But Michael Oaktree was a man whose love Had never waned through all his eighty years. His faith was hardly faith. He seemed a part Of all that he believed in. He had lived In constant conversation with the sun, The wind, the silence and the heart of peace; In absolute communion with the Power That rules all action and all tides of thought, And all the secret courses of the stars; The Power that still establishes on earth Desire and worship, through the radiant laws Of Duty, Love and Beauty; for through these As through three portals of the self-same gate The soul of man attains infinity, And enters into Godhead. So he gained On earth a fore-taste of Nirvana, not The void of eastern dream, but the desire And goal of all of us, whether thro' lives Innumerable, by slow degrees, we near The death divine, or from this breaking body Of earthly death we flash at once to God. Through simple love and simple faith, this man Attained a height above the hope of kings.

Yet, as I softly shut the little gate And walked across the garden, all the scents Of mingling blossom ached like inmost pain Deep in my heart, I know not why. They seemed Distinct, distinct as distant evening bells Tolling, over the sea, a secret chime That breaks and breaks and breaks upon the heart In sorrow rather than in sound, a chime Strange as a streak of sunset to the moon, Strange as a rose upon a starlit grave, Strange as a smile upon a dead man's lips; A chime of melancholy, mute as death But strong as love, uttered in plangent tones Of honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers, Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves, Lilac and lilies to the rose-wreathed porch.

At last I tapped and entered and was drawn Into the bedroom of the dying man, Who lay, propped up with pillows, quietly Gazing; for through his open casement far Beyond the whispers of the gilly-flowers He saw the mellow light of eventide Hallow the west once more; and, as he gazed, I think I never saw so great a peace On any human face. There was no sound Except the slumbrous pulsing of a clock, The whisper of the garden and, far off, The sacred consolation of the sea.

His wife sat at his bed-side: she had passed Her eightieth year; her only child was dead. She had been wedded more than sixty years, And she sat gazing with the man she loved Quietly, out into that unknown Deep.

A butterfly floated into the room And back again, pausing awhile to bask And wink its painted fans on the warm sill; A bird piped in the roses and there came Into the childless mother's ears a sound Of happy laughing children, far away.

Then Michael Oaktree took his wife's thin hand Between his big rough hands. His eyes grew dark, And, as he turned to her and died, he spoke Two words of perfect faith and love—Come soon!

O then in all the world there was no sound Except the slumbrous pulsing of a clock, The whisper of the leaves and far away, The infinite compassion of the sea. But, as I softly passed out of the porch And walked across the garden, all the scents Of mingling blossoms ached like inmost joy, Distinct no more, but like one heavenly choir Pealing one mystic music, still and strange As voices of the holy Seraphim, One voice of adoration, mute as love, Stronger than death, and pure with wedded tones Of honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers, Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves, Lilac and lilies to the garden gate.

O then indeed I knew how closely knit To stars and flowers we are, how many means Of grace there are for those that never lose Their sense of membership in this divine Body of God; for those that all their days Have walked in quiet communion with the Life That keeps the common secret of the sun, The wind, the silence and the heart of man. There is one God, one Love, one everlasting Mystery of Incarnation, one creative Passion behind the many-coloured veil.

We have obscured God's face with partial truths, The cause of all our sorrow and sin, our wars Of force and thought, in this unheavened world. Yet, by the battle of our partial truths, The past against the present and the swift Moment of passing joy against the deep Eternal love, ever the weaker truth Falls to the stronger, till once more we near The enfolding splendour of the whole. Our God Has been too long a partial God. We are all Made in His image, men and birds and beasts, Mountains and clouds and cataracts and suns, With those great Beings above our little world, A height beyond for every depth below, Those long-forgotten Princedoms, Virtues, Powers, Existences that live and move in realms As far beyond our thought as Europe lies With all its little arts and sciences Beyond the comprehension of the worm. We are all partial images, we need What lies beyond us to complete our souls; Therefore our souls are filled with a desire And love which lead us towards the Infinity Of Godhead that awaits us each and all.

Peacefully through the dreaming lanes I went. The sun sank, and the birds were hushed. The stars Trembled like blossoms in the purple trees. But, as I paused upon the whispering hill The mellow light still lingered in the west, And dark and soft against that rosy depth A boy and girl stood knee-deep in the ferns. Dreams of the dead man's youth were in my heart, Yet I was very glad; and as the moon Brightened, they kissed; and, linking hand in hand, Down to their lamp-lit home drifted away.

Under an arch of leaves, into the gloom I went along the little woodland road, And through the breathless hedge of hawthorn heard Out of the deepening night, the long low sigh Of supreme peace that whispers to the hills The sacrament and sabbath of the sea.



TOUCHSTONE ON A BUS

Last night I rode with Touchstone on a bus From Ludgate Hill to World's End. It was he! Despite the broadcloth and the bowler hat, I knew him, Touchstone, the wild flower of folly, The whetstone of his age, the scourge of kings, The madcap morning star of elfin-land, Who used to wrap his legs around his neck For warmth on winter nights. He had slipped back, To see what men were doing in a world That should be wiser. He had watched a play, Read several books, heard men discourse of art And life; and he sat bubbling like a spring In Arden. Never did blackbird, drenched with may, Chuckle as Touchstone chuckled on that ride. Lord, what a world! Lord, what a mad, mad world! Then, to the jolt and jingle of the engine, He burst into this bunch of madcap rhymes:—



THE NEW DUCKLING

I

THE NEW DUCKLING

"I want to be new," said the duckling. "O, ho!" said the wise old owl, While the guinea-hen cluttered off chuckling To tell all the rest of the fowl.

"I should like a more elegant figure," That child of a duck went on. "I should like to grow bigger and bigger, Until I could swallow a swan.

"I won't be the bond slave of habit, I won't have these webs on my toes. I want to run round like a rabbit, A rabbit as red as a rose.

"I don't want to waddle like mother, Or quack like my silly old dad. I want to be utterly other, And frightfully modern and mad."

"Do you know," said the turkey, "you're quacking! There's a fox creeping up thro' the rye; And, if you're not utterly lacking, You'll make for that duck-pond. Good-bye!"

"I won't," said the duckling. "I'll lift him A beautiful song, like a sheep; And when I have—as it were—biffed him, I'll give him my feathers to keep."

Now the curious end of this fable, So far as the rest ascertained, Though they searched from the barn to the stable, Was that only his feathers remained.

So he wasn't the bond slave of habit, And he didn't have webs on his toes; And perhaps he runs round like a rabbit, A rabbit as red as a rose.

II

THE MAN WHO DISCOVERED THE USE OF A CHAIR

The man who discovered the use of a chair, Odds—bobs— What a wonderful man! He used to sit down on it, tearing his hair, Till he thought of a highly original plan. For years he had sat on his chair, like you, Quite—still! But his looks were grim For he wished to be famous (as great men do) And nobody ever would listen to him.

Now he went one night to a dinner of state Hear! hear! In the proud Guildhall! And he sat on his chair, and he ate from a plate; But nobody heard his opinions at all;

There were ten fat aldermen down for a speech (Grouse! Grouse! What a dreary bird!) With five fair minutes allotted to each, But never a moment for him to be heard.

But, each being ready to talk, I suppose, Order! Order! They cried, for the Chair! And, much to their wonder, our friend arose And fastened his eye on the eye of the Mayor.

"We have come," he said, "to the fourteenth course! "High—time, for the Chair," he said. Then, with both of his hands, and with all of his force, He hurled his chair at the Lord Mayor's head.

It missed that head by the width of a hair. Gee—whizz! What a horrible squeak! But it crashed through the big bay-window there And smashed a bus into Wednesday week.

And the very next day, in the decorous Times (Great—Guns— How the headlines ran!) In spite of the kings and the wars and the crimes, There were five full columns about that man.

ENVOI

Oh, if you get dizzy when authors write (My stars! And you very well may!) That white is black and that black is white, You should sit, quite still, in your chair and say:

It is easy enough to be famous now, (Puff—Puff! How the trumpets blare!) Provided, of course, that you don't care how, Like the man who discovered the use of a chair.

III

COTTON-WOOL

Shun the brush and shun the pen, Shun the ways of clever men, When they prove that black is white, Whey they swear that wrong is right, When they roast the singing stars Like chestnuts, in between the bars, Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

When you see a clever man Run as quickly as you can. You must never, never, never Think that Socrates was clever. The cleverest thing I ever knew Now cracks walnuts at the Zoo. Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

Homer could not scintillate. Milton, too, was merely great. That's a very different matter From talking like a frantic hatter. Keats and Shelley had no tricks. Wordsworth never climbed up sticks. Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

Lincoln would create a gloom In many a London drawing-room; He'd be silent at their wit, He would never laugh at it. When they kissed Salome's toes, I think he'd snort and blow his nose. Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.

They'd curse him for a silly clown, They'd drum him out of London town. Professor Flunkey, the historian, Would say he was a dull Victorian. Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John, Bless the bed I rest upon. Children, let a wandering fool Stuff your ears with cotton-wool. Amen.

IV

FASHIONS

Fashion on fashion on fashion, (With only the truth growing old!) And here's the new purple of passion, (And love waiting out in the cold) Who'll buy?

They are crying new lamps for Aladdin, New worlds for the old and the true; And no one remembers the story The magic was not in the new.

They are crying a new rose for Eden, A rose of green glass. I suppose The only thing wrong with their rose is The fact that it isn't a rose. Who'll buy?

And here is a song without metre; And, here again, nothing is wrong; (For nothing on earth could be neater) Except that—it isn't a song.

Well. Walk on your hands. It's the latest! And feet are Victorian now; And even our best and our greatest Before that dread epithet bow. Who'll buy?

The furniture goes for a song, now. The sixties had horrible taste. But the trouble is this—they've included Some better things, too, in their haste.

Were they wrapped in the antimacassars, Or sunk in a sofa of plush? Did an Angelican bishop forget them, And leave them behind in the crush? Who'll buy?

Here's a turnex. It's going quite cheaply. (It lived with stuffed birds in the hall! And, of course, to a mind that thinks deeply That settles it, once and for all.)

Here's item, a ring (very plain, sirs!), And item, a God (but He's dead!); They say we shall need Him again, sirs, So—item, a cross for His head. Who'll buy?

Yes, you'll need it again, though He's dead, sirs. It is only the fashions that fly. So here are the thorns for His head, sirs. They'll keep till you need 'em. Who'll buy?



EPILOGUE

THE REWARD OF SONG

Why do we make our music? Oh, blind dark strings reply: Because we dwell in a strange land And remember a lost sky. We ask no leaf of the laurel, We know what fame is worth; But our songs break out of our winter As the flowers break out on the earth.

And we dream of the unknown comrade, In the days when we lie dead, Who shall open our book in the sunlight, And read, as ourselves have read, On a lonely hill, by a firwood, With whispering seas below, And murmur a song we made him Ages and ages ago.

If making his may-time sweeter With dews of our own dead may, One pulse of our own dead heart-strings Awake in his heart that day, We would pray for no richer guerdon, No praise from the careless throng; For song is the cry of a lover In quest of an answering song.

As a child might run to his elders With news of an opening flower We should walk with our young companion And talk to his heart for an hour, As once by my own green firwood, And once by a Western sea, Thank God, my own good comrades Have walked and talked with me.

Too mighty to make men sorrow, Too weak to heal their pain (Though they that remember the hawthorn May find their heaven again), We are moved by a deeper hunger; We are bound by a stronger cord; For love is the heart of our music, And love is its one reward.

THE END