to think upon, So many deeds, so many thoughts to weigh, To pierce, and plumb them to the silent depth. Yet in that thought I do rebuke myself, Too little given to probe the inner heart, But rather wont, with the luxurious eye, To catch from life it's outer loveliness, Such things as do but store the joyous memory With food for solace rather than for thought, Like light-lined figures on a painted jar. I wonder where Euktemon is to-night, Euktemon with his rough and fitful talk, His moody gesture and defiant stride; How strange, how bleak and unapproachable; And yet I liked him from the first. How soon We know our friends, through all disguise of mood, Discerning by a subtle touch of spirit The honest heart within. Euktemon's glance Betrayed him with it's gusty friendliness, Flashing at moments from the clouded brow, Like brave warm sunshine, and his laughter too, So rare, so sudden, so contagious, How at some merry scene, some well-told tale, Or swift invention of the winged wit, It broke like thunderous water, rolling out In shaken peals on the delighted ear. Yet no man would have dreamed, who saw us two That first grey morning on the pier at Crete, That friendship could have forged thus easily A bond so subtle and so sure between us; He, gloomy and austere; I, full of thought As he, yet in an adverse mood, at ease, Lifting with lighter hands the lids of life, Untortured by its riddles; he, whose smiles Were rare and sudden as the autumn sun; I, to whom smiles are ever near the lip. And yet I think he loved me too; my mood Was not unpleasant to him, though I know At times I teased him with my flickering talk. How self-immured he was; for all our converse I gathered little, little, of his life, A bitter trial to me, who love to learn The changes of men's outer circumstance, The strokes that fate has shaped them with, and so, Fitting to these their present speech and favour, Discern the thought within. From him I gleaned Nothing. At the least word, however guarded, That sought to try the fastenings of his life With prying hands, how mute and dark he grew, And like the cautious tortoise at a touch Drew in beneath his shell.

But ah, how sweet The memory of that long untroubled day, To me so joyous, and so free from care, Spent as I love on foot, our first together, When fate and the reluctant sea at last Had given us safely to dry land; the tramp From grey Mycenae by the pass to Corinth, The smooth white road, the soft caressing air, Full of the scent of blossoms, the clear sky, Strewn lightly with the little tardy clouds, Old Helios' scattered flock, the low-branched oaks And fountained resting-places, the cool nooks, Where eyes less darkened with life's use than mine Perchance had caught the Naiads in their dreams, Or won white glimpses of their flying heels. How light our feet were: with what rhythmic strides We left the long blue gulf behind us, sown Far out with snowy sails; and how our hearts Rose with the growth of morning, till we reached That moss-hung fountain on the hillside near Cleonae, where the dark anemones Cover the ground, and make it red like fire. Could ever grief, I wonder, or fixed care, Or even the lingering twilight of old age, Divest for me such memories of their sweet? Even Euktemon's obdurate mood broke down. The odorous stillness, the serene bright air, The leafy shadows, the warm blossoming earth, Drew near with their voluptuous eloquence, And melted him. Ah, what a talk we had! How eagerly our nimble tongues ran on, With linked wit, in joyous sympathy. Such hours, I think, are better than long years Of brooding loneliness, mind touching mind To leaping life, and thought sustaining thought, Till even the darkest chambers of grey time, His ancient seats, and bolted mysteries, Open their hoary doors, and at a look Lay all their treasures bare. How, when our thought Wheeling on ever bolder wings at last Grew as it seemed too large for utterance, We both fell silent, striving to recall And grasp such things as in our daring mood We had but glimpsed and leaped at; yet how long We studied thus with absent eyes, I know not; Our thought died slowly out; the busy road, The voices of the passers-by, the change Of garb and feature, and the various tongues Absorbed us. Ah, how clearly I recall them! For in these silent wakeful hours the mind Is strangely swift. With what sharp lines The shapes of things that even years have buried Shine out upon the rapid memory, Moving and warm like life. I can see now The form of that tall peddler, whose strange wares, Outlandish dialect and impudent gait Awoke Euktemon's laughter. In mine ear Is echoing still the cracking string of gibes, They flung at one another. I remember too The grey-haired merchant with his bold black eyes And brace of slaves, the old ship captain tanned With sweeping sea-winds and the pitiless sun, But best of all that dainty amorous pair, Whose youthful spirit neither heat nor toil Could conquer. What a charming group they made? The creaking litter and the long brown poles, The sinewy bearers with their cat-like stride, Dripping with sweat, that merry dark-eyed girl, Whose sudden beauty shook us from our dreams, And chained our eyes. How beautiful she was? Half-hid among the gay Miletian cushions, The lovely laughing face, the gracious form, The fragrant lightly-knotted hair, and eyes Full of the dancing fire of wanton Corinth. That happy stripling, whose delighted feet Swung at her side, whose tongue ran on so gaily, Is it for him alone she wreathes those smiles, And tunes so musically that flexile voice, Soft as the Lydian flute? Surely his gait Proclaimed the lover, and his well-filled girdle Not less the lover's strength. How joyously He strode, unmindful of his ruffled curls, Whose perfumes still went wide upon the wind, His dust-stained robe unheeded, and the stones Whose ragged edges frayed his delicate shoes. How radiant, how full of hope he was! What pleasant memories, how many things Rose up again before me, as I lay Half-stretched among the crushed anemones, And watched them, till a far off jutting ledge Precluded sight, still listening till mine ears Caught the last vanishing murmur of their talk.

Only a little longer; then we rose With limbs refreshed, and kept a swinging pace Toward Corinth; but our talk, I know not why, Fell for that day. I wonder what there was About those dainty lovers or their speech, That changed Euktemon's mood; for all the way From high Cleonae to the city gates, Till sunset found us loitering without aim, Half lost among the dusky-moving crowds, I could get nothing from him but dark looks, Short answers and the old defiant stride. Some memory pricked him. It may be, perchance, A woman's treachery, some luckless passion, In former days endured, hath seared his blood, And dowered him with that cureless bitter humour. To him solitude and the wanderer's life Alone are sweet, the tumults of this world A thing unworthy of the wise man's touch, Its joys and sorrows to be met alike With broad-browed scorn. One quality at least We have in common; we are idlers both, Shifters and wanderers through this sleepless world, Albeit in different moods. 'Tis that, I think, That knit us, and the universal need For near companionship. Howe'er it be, There is no hand that I would gladlier grasp, Either on earth or in the nether gloom, When the grey keel shall grind the Stygian strand, Than stern Euktemon's.



II.

SONNETS.



LOVE-DOUBT.

Yearning upon the faint rose-curves that flit About her child-sweet mouth and innocent cheek, And in her eyes watching with eyes all meek The light and shadow of laughter, I would sit Mute, knowing our two souls might never knit; As if a pale proud lily-flower should seek The love of some red rose, but could not speak One word of her blithe tongue to tell of it.

For oh, my Love was sunny-lipped and stirred With all swift light and sound and gloom not long Retained; I, with dreams weighed, that ever heard Sad burdens echoing through the loudest throng She, the wild song of some May-merry bird; I, but the listening maker of a song.



PERFECT LOVE.

Beloved, those who moan of love's brief day Shall find but little grace with me, I guess, Who know too well this passion's tenderness To deem that it shall lightly pass away, A moment's interlude in life's dull play; Though many loves have lingered to distress, So shall not ours, sweet Lady, ne'ertheless, But deepen with us till both heads be grey.

For perfect love is like a fair green plant, That fades not with its blossoms, but lives on, And gentle lovers shall not come to want, Though fancy with its first mad dream be gone; Sweet is the flower, whose radiant glory flies, But sweeter still the green that never dies.



LOVE-WONDER.

Or whether sad or joyous be her hours, Yet ever is she good and ever fair. If she be glad, 'tis like a child's wild air, Who claps her hands above a heap of flowers; And if she's sad, it is no cloud that lowers, Rather a saint's pale grace, whose golden hair Gleams like a crown, whose eyes are like a prayer From some quiet window under minster towers.

But ah, Beloved, how shall I be taught To tell this truth in any rhymed line? For words and woven phrases fall to naught, Lost in the silence of one dream divine, Wrapped in the beating wonder of this thought: Even thou, who art so precious, thou art mine!



COMFORT.

Comfort the sorrowful with watchful eyes In silence, for the tongue cannot avail. Vex not his wounds with rhetoric, nor the stale Worn truths, that are but maddening mockeries To him whose grief outmasters all replies. Only watch near him gently; do but bring The piteous help of silent ministering, Watchful and tender. This alone is wise.

So shall thy presence and thine every motion, The grateful knowledge of thy sad devotion Melt out the passionate hardness of his grief, And break the flood-gates of the pent-up soul. He shall bow down beneath thy mute control, And take thine hands, and weep, and find relief.



DESPONDENCY.

Slow figures in some live remorseless frieze, The approaching days escapeless and unguessed, With mask and shroud impenetrably dressed; Time, whose inexorable destinies Bear down upon us like impending seas; And the huge presence of this world, at best A sightless giant wandering without rest, Aged and mad with many miseries.

The weight and measure of these things who knows? Resting at times beside life's thought-swept stream, Sobered and stunned with unexpected blows, We scarcely hear the uproar; life doth seem, Save for the certain nearness of its woes, Vain and phantasmal as a sick man's dream.



OUTLOOK.

Not to be conquered by these headlong days, But to stand free: to keep the mind at brood On life's deep meaning, nature's altitude Of loveliness, and time's mysterious ways; At every thought and deed to clear the haze Out of our eyes, considering only this, What man, what life, what love, what beauty is, This is to live, and win the final praise.

Though strife, ill fortune and harsh human need Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb With agony; yet, patience—there shall come Many great voices from life's outer sea, Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed, Murmurs and glimpses of eternity.



GENTLENESS.

Blind multitudes that jar confusedly At strife, earth's children, will ye never rest From toils made hateful here, and dawns distressed With ravelling self-engendered misery? And will ye never know, till sleep shall see Your graves, how dreadful and how dark indeed Are pride, self-will, and blind-voiced anger, greed, And malice with its subtle cruelty?

How beautiful is gentleness, whose face Like April sunshine, or the summer rain, Swells everywhere the buds of generous thought? So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace Smoothes out so soon the tangled knots of pain. Can ye not learn it? will ye not be taught?



A PRAYER.

Oh earth, oh dewy mother, breathe on us Something of all thy beauty and thy might, Us that are part of day, but most of night, Not strong like thee, but ever burdened thus With glooms and cares, things pale and dolorous Whose gladest moments are not wholly bright; Something of all thy freshness and thy light, Oh earth, oh mighty mother, breathe on us.

Oh mother, who wast long before our day, And after us full many an age shalt be. Careworn and blind, we wander from thy way: Born of thy strength, yet weak and halt are we Grant us, oh mother, therefore, us who pray, Some little of thy light and majesty.



MUSIC.

Move on, light hands, so strongly tenderly, Now with dropped calm and yearning undersong, Now swift and loud, tumultuously strong, And I in darkness, sitting near to thee, Shall only hear, and feel, but shall not see, One hour made passionately bright with dreams, Keen glimpses of life's splendour, dashing gleams Of what we would, and what we cannot be.

Surely not painful ever, yet not glad, Shall such hours be to me, but blindly sweet, Sharp with all yearning and all fact at strife, Dreams that shine by with unremembered feet, And tones that like far distance make this life Spectral and wonderful and strangely sad.



KNOWLEDGE.

What is more large than knowledge and more sweet; Knowledge of thoughts and deeds, of rights and wrongs, Of passions and of beauties and of songs; Knowledge of life; to feel its great heart beat Through all the soul upon her crystal seat; To see, to feel, and evermore to know; To till the old world's wisdom till it grow A garden for the wandering of our feet.

Oh for a life of leisure and broad hours, To think and dream, to put away small things, This world's perpetual leaguer of dull naughts; To wander like the bee among the flowers Till old age find us weary, feet and wings Grown heavy with the gold of many thoughts.



SIGHT.

The world is bright with beauty, and its days Are filled with music; could we only know True ends from false, and lofty things from low; Could we but tear away the walls that graze Our very elbows in life's frosty ways; Behold the width beyond us with its flow, Its knowledge and its murmur and its glow, Where doubt itself is but a golden haze.

Ah brothers, still upon our pathway lies The shadow of dim weariness and fear, Yet if we could but lift our earthward eyes To see, and open our dull ears to hear, Then should the wonder of this world draw near And life's innumerable harmonies.



AN OLD LESSON FROM THE FIELDS.

Even as I watched the daylight how it sped From noon till eve, and saw the light wind pass In long pale waves across the flashing grass, And heard through all my dreams, wherever led, The thin cicada singing overhead, I felt what joyance all this nature has, And saw myself made clear as in a glass, How that my soul was for the most part dead.

Oh, light, I cried, and, heaven, with all your blue, Oh, earth, with all your sunny fruitfulness, And ye, tall lilies, of the wind-vexed field, What power and beauty life indeed might yield, Could we but cast away its conscious stress, Simple of heart, becoming even as you.



WINTER-THOUGHT.

The wind-swayed daisies, that on every side Throng the wide fields in whispering companies, Serene and gently smiling like the eyes Of tender children long beatified, The delicate thought-wrapped buttercups that glide Like sparks of fire above the wavering grass, And swing and toss with all the airs that pass, Yet seem so peaceful, so preoccupied;

These are the emblems of pure pleasures flown, I scarce can think of pleasure without these. Even to dream of them is to disown The cold forlorn midwinter reveries, Lulled with the perfume of old hopes new-blown, No longer dreams, but dear realities.



DEEDS.

'Tis well with words, oh masters, ye have sought To turn men's yearning to the great and true, Yet first take heed to what your own hands do; By deeds not words the souls of men are taught; Good lives alone are fruitful; they are caught Into the fountain of all life (wherethrough Men's souls that drink are broken or made new) Like drops of heavenly elixir, fraught With the clear essence of eternal youth. Even one little deed of weak untruth Is like a drop of quenchless venom cast, A liquid thread, into life's feeding stream, Woven forever with its crystal gleam, Bearing the seed of death and woe at last.



ASPIRATION.

Oh deep-eyed brothers was there ever here, Or is there now, or shall there sometime be Harbour or any rest for such as we, Lone thin-cheeked mariners, that aye must steer Our whispering barks with such keen hope and fear Toward misty bournes across that coastless sea, Whose winds are songs that ever gust and flee, Whose shores are dreams that tower but come not near.

Yet we perchance, for all that flesh and mind Of many ills be marked with many a trace, Shall find this life more sweet more strangely kind, Than they of that dim-hearted earthly race, Who creep firm-nailed upon the earth's hard face, And hear nor see not, being deaf and blind.



THE POETS.

Half god, half brute, within the self-same shell, Changers with every hour from dawn till even, Who dream with angels in the gate of heaven, And skirt with curious eyes the brinks of hell, Children of Pan, whom some, the few, love well, But most draw back, and know not what to say, Poor shining angels, whom the hoofs betray, Whose pinions frighten with their goatish smell.

Half brutish, half divine, but all of earth, Half-way 'twixt hell and heaven, near to man, The whole world's tangle gathered in one span, Full of this human torture and this mirth: Life with its hope and error, toil and bliss, Earth-born, earth-reared, ye know it as it is.



THE TRUTH.

Friend, though thy soul should burn thee, yet be still. Thoughts were not meant for strife, nor tongues for swords. He that sees clear is gentlest of his words, And that's not truth that hath the heart to kill. The whole world's thought shall not one truth fulfil. Dull in our age, and passionate in youth, No mind of man hath found the perfect truth, Nor shalt thou find it; therefore, friend, be still.

Watch and be still, nor hearken to the fool, The babbler of consistency and rule: Wisest is he, who, never quite secure, Changes his thoughts for better day by day: To-morrow some new light will shine, be sure, And thou shalt see thy thought another way.



THE MARTYRS.

Oh ye, who found in men's brief ways no sign Of strength or help, so cast them forth, and threw Your whole souls up to one ye deemed most true, Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line, Seeing before you that divine face shine; Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few, Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you, White souls whose beauty made their world divine:

Yet still across life's tangled storms we see, Following the cross, your pale procession led, One hope, one end, all others sacrificed, Self-abnegation, love, humility, Your faces shining toward the bended head, The wounded hands and patient feet of Christ.



A NIGHT OF STORM.

Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sown With restless drift, scarce broken now of any, Out of the dark thy windows dim and many Gleam red across the storm. Sound is there none, Save evermore the fierce wind's sweep and moan, From whose grey hands the keen white snow is shaken In desperate gusts, that fitfully lull and waken, Dense as night's darkness round thy towers of stone.

Darkling and strange art thou thus vexed and chidden; More dark and strange thy veiled agony, City of storm, in whose grey heart are hidden What stormier woes, what lives that groan and beat, Stern and thin-cheeked, against time's heavier sleet, Rude fates, hard hearts, and prisoning poverty.



THE RAILWAY STATION.

The darkness brings no quiet here, the light No waking: ever on my blinded brain The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain, The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite: I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight, Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain: I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train Move labouring out into the bourneless night.

So many souls within its dim recesses, So many bright, so many mournful eyes: Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses; What threads of life, what hidden histories, What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses, What unknown thoughts, what various agonies!



A FORECAST.

What days await this woman, whose strange feet Breathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine, Tall, free and slender as the forest pine, Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweet Frank eyes I feel the very heart's least beat, Keen, passionate, full of dreams and fire: How in the end, and to what man's desire Shall all this yield, whose lips shall these lips meet?

One thing I know: if he be great and pure, This love, this fire, this beauty shall endure; Triumph and hope shall lead him by the palm: But if not this, some differing thing he be, That dream shall break in terror; he shall see The whirlwind ripen, where he sowed the calm.



IN NOVEMBER.

The hills and leafless forests slowly yield To the thick-driving snow. A little while And night shall darken down. In shouting file The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled, Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed, Now golden-grey, sowed softly through with snow, Where the last ploughman follows still his row, Turning black furrows through the whitening field.

Far off the village lamps begin to gleam, Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way; The hills grow wintery white, and bleak winds moan About the naked uplands. I alone Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor grey, Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.



THE CITY.

Beyond the dusky corn-fields, toward the west, Dotted with farms, beyond the shallow stream, Through drifts of elm with quiet peep and gleam, Curved white and slender as a lady's wrist, Faint and far off out of the autumn mist, Even as a pointed jewel softly set In clouds of colour warmer, deeper yet, Crimson and gold and rose and amethyst, Toward dayset, where the journeying sun grown old Hangs lowly westward darker now than gold, With the soft sun-touch of the yellowing hours Made lovelier, I see with dreaming eyes, Even as a dream out of a dream, arise The bell-tongued city with its glorious towers.



MIDSUMMER NIGHT.

Mother of balms and soothings manifold, Quiet-breathed night whose brooding hours are seven, To whom the voices of all rest are given, And those few stars whose scattered names are told, Far off beyond the westward hills outrolled, Darker than thou, more still, more dreamy even, The golden moon leans in the dusky heaven, And under her one star—a point of gold:

And all go slowly lingering toward the west, As we go down forgetfully to our rest, Weary of daytime, tired of noise and light: Ah, it was time that thou should'st come; for we Were sore athirst, and had great need of thee, Thou sweet physician, balmy-bosomed night.



THE LOONS.

Once ye were happy, once by many a shore, Wherever Glooscap's gentle feet might stray, Lulled by his presence like a dream, ye lay Floating at rest; but that was long of yore. He was too good for earthly men; he bore Their bitter deeds for many a patient day, And then at last he took his unseen way. He was your friend, and ye might rest no more:

And now, though many hundred altering years Have passed, among the desolate northern meres Still must ye search and wander querulously, Crying for Glooscap, still bemoan the light With wierd entreaties, and in agony With awful laughter pierce the lonely night.



MARCH.

Over the dripping roofs and sunk snow-barrows The bells are ringing loud and strangely near, The shout of children dins upon mine ear Shrilly, and like a flight of silvery arrows Showers the sweet gossip of the British sparrows, Gathered in noisy knots of one or two, To joke and chatter just as mortals do Over the days long tale of joys and sorrows;

Talk before bed-time of bold deeds together Of thefts and fights, of hard-times and the weather, Till sleep disarm them, to each little brain Bringing tucked wings and many a blissful dream, Visions of wind and sun, of field and stream, And busy barn-yards with their scattered grain.



SOLITUDE.

How still it is here in the woods. The trees Stand motionless, as if they did not dare To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze. Even this little brook, that runs at ease, Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed, Seems but to deepen with its curling thread Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.

Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker Startles the stillness from its fixed mood With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear The dreamy white-throat from some far off tree Pipe slowly on the listening solitude His five pure notes succeeding pensively.



AUTUMN MAPLES.

The thoughts of all the maples who shall name, When the sad landscape turns to cold and grey? Yet some for very ruth and sheer dismay, Hearing the northwind pipe the winter's name, Have fired the hills with beaconing clouds of flame; And some with softer woe that day by day, So sweet and brief, should go the westward way, Have yearned upon the sunset with such shame,

That all their cheeks have turned to tremulous rose; Others for wrath have turned a rusty red, And some that knew not either grief or dread, Ere the old year should find its iron close, Have gathered down the sun's last smiles acold, Deep, deep, into their luminous hearts of gold.



THE DOG.

"Grotesque!" we said, the moment we espied him, For there he stood, supreme in his conceit, With short ears close together and queer feet Planted irregularly: first we tried him With jokes, but they were lost; we then defied him With bantering questions and loose criticism: He did not like, I'm sure, our catechism, But whisked and snuffed a little as we eyed him.

Then flung we balls, and out and clear away, Up the white slope, across the crusted snow, To where a broken fence stands in the way, Against the sky-line, a mere row of pegs, Quicker than thought we saw him flash and go, A straight mad scuttling of four crooked legs.

THE END