THE UNCHANGING

After the songless rose of evening, Night quiet, dark, still, In nodding cavalcade advancing Starred the deep hill: You, in the valley standing, In your quiet wonder took All that glamour, peace, and mystery In one grave look. Beauty hid your naked body, Time dreamed in your bright hair, In your eyes the constellations Burned far and fair.



INVOCATION

The burning fire shakes in the night, On high her silver candles gleam, With far-flung arms enflamed with light, The trees are lost in dream.

Come in thy beauty! 'tis my love, Lost in far-wandering desire, Hath in the darkling deep above Set stars and kindled fire.



EYES

O strange devices that alone divide The seer from the seen— The very highway of earth's pomp and pride That lies between The traveller and the cheating, sweet delight Of where he longs to be, But which, bound hand and foot, he, close on night, Can only see.



LIFE

Hearken, O dear, now strikes the hour we die; We, who in our strange kiss Have proved a dream the world's realities, Turned each from other's darkness with a sigh, Need heed no more of life, waste no more breath On any other journey, but of death.

And yet: Oh, know we well How each of us must prove Love's infidel; Still out of ecstasy turn trembling back To earth's same empty track Of leaden day by day, and hour by hour, and be Of all things lovely the cold mortuary.



THE DISGUISE

Why in my heart, O Grief, Dost thou in beauty hide? Dead is my well-content, And buried deep my pride. Cold are their stones, beloved, To hand and side.

The shadows of even are gone, Shut are the day's clear flowers, Now have her birds left mute Their singing bowers, Lone shall we be, we twain, In the night hours.

Thou with thy cheek on mine, And dark hair loosed, shall see Take the far stars for fruit The cypress tree, And in the yew's black Shall the moon be.

We will tell no old tales, Nor heed if in wandering air Die a lost song of love Or the once fair; Still as well-water be The thoughts we share!

And, while the ghosts keep Tryst from chill sepulchres, Dreamless our gaze shall sleep, And sealed our ears; Heart unto heart will speak, Without tears.

O, thy veiled, lovely face— Joy's strange disguise— Shall be the last to fade From these rapt eyes, Ere the first dart of daybreak Pierce the skies.



VAIN QUESTIONING

What needest thou?—a few brief hours of rest Wherein to seek thyself in thine own breast; A transient silence wherein truth could say Such was thy constant hope, and this thy way?— O burden of life that is A livelong tangle of perplexities!

What seekest thou?—a truce from that thou art; Some steadfast refuge from a fickle heart; Still to be thou, and yet no thing of scorn, To find no stay here, and yet not forlorn?— O riddle of life that is An endless war 'twixt contrarieties.

Leave this vain questioning. Is not sweet the rose? Sings not the wild bird ere to rest he goes? Hath not in miracle brave June returned? Burns not her beauty as of old it burned? O foolish one to roam So far in thine own mind away from home!

Where blooms the flower when her petals fade, Where sleepeth echo by earth's music made, Where all things transient to the changeless win, There waits the peace thy spirit dwelleth in.



VIGIL

Dark is the night, The fire burns faint and low, Hours—days—years, Into grey ashes go; I strive to read, But sombre is the glow.

Thumbed are the pages, And the print is small; Mocking the winds That from the darkness call; Feeble the fire that lends Its light withal.

O ghost, draw nearer; Let thy shadowy hair, Blot out the pages That we cannot share; Be ours the one last leaf By Fate left bare!

Let's Finis scrawl, And then Life's book put by; Turn each to each In all simplicity: Ere the last flame is gone To warm us by.



THE OLD MEN

Old and alone, sit we, Caged, riddle-rid men; Lost to Earth's "Listen!" and "See!" Thought's "Wherefore?" and "When?"

Only far memories stray Of a past once lovely, but now Wasted and faded away, Like green leaves from the bough.

Vast broods the silence of night, The ruinous moon Lifts on our faces her light, Whence all dreaming is gone.

We speak not; trembles each head; In their sockets our eyes are still; Desire as cold as the dead; Without wonder or will. And One, with a lanthorn, draws near, At clash with the moon in our eyes: "Where art thou?" he asks: "I am here," One by one we arise.

And none lifts a hand to withhold A friend from the touch of that foe: Heart cries unto heart, "Thou art old!" Yet, reluctant, we go.



THE DREAMER

O thou who giving helm and sword, Gav'st, too, the rusting rain, And starry dark's all tender dews To blunt and stain:

Out of the battle I am sped, Unharmed, yet stricken sore; A living shape amid whispering shades On Lethe's shore.

No trophy in my hands I bring, To this sad, sighing stream, The neighings and the trumps and cries Were but a dream.

Traitor to life, of life betrayed: O, of thy mercy deep, A dream my all, the all I ask Is sleep.



MOTLEY

Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee; And thou, poor Innocency; And love—a Lad with broken wing; And Pity, too: The Fool shall sing to you, As Fools will sing.

Ay, music hath small sense, And a tune's soon told, And Earth is old, And my poor wits are dense; Yet have I secrets,—dark, my dear, To breathe you all: Come near. And lest some hideous listener tells, I'll ring my bells.

They are all at war!— Yes, yes, their bodies go 'Neath burning sun and icy star To chaunted songs of woe, Dragging cold cannon through a mire Of rain and blood and spouting fire, The new moon glinting hard on eyes Wide with insanities!

Hush!... I use words I hardly know the meaning of; And the mute birds Are glancing at Love From out their shade of leaf and flower, Trembling at treacheries Which even in noonday cower. Heed, heed not what I said Of frenzied hosts of men, More fools than I, On envy, hatred fed, Who kill, and die— Spake I not plainly, then? Yet Pity whispered, "Why?"

Thou silly thing, off to thy daisies go. Mine was not news for child to know, And Death—no ears hath. He hath supped where creep Eyeless worms in hush of sleep; Yet, when he smiles, the hand he draws Athwart his grinning jaws— Faintly the thin bones rattle, and—There, there; Hearken how my bells in the air Drive away care!...

Nay, but a dream I had Of a world all mad. Not simply happy mad like me, Who am mad like an empty scene Of water and willow tree, Where the wind hath been; But that foul Satan-mad, Who rots in his own head, And counts the dead, Not honest one—and two— But for the ghosts they were, Brave, faithful, true, When, head in air, In Earth's clear green and blue Heaven they did share With beauty who bade them there ... There, now! Death goes— Mayhap I've wearied him. Ay, and the light doth dim, And asleep's the rose, And tired Innocence In dreams is hence ... Come, Love, my lad, Nodding that drowsy head, 'Tis time thy prayers were said!



THE MARIONETTES

Let the foul Scene proceed: There's laughter in the wings; 'Tis sawdust that they bleed, But a box Death brings.

How rare a skill is theirs These extreme pangs to show, How real a frenzy wears Each feigner of woe!

Gigantic dins uprise! Even the gods must feel A smarting of the eyes As these fumes upsweal.

Strange, such a Piece is free, While we Spectators sit, Aghast at its agony, Yet absorbed in it!

Dark is the outer air, Cold the night draughts blow Mutely we stare, and stare At the frenzied Show.

Yet heaven hath its quiet shroud Of deep, immutable blue— We cry "An end!" We are bowed By the dread, "'Tis true!"

While the Shape who hoofs applause Behind our deafened ear, Hoots—angel-wise—"the Cause!" And affright even fear.



TO E.T.: 1917

You sleep too well—too far away, For sorrowing word to soothe or wound; Your very quiet seems to say How longed-for a peace you have found.

Else, had not death so lured you on, You would have grieved—'twixt joy and fear— To know how my small loving son Had wept for you, my dear.



APRIL MOON

Roses are sweet to smell and see, And lilies on the stem; But rarer, stranger buds there be, And she was like to them.

The little moon that April brings, More lovely shade than light, That, setting, silvers lonely hills Upon the verge of night—

Close to the world of my poor heart So stole she, still and clear; Now that she's gone, O dark, and dark, The solitude, the fear.



THE FOOL'S SONG

Never, no never, listen too long, To the chattering wind in the willow, the night bird's song.

'Tis sad in sooth to lie under the grass, But none too gladsome to wake and grow cold where life's shadows pass.

Dumb the old Toll-Woman squats, And, for every green copper battered and worn, doles out Nevers and Nots.

I know a Blind Man, too, Who with a sharp ear listens and listens the whole world through.

Oh, sit we snug to our feast, With platter and finger and spoon—and good victuals at least.



CLEAR EYES

Clear eyes do dim at last, And cheeks outlive their rose. Time, heedless of the past, No loving-kindness knows; Chill unto mortal lip Still Lethe flows.

Griefs, too, but brief while stay, And sorrow, being o'er, Its salt tears shed away, Woundeth the heart no more. Stealthily lave those waters That solemn shore.

Ah, then, sweet face burn on, While yet quick memory lives! And Sorrow, ere thou art gone, Know that my heart forgives— Ere yet, grown cold in peace, It loves not, nor grieves.



DUST TO DUST

Heavenly Archer, bend thy bow; Now the flame of life burns low, Youth is gone; I, too, would go.

Even Fortune leads to this: Harsh or kind, at last she is Murderess of all ecstasies.

Yet the spirit, dark, alone, Bound in sense, still hearkens on For tidings of a bliss foregone.

Sleep is well for dreamless head, At no breath astonished, From the Gardens of the Dead.

I the immortal harps hear ring, By Babylon's river languishing. Heavenly Archer, loose thy string.



THE THREE STRANGERS

Far are those tranquil hills, Dyed with fair evening's rose; On urgent, secret errand bent, A traveller goes.

Approach him strangers three, Barefooted, cowled; their eyes Scan the lone, hastening solitary With dumb surmise.

One instant in close speech With them he doth confer: God-sped, he hasteneth on, That anxious traveller ...

I was that man—in a dream: And each world's night in vain I patient wait on sleep to unveil Those vivid hills again.

Would that they three could know How yet burns on in me Love—from one lost in Paradise— For their grave courtesy.



ALEXANDER

It was the Great Alexander, Capped with a golden helm, Sate in the ages, in his floating ship, In a dead calm.

Voices of sea-maids singing Wandered across the deep: The sailors labouring on their oars Rowed, as in sleep.

All the high pomp of Asia, Charmed by that siren lay, Out of their weary and dreaming minds, Faded away.

Like a bold boy sate their Captain, His glamour withered and gone, In the souls of his brooding mariners, While the song pined on.

Time, like a falling dew, Life, like the scene of a dream, Laid between slumber and slumber, Only did seem....

O Alexander, then, In all us mortals too, Wax thou not bold—too bold On the wave dark-blue!

Come the calm, infinite night, Who then will hear Aught save the singing Of the sea-maids clear?



THE REAWAKENING

Green in light are the hills, and a calm wind flowing Filleth the void with a flood of the fragrance of Spring; Wings in this mansion of life are coming and going, Voices of unseen loveliness carol and sing.

Coloured with buds of delight the boughs are swaying, Beauty walks in the woods, and wherever she rove Flowers from wintry sleep, her enchantment obeying, Stir in the deep of her dream, reawaken to love.

Oh, now begone sullen care—this light is my seeing; I am the palace, and mine are its windows and walls; Daybreak is come, and life from the darkness of being Springs, like a child from the womb, when the lonely one calls.



THE VACANT DAY

As I did walk in meadows green I heard the summer noon resound With call of myriad things unseen That leapt and crept upon the ground.

High overhead the windless air Throbbed with the homesick coursing cry Of swallows that did everywhere Wake echo in the sky.

Beside me, too, clear waters coursed Which willow branches, lapsing low, Breaking their crystal gliding forced To sing as they did flow.

I listened; and my heart was dumb With praise no language could express; Longing in vain for him to come Who had breathed such blessedness

On this fair world, wherein we pass So chequered and so brief a stay; And yearned in spirit to learn, alas, What kept him still away.



THE FLIGHT

How do the days press on, and lay Their fallen locks at evening down, Whileas the stars in darkness play And moonbeams weave a crown—

A crown of flower-like light in heaven, Where in the hollow arch of space Morn's mistress dreams, and the Pleiads seven Stand watch about her place.

Stand watch—O days no number keep Of hours when this dark clay is blind. When the world's clocks are dumb in sleep 'Tis then I seek my kind.



FOR ALL THE GRIEF

For all the grief I have given with words May now a few clear flowers blow, In the dust, and the heat, and the silence of birds, Where the lonely go.

For the thing unsaid that heart asked of me Be a dark, cool water calling—calling To the footsore, benighted, solitary, When the shadows are falling.

O, be beauty for all my blindness, A moon in the air where the weary wend, And dews burdened with loving-kindness In the dark of the end.



THE SCRIBE

What lovely things Thy hand hath made: The smooth-plumed bird In its emerald shade, The seed of the grass, The speck of stone Which the wayfaring ant Stirs—and hastes on!

Though I should sit By some tarn in thy hills, Using its ink As the spirit wills To write of Earth's wonders, Its live, willed things, Flit would the ages On soundless wings. Ere unto Z My pen drew nigh; Leviathan told, And the honey-fly: And still would remain My wit to try My worn reeds broken, The dark tarn dry, All words forgotten— Thou, Lord, and I.



FARE WELL

When I lie where shades of darkness Shall no more assail mine eyes, Nor the rain make lamentation When the wind sighs; How will fare the world whose wonder Was the very proof of me? Memory fades, must the remembered Perishing be?

Oh, when this my dust surrenders Hand, foot, lip, to dust again, May these loved and loving faces Please other men! May the rustling harvest hedgerow Still the Traveller's Joy entwine, And as happy children gather Posies once mine.

Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour. Let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou have paid thy utmost blessing; Since that all things thou wouldst praise Beauty took from those who loved them In other days.

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THE END