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diff --git a/4513.txt b/4513.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7aa9b07 --- /dev/null +++ b/4513.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3130 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Rainbow and the Rose, by E. Nesbit + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Rainbow and the Rose + +Author: E. Nesbit + +Posting Date: August 8, 2009 [EBook #4513] +Release Date: October, 2003 +First Posted: January 28, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAINBOW AND THE ROSE *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo. + + + + + + + + + +THE RAINBOW AND THE ROSE + + +BY + +E. NESBIT + + + + +1905 + + + + + +TO IRIS AND ROSAMUND + + + + + + CONTENTS. + + I. + + THE THINGS THAT MATTER + THE CONFESSION + WORK + THE JILTED LOVER + THE WILL TO LIVE + THE BEATIFIC VISION + + II. + + MUMMY WHEAT + THE BEECH TREE + IN ABSENCE + SILENCE + RAISON D'ETRE + THE ONLOOKER + THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE + AT PARTING + SONG + RENUNCIATION + + III. + + THE VEIL OF MAYA + SONG + TO VERA + THE POET TO HIS LOVE + THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER + SONG + THE MAGIC FLOWER + LA DERNIERE ROBE DE SOIE + THE LEAST POSSIBLE + EN TOUT CAS + APPEAL + ST. VALENTINE'S DAY + CHAGRIN D'AMOUR + BRIDAL EVE + LOVE AND LIFE + FROM THE ITALIAN + + IV. + + "OUT OF THE FULNESS OF THE HEART" + SUMMER SONG + THE LOWER ROOM + SONG + MAY SONG + + V. + + TO IRIS + TO A CHILD + BIRTHDAY TALK FOR A CHILD + TO ROSAMUND + FROM THE TUSCAN + MOTHER SONG: FROM THE PORTUGUESE + + VI. + + THE ISLAND + POSSESSION + ACCESSION + THE DESTROYER + THE EGOISTS + THE WAY OF LOVE + TO ONE WHO PLEADED FOR CANDOUR IN LOVE + THE ENCHANTED GARDEN + THE POOR MAN'S GUEST + IN THE SHALLOWS + "AND THE RAINS DESCENDED AND THE FLOODS CAME" + THE STAR + + VII. + + THE PRODIGAL SON + DESPAIR + THE TEMPTATION + SECOND NATURE + DE PROFUNDIS + + VIII. + + AT THE GATE + VIA AMORIS + RETRO SATHANAS + THE OLD DISPENSATION + THE NEW DISPENSATION + THE THREE KINGS + + IX. + + AFTER DEATH + CHLOE + INVOCATION + THE LAST BETRAYAL + A PRAYER FOR THE KING'S MAJESTY + TRUE LOVE AND NEW LOVE + DEATH + IN MEMORY OF SARETTA DEAKIN + A PARTING + + + + + + I. + + + THE THINGS THAT MATTER. + + NOW that I've nearly done my days, + And grown too stiff to sweep or sew, + I sit and think, till I'm amaze, + About what lots of things I know: + Things as I've found out one by one-- + And when I'm fast down in the clay, + My knowing things and how they're done + Will all be lost and thrown away. + + There's things, I know, as won't be lost, + Things as folks write and talk about: + The way to keep your roots from frost, + And how to get your ink spots out. + What medicine's good for sores and sprains, + What way to salt your butter down, + What charms will cure your different pains, + And what will bright your faded gown. + + But more important things than these, + They can't be written in a book: + How fast to boil your greens and peas, + And how good bacon ought to look; + The feel of real good wearing stuff, + The kind of apple as will keep, + The look of bread that's rose enough, + And how to get a child asleep. + + Whether the jam is fit to pot, + Whether the milk is going to turn, + Whether a hen will lay or not, + Is things as some folks never learn. + I know the weather by the sky, + I know what herbs grow in what lane; + And if sick men are going to die, + Or if they'll get about again. + + Young wives come in, a-smiling, grave, + With secrets that they itch to tell: + I know what sort of times they'll have, + And if they'll have a boy or gell. + And if a lad is ill to bind, + Or some young maid is hard to lead, + I know when you should speak 'em kind, + And when it's scolding as they need. + + I used to know where birds ud set, + And likely spots for trout or hare, + And God may want me to forget + The way to set a line or snare; + But not the way to truss a chick, + To fry a fish, or baste a roast, + Nor how to tell, when folks are sick, + What kind of herb will ease them most! + + Forgetting seems such silly waste! + I know so many little things, + And now the Angels will make haste + To dust it all away with wings! + O God, you made me like to know, + You kept the things straight in my head, + Please God, if you can make it so, + Let me know something when I'm dead. + + + THE CONFESSION. + + I HAVEN'T always acted good: + I've taken things not meant for me; + Not other people's drink and food, + But things they never seemed to see. + I haven't done the way I ought + If all they say in church is true, + But all I've had I've fairly bought, + And paid for pretty heavy too. + + For days and weeks are very long + If you get nothing new and bright, + And if you never do no wrong + Somehow you never do no right. + The chap that daresent go a yard + For fear the path should lead astray + May be a saint--though that seems hard, + But he's no traveller, any way. + + Some things I can't be sorry for, + The things that silly people hate: + But some I did I do deplore, + I knew, inside, they wasn't straight. + And when my last account is filed, + And stuck-up angels stop their song, + I'll ask God's pardon like a child + For what I really knew was wrong. + + If you've a child, you'd rather see + A bit of temper, off and on, + A greedy grab, a silly spree-- + And then a brave thing said or done + Than hear your boy whine all day long + About the things he musn't do: + Just doing nothing, right or wrong: + And God may feel the same as you. + + For God's our Father, so they say, + He made His laws and He made me; + He'll understand about the way + Me and His laws could not agree. + He might say, "You're worth more, My son, + Than all My laws since law began. + Take good with bad--here's something done-- + And I'm your God, and you're My man." + + + WORK. + + WHEN I am busying about, + Sewing on buttons, tapes, and strings, + Hanging the week's wet washing out + Or ironing the children's things, + Sweeping and dusting, cleaning grates, + Scrubbing the dresser or the floors, + Washing the greasy dinner plates, + Scouring the brasses on the doors-- + + I wonder what it's all about, + And when did people first begin + To keep the dirt and wornness out + And keep the wholesome comfort in: + How long it is since women bore + This round of wash and make and mend, + And what God makes us do it for + And whether it will ever end! + + When God began to do His work + He made a new thing every day-- + Even now He is not one to shirk, + But makes things, always some new way + He made the earth, and sky, and sun, + The creatures of the sea and wood, + And when his first week's work was done + He saw that it was very good. + + But He--for all He worked so fast + To finish air, and wave, and shore, + Knew that this work of His would last + For ever and for evermore. + On Saturday night He was content, + He knew that Monday would not bring + Need for another firmament, + Another set of everything. + + But though my work is easier far + Than making sky and sea and sun, + It's harder than God's labours are, + Because my work is never done. + I sweep and churn, save and contrive, + I bake and brew, I don't complain, + But every Monday morning I've + Last Monday's work to do again. + + I'm good at work--I work away; + Always the same my work must go; + The flowers grow different every day, + That's why I like to see them grow. + If, up in Heaven, God understood + He'd let me for my Paradise + Make all things new and very good + And never make the same thing twice! + + + THE JILTED LOVER TO HIS MOTHER. + + You needn't pray for me, old lady, I don't want no one's prayer, + I'm fit and jolly as ever I was--you needn't think I care. + When I go whistling down the road, when the warm night is falling, + She needn't think I'm whistling her, it's another girl I'm calling. + + If I pass her house a dozen times, or fifty times a day, + She needn't think I think of her, my work lies out that way. + If they should tell her I've grown thin (for that is what they've told me) + This cursed weather counts for that, and not the girl who sold me. + + And if they say I'm off my feed I still can tip a can; + If I get drunk what's that to her? I am not her young man. + I know I've had a lucky let-off--she ain't no class, she ain't, + For all she looked like a bush o' roses and talked like a story book saint. + + I never give a thought to her. Don't worry your old head, + I've quite forgot her pretty ways and the cruel things she said, + There's lots of other gals to be had as any chap can see, + So you cheer up, you've got no call to go and pray for me. + But all the same, if you want to pray, you'd best pray God take care of them, + For if I catch them two together, by hell! I'll swing for the pair of them. + + + THE WILL TO LIVE. + + SINCE Faith is a veil that has nothing behind it, + And Hope wanders lost where no mortal can find it, + Since Love is a mirror we break in a minute + In snatching the image our soul has cast in it, + What is the use of the Summers and Springs, + The wave of the woods and the waft of the wings-- + Since all means nothing, and good things and ill + Make madness,--a mirage tormenting us still? + + Since all the fighting, the ardent endeavour, + The heart cast bleeding to feed the Ideal, + Are vain, vain, vain, and the one thing real + Is that all's vain, for ever and ever; + Why then, be a man and stand back from the strife, + Fall by the sword, but keep out of the snare; + Will but to be--and be willing to bear + All that the gods may lay on your of life! + + In the far East, where light ever dawns first, + There has man learned how the Fates may be cheated, + How by our craft may their strength be defeated, + Though all our best be no match for their worst! + Kill the desire that they set in your bosom, + Long not for fruit when you gaze on the blossom, + Dream not of flowers when you gaze on the bud, + Kill all the rebels that shout in your blood. + Sorrow and sickness, disease and decay-- + These toll the hours of Life's desolate day; + Hopes unfulfilled and forbidden delight + These are the dreams of Life's treacherous night. + So let me image an infinite peace + Touched with no joy but the ease of release. + Out of the eddies I climb and I cease + Keeping, in change for this man's soul of me, + Something which, by the eternal decree, + Is as like Nothing as Something can be! + + Not to desire, to admit, to adore, + Casting the robe of the soul that you wore + Just as the soul casts the body's robe down. + This is man's destiny, this is man's crown. + This is the splendour, the end of the feast; + This is the light of the Star in the East. + + So, Silence reconciles Life's jarring phrases + Far in the future, austere and august: + Meanwhile, the buds of the poplars are falling, + Spring's on the lawn, and a little voice calling: + "Daddy, come out! Daddy darling, you must! + Daddy come out and help Molly pick daisies!" + And, since one's here, and the Spring's in the garden + (How many lives hence will that thought earn pardon?) + Since one's a man and man's heart is insistent, + And, since Nirvana is doubtful and distant, + Though life's a hard road and thorny to travel-- + Stones in the borders and grass on the gravel, + Still there's the wisdom that wise men call folly, + Still one can go and pick daisies with Molly! + + + THE BEATIFIC VISION. + + OH God! if I do my duty + And walk in the thorny way, + Will you pay me with heavens of beauty, + Millions of lives away? + Will you give me the music of heaven, + And the joy that none understands, + In place of what life would have given + If I had held out my hands? + + I have lived in a narrow prison, + I have writhed 'neath a bitter creed, + And I dare to say that no heaven can pay + The renounced dream and deed, + But when my life's portal closes, + If you have no heaven to spare + God! give me a garden of roses, + And some one to walk with there. + + + + + II. + + + MUMMY WHEAT. + + LAID close to Death, these many thousand years, + In this small seed Life hid herself and smiled; + So well she hid, Death was at least beguiled, + Set free the grain--and lo! the sevenfold ears! + + Warmed by the sun, wooed by the wind's soft word, + Under blue canopy they hold their state: + For this, ah, was it not worth while to wait + Through all the centuries of hope deferred? + + What could they know who laid the seed with Death + Of this Divine fruition fixed and planned? + Love--since Life parts us--lend my hand your hand + And look with me into the eyes of faith. + + For here between your hand and mine there lies + A little seed we trust to Death to keep + Through unimagined centuries of sleep + Until the day when Life shall bid it rise. + + Our harvest waits us. Who knows where or how, + What worlds away, wrapped in what coil of pain? + But Life shall bid us pluck gold sevenfold grain + Grown from the love she bids us bury now. + + + THE BEECH TREE. + + MY beautiful beech, your smooth grey coat is trimmed + With letters. Once, each stood for all things dear + To foolish lovers, dead this many a year, + Whose lamp of lighted love so soon was dimmed. + You have seen them come and go, + And heard their kisses and vows + Under your boughs, + The pitiful vows they swore, + Have seen their poor tears flow, + Have seen them part; to meet, and to return, no more! + + And in old winters, through your branches bare, + The north wind drove the blue home-scented smoke + That on the glowing Christmas hearth awoke + Where the old logs, with eager flicker and flare, + Sang their low crackling song + Of peace and of good will. + The old song is still, + The old voices have died away, + The hearth has been cold so long, + And the bright faces dimmed and covered up with clay. + + And summer after summer wakes to glow + The ordered pleasance with the clipped box-hedge, + The drooping lilac by the old moat's edge, + The roses, that throw you kisses from below, + The orchard pink and white, + The sedge's whispered words, + The nesting birds, + All these return to revel round your feet. + And in the untroubled night + The nightingale still sings, the jasmine still is sweet. + + My beautiful beech, I carve upon you here + The master-letter which begins her name + Through whom, to me, the royal summer came, + And nightingale and rose, and all things dear. + And, in some far-off time, + I shall come here, weary and old, + When the hearth in my heart is cold + And the birds that nest there flown; + I will remember this summer in all its prime + And say, "There was a day-- + Thank God, the Giver, an unforgotten day, + When I walked here, not alone, + --O God of pity and sorrow, not alone!" + + + IN ABSENCE. + + WAKE, do you wake in the dark in the strange far place, + Window and door not set like the ones we knew, + Leaning your face through the dark for another face, + Stretching your arms to the arms that are far from you, + Even as I, through the depth of this darkness, do? + + Sleep, do you sleep in the house in the lonely land? + In the lonely room do you hear no steps draw near? + Do you miss in the darkness the hand that implores your hand, + See through the darkness your last dream disappear, + And weep, as I weep, in the outer darkness here? + + Dream, do you dream? Nay, never a dream will stay, + Never a phantom is fond, or a vision kind. + Your dreams elude you and fly through the dark my way, + My dreams fly forth to you whom they may not find; + And we in the darkness weep, we weep and are left behind. + + + SILENCE. + + So silent is the world to-night + The lamp gives silence out like light, + The latticed windows open wide + Show silence, like the night, outside: + The nightingale's faint song draws near + Like musical silence to mine ear. + + The empty house calls not to me, + "Here, but for fate, were thou and she--" + Its gibe for once is checked. To-night + Silence is queen in grief's despite, + And even the longing of my soul + Is silent 'neath this hour's control. + + + RAISON D'ETRE. + + O WEARY night, O weary day, + When heart's delight is far away! + + What is the day? A frame of blue + The vacant-glaring sun grins through. + What is the night? A sable veil + Through which the moon peers tired and pale. + + O weary day! O weary night! + How far away is heart's delight! + + Love hung the sun in his high place + To give me light to see her face, + And love spread out the veil of night + To hide us two from all men's sight. + + O kindly night, O pleasant day, + Your use is gone--why should ye stay? + My heart's delight is far away, + O weary night, O weary day. + + + THE ONLOOKER. + + If I could make a pillow for your head, + Soft, pleasant, filled with every pretty thought; + If I could lay a carpet where you tread + Of all my life's most radiant fancies wrought, + And spread my love as canopy above you, + Your sleep, your steps should know how much I love you. + + But--as life goes, to the old sorry tune-- + I stand apart, I see thorns wound your feet, + Your sleeping eyes resenting sun and moon, + Your head lie restless on a breast unmeet-- + And say no word, and suffer without moan, + Lest you should guess how much you are alone. + + + THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE. + + I PLUCKED the blossoms of delight + In many a wood and many a field, + I made a garland fair and bright + As any gardens yield. + + But when I sought the living tree + To make new earth and Heaven new, + I found--alas for you and me-- + Its roots were set in you. + + Oh, dear my garden, where the fruit + Of lovely knowledge sweetly springs, + How jealously you guard the root + Of all enlightening things! + + + AT PARTING. + + AND you could leave me now-- + After the first remembered whispered vow + Which sings for ever and ever in my ears-- + The vow which God among His Angels hears-- + After the long-drawn years, + The slow hard tears, + Could break new ground, and wake + A new strange garden to blossom for your sake, + And leave me here alone, + In the old garden that was once our own? + + How should I learn to bear + Our garden's pleasant ways and pleasant air, + Her flowers, her fruits, her lily, her rose and thorn, + When only in a picture these appear-- + These, once alive, and always over-dear? + Ah--think again: the rose you used to wear + Must still be more than other roses be + The flower of flowers. Ah, pity, pity me! + + For in my acres is no plot of ground + Whereon could any garden site be found, + I have but little skill + To water weed and till + And make the desert blossom like the rose; + Yet our old garden knows + If I have loved its ways and walks and kept + The garden watered, and the pleasance swept. + + Yet--if you must--go now: + Go, with my blessing filling both your hands, + And, mid the desert sands + Which life drifts deep round every garden wall, + Make your new festival + Of bud and blossom--red rose and green leaf. + No blight born of my grief + Shall touch your garden, love; but my heart's prayer + Shall draw down blessings on you from the air, + And all we learned of leaf and plant and tree + Shall serve you when you walk no more with me + In garden ways; and when with her you tread + The pleasant ways with blossoms overhead + And when she asks, "How did you come to know + The secrets of the ways these green things grow?" + Then you will answer--and I, please God, hear, + "I had another garden once, my dear". + + + SONG. + + I HEAR the waves to-night + Piteously calling, calling + Though the light + Of the kind moon is falling, + Like kisses, on the sea + That calls for sunshine, dear, as my soul calls for thee. + + I see the sea lie gray + Wrinkling her brows in sorrow, + Hear her say:-- + "Bright love of yesterday, return to-morrow, + Sun, I am thine, am thine!" + Oh sea, thy love will come again, but what of mine? + + + RENUNCIATION. + + ROSE of the desert of my heart, + Moon of the night that is my soul, + Thou can'st not know how sweet thou art, + Nor what wild tides thy beams control. + + For all thy heart a garden is, + Thy soul is like a dawn of May. + And garden and dawn might both be his, + Who from them both must turn away. + + Oh, garden of the Spring's delight! + Oh, dewy dawn of perfect noon! + I will not pluck thy roses white + Or warm thy May-time into June. + + I can but bless thee, moon and rose, + And journey far and very far + To where the night no moonbeam shows, + To where no happy roses are! + + + + + III. + + + THE VEIL OF MAYA. + + + SWEET, I have loved before. I know + This longing that invades my days; + This shape that haunts life's busy ways + I know since long and long ago. + + This starry mystery of delight + That floats across my eager eyes, + This pain that makes earth Paradise, + These magic songs of day and night-- + + I know them for the things they are: + A passing pain, a longing fleet, + A shape that soon I shall not meet, + A fading dream of veil and star. + + Yet, even as my lips proclaim + The wisdom that the years have lent, + Your absence is joy's banishment, + And life's one music is your name. + + I love you to my heart's hid core: + Those other loves? how should one learn + From marshlights how the great fires burn? + Ah, no! I never loved before! + + + SONG. + + THE sunshine of your presence lies + On the glad garden of my heart + And bids the leaves of silence part + To show the flowers to your dear eyes, + And flower on flower blooms there and dies + And still new buds awakened spring, + For sunshine makes the garden wise, + To know the time for blossoming. + + Night is no time for blossoming, + Your garden then dreams otherwise, + Of vanished Summer, vanished Spring, + And how the dearest flower first dies. + Yet from your ministering eyes + Though night hath drawn me far apart + On the still garden of my heart + The moonlight of your memory lies. + + + TO VERA, WHO ASKED A SONG. + + IF I only had time! + I could make you a rhyme. + But my time is kept flying + By smiling and sighing + And living and dying for you. + The song-seed, I sow it, + I water and hoe it, + But never can grow it. + Ah, traitress, you know it! + What is a poor poet to do? + + Ah, let me take breath! + I am harried to death + By the loves and the graces + That crowd where your face is + That lurk in your laces and throng. + Call them off for a minute, + Once let me begin it + The devil is in it + If I can not spin it + As sweet as a linnet, your song! + + + THE POET TO HIS LOVE. + + ALL the flight of thoughts here, shy, bold, scared, intrusive, + Fluttering in the sun, between the green and blue, + Wheeling, whirling, poising, lovely and elusive, + How to cage the flying thoughts, my winged delight, for you? + + Set a springe of rhyme, and hope to catch them in it? + Strew my love as grain to lure them to the snare? + Watch the hours built up, slow minute piled on minute? + Still the wide sky guards their flight, and still the cage is bare. + + Gleam of hovering feathers, brushing me to flout me! + Wings, be weary! Rest! Who loves you more than I? + Caught? Oh fluttering pinions whitening air about me! + Rustling wings, and distant flight, and empty cage and sky! + + + THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER. + + SPRING, pretty Spring, what treasure do you bring to me? + Green grass and buttercups, cherry-bloom and may? + Sunshine to be glad with me, and little birds to sing to me? + Warm nests to call me along the woodland way? + + Spring, happy Spring, what wonder will you do for me? + Light the tulip lanterns, and set the furze a-fire? + Fill your sky with sails of cloud on waves of living blue for me? + Show me green cornfields and budding of the briar? + + Spring, darling Spring, my days will not return to me, + You who see them fleeting, you, all time above, + You who move the whole world's heart, ah move one heart to turn to me, + --Bring me a lover, and teach me how to love! + + + SONG. + + "LOVE me little, love me long," + Is the burden of my song, + And if nothing more may be + Little shall suffice for me. + + But if you could crown with flowers + All my radiant, festal hours, + And console for hours of sorrow + Love me more with each to-morrow. + + And if you would turn my days + To one splendid hymn of praise, + And set hopes like stars above me + Love me much, and always love me! + + + THE MAGIC FLOWER. + + THROUGH many days and many days + The seed of love lay hidden close; + We walked the dusty tiresome ways + Where never a leaf or blossom grows. + And in the darkness, all the while, + The little seed its heart uncurled, + And we by many a weary mile + Travelled towards it, round the world. + + To the hid centre of the maze + At last we came, and there we found-- + O happy day, O day of days! + --Twin seed-leaves breaking holy ground. + We dropped life's joys, a garnered sheaf, + And spell-bound watched, still hour by hour, + Magic on magic, leaf by leaf, + The unfolding of our love's white flower. + + + LA DERNIERE ROBE DE SOI. + + OH, silken gown, all pink and pretty, + Bought, quite a bargain, in the City, + Your ill-trained soul full false has played me-- + No Paris gown would have betrayed me. + + You knew, my pretty silken treasure, + I must not wed for love or pleasure, + But for a settlement and title; + Yet you encouraged his recital! + + He said--oh, faithless gown, you listened + While on your sheen two tear drops glistened-- + He said . . . let love to music set it, + I'll never speak it--nor forget it! + + "No, no!" I cried, I tried to save you-- + False gown, you showed the tears I gave you! + You looked discreet when first I found you. + How could you let his arm go round you? + + You darling dress--I'll smooth your creases, + I'll wear you till you drop to pieces; + But poor men's wives wear cotton only-- + Dear gown--I hope you won't feel lonely! + + + THE LEAST POSSIBLE. + + DEAR goddess of the shining shrine + Where all my votive tapers burn, + Where every gold-embroidered thought + And all my flowers of life are brought + --With many, alas! that are not mine-- + What will you give me in return? + + The bow in Bond Street--in the Park + The smile all worship on your lips, + The courteous word at dinner--dance-- + But never a blush--a conscious glance; + At most, at Henley, in the dark, + Your fleet mistaken finger-tips? + + Ah, just for once, once only, be + An altar-server--stoop and set me + Upon the altar richly wrought + Of your most secret flower-sweet thought: + One nightlight's flicker burn for me + Before you sleep and quite forget me. + + + EN TOUT CAS. + + WHEN I am glad I need your eyes + To be the stars of Paradise; + Your lips to be the seal of all + The joy life grants, and dreams recall; + Your hand, to lie my hands between + What time we walk the garden green. + + But most in grief I need your face + To lean to mine in the desert place; + Your lips to mock the evil years, + To sweeten me my cup of tears, + Your eyes to shine, in cloud's despite, + Your hands to hold mine through the night. + + + APPEAL. + + Daphnis dearest, wherefore weave me + Webs of lies lest truth should grieve me? + I could pardon much, believe me: + Dower me, Daphnis, or bereave me, + Kill me, kill me, love me, leave me-- + Damn me, dear, but don't deceive me! + + + ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. + + THE South is a dream of flowers + With a jewel for sky and sea, + Rose-crowns for the dancing hours, + Gold fruits upon every tree; + But cold from the North + The wind blows forth + That blows my love to me. + + The stars in the South are gold + Like lamps between sky and sea; + The flowers that the forests hold + Like stars between tree and tree; + But little and white + Is the pale moon's light + That lights my love to me. + + In the South the orange grove + Makes dusk by the dusky sea, + White palaces wrought for love + Gleam white between tree and tree, + But under bare boughs + Is the little house + Warm-lit for my love and me. + + + CHAGRIN D'AMOUR. + + IF Love and I were all alone + I might forget to grieve, + And for his pleasure and my own + Might happier garlands weave; + But you sit there, and watch us wear + The mourning wreaths you wove: + And while such mocking eyes you bear + I am not friends with Love. + + Withdraw those cruel eyes, and let + Me search the garden through + That I may weave, ere Love be set, + The wreath of Love for you; + Till you, whom Love so well adorns, + Its hidden thorns discover, + And know at last what crown of thorns + It was you gave your lover. + + + BRIDAL EVE. + + GOOD-NIGHT, my Heart, my Heart, good-night-- + Oh, good and dear and fair, + With lips of life and eyes of light + And roses in your hair. + + To-morrow brings the other crown, + The orange blossoms, Sweet, + And then the rose will be cast down + With lilies at your feet. + + But in your soul a garden stands + Where fair the white rose blows-- + God, teach my foolish clumsy hands + The way to tend my rose. + + That in the white-rose garden still + The lily may bloom fair + God help my heart and soul and will + To keep the lily there. + + + LOVE AND LIFE. + + LOVE only sings when Love is young, + When Love is young and still at play, + How shall we count the sweet songs sung + When Love and Joy kept holiday? + But now Love has to earn his bread + By lifelong stress and toil of tears, + He finds his nest of song-birds dead + That sang so sweet in other years. + + For Love's a man now, strong and brave, + To fight for you, for you to live, + And Love, that once such bright songs gave, + Has better things than songs to give; + He gives you now a lifelong faith, + A hand to help in joy or pain, + And he will sing no more, till Death + Shall come to make him young again! + + + FROM THE ITALIAN. + + AS a little child whom his mother has chidden, + Wrecked in the dark in a storm of weeping, + Sleeps with his tear-stained eyes closed hidden + And, with fists clenched, sobs still in his sleeping, + + So in my breast sleeps Love, O white lady, + What does he care though the rest are playing, + With rattles and drums in the woodlands shady, + Happy children, whom Joy takes maying! + + Ah, do not wake him, lest you should hear him + Scolding the others, breaking their rattles, + Smashing their drums, when their play comes near him-- + Love who, for me, is a god of battles! + + + + + IV. + + + "OUT OF THE FULNESS OF THE HEART THE MOUTH SPEAKETH." + + In answer to those who have said that English Poets + give no personal love to their country. + + ENGLAND, my country, austere in the clamorous council of nations, + Set in the seat of the mighty, wielding the sword of the strong, + Have we but sung of your glory, firm in eternal foundations? + Are not your woods and your meadows the core of our heart and our song? + O dear fields of my country, grass growing green, glowing golden, + Green in the patience of winter, gold in the pageant of spring, + Oaks and young larches awaking, wind-flowers and violets blowing, + What, if God sets us to singing, what save you shall we sing? + Who but our England is fair through the veil of her poets' praises, + What but the pastoral face, the fruitful, beautiful breast? + Are not your poets' meadows starred with the English daisies? + Were not the wings of their song-birds fledged in an English nest? + Songs of the leaves in the sunlight, songs of the fern-brake in shadow, + Songs of the world of the woods and songs of the marsh and the mere, + Are they not English woods, dear English marshland and meadow? + Have not your poets loved you? England, are you not dear? + + Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom, + Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam, + Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom, + Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home. + Lanes that are white with hawthorn, dykes where the sedges shiver, + Hollows where caged winds slumber, moorlands where winds wake free, + Sowing and reaping and gleaning, spring and torrent and river, + Are they not more, by worlds, than the whole of the world can be? + + Is there a corner of land, a furze-fringed rag of a by-way, + Coign of your foam-white cliffs or swirl of your grass-green waves, + Leaf of your peaceful copse, or dust of your strenuous highway, + But in our hearts is sacred, dear as our cradles, our graves? + Is not each bough in your orchards, each cloud in the skies above you, + Is not each byre or homestead, furrow or farm or fold, + Dear as the last dear drops of the blood in the hearts that love you, + Filling those hearts till the love is more than the heart can hold? + Therefore the song breaks forth from the depths of the hidden fountain + Singing your least frail flower, your raiment of seas and skies, + Singing your pasture and cornfield, fen and valley and mountain, + England, desire of my heart, England, delight of mine eyes! + Take my song too, my country: many a son and debtor + Pays you in praise and homage out of your gifts' full store; + Life of my life, my England, many will praise you better, + None, by the God that made you, ever can love you more! + + + SUMMER SONG. + + THERE are white moon daisies in the mist of the meadow + Where the flowered grass scatters its seeds like spray, + There are purple orchis by the wood-ways' shadow, + There are pale dog-roses by the white highway; + And the grass, the grass is tall, the grass is up for hay, + With daisies white like silver and buttercups like gold, + And it's oh! for once to play thro' the long, the lovely day, + To laugh before the year grows old! + + There is silver moonlight on the breast of the river + Where the willows tremble to the kiss of night, + Where the nine tall aspens in the meadow shiver, + Shiver in the night wind that turns them white. + And the lamps, the lamps are lit, the lamps are glow-worms light, + Between the silver aspens and the west's last gold. + And it's oh! to drink delight in the lovely lonely night, + To be young before the heart grows old! + + + THE LOWER ROOM. + + How soft the lamplight falls + On pictures, books, + And pleasant coloured walls + And curtains drawn! + How happily one looks + On glowing flame and ember; + Ah, why should one remember + Dew and dawn! + + Here age and wisdom sit + Calm and discreet, + Life and the fruit of it + Are here in truth, + Whose gathering once was sweet-- + Wisdom and age! Well met! + Yet neither can forget + Folly and youth! + + + SONG. + + THE summer down the garden walks + Swept in her garments bright; + She touched the pale still lily stalks + And crowned them with delight; + She breathed upon the rose's head + And filled its heart with fire, + And with a golden carpet spread + The path of my desire. + + The larkspurs stood like sentinels + To greet her as she came, + Soft rang the Canterbury bells + The music of her name. + She passed across the happy land + Where all dear dreams flower free; + She took my true love by the hand + And led her out to me. + + + MAY SONG. + + BIRDS in the green of my garden + Blackbirds and throstle and wren, + Wet your dear wings in the tears that are Spring's + And so to your singing again! + Birds in my blossoming orchard, + Chaffinch and goldfinch and lark, + Preen your bright wings, little happy live things; + The May trees grow white in the park! + + Birds in the leafy wet woodlands, + Cuckoo and nightingale brown, + Sing to the sound of the rain on green ground-- + The rain on green leaves dripping down! + Fresh with the rain of the May-time, + Rich with the promise of June, + Deep in her heart, where the little leaves part, + Love, like a bird, sings in tune! + + + + + V. + + + TO IRIS. + + IF I might build a palace, fair + With every joy of soul and sense, + And set my heart as sentry there + To guard your happy innocence-- + If I might plant a hedge so strong + No creeping sorrow could writhe through, + And find my whole life not too long + To give, to make your hedge for you-- + + If I could teach the wandering air + To bring no sounds that were not sweet, + Could teach the earth that only fair + Untrodden flower deserved your feet: + Would I not tear the secret scroll + Where all your griefs lie closely curled, + And give your little hand control + Of all the joys of all the world? + + But ah! I have no skill to raise + The palace, teach the hedge to grow; + The common airs blow through your days, + By common ways your dear feet go. + And you must twine of common flowers + The wreath that happy women wear, + And bear in desolate darkened hours + The common griefs that all men bear. + + The pinions of my love I fold + Your little shoulders close about: + Ah--could my love keep out the cold + And shut the creeping sorrows out! + Rough paths will tire your darling feet, + Gray skies will weep your tears above, + While round you still, in torment, beat + The impotent wings of mother-love. + + + TO A CHILD. + (Rosamund.) + + The fairies have been busy while you slept; + They have been laughing where the sad rain wept, + They have taught Beauty to the ignorant flowers, + Set tasks of hope to weary wind-torn bowers, + And heard the lessons learned in school-rooms cold + By seedling snapdragon and marigold. + At dawn, while still you slept, I grew aware + How good the fairies are, how many and fair. + + The fairy whose delightful gown is red + Across a corner of our garden sped, + And, where her flying raiment fluttered past, + Its roseate reflection still is cast: + Red poppies by the rhododendron's side, + Paeonies gorgeous in their summer pride, + And red may-bushes by the old red wall + Shower down their crimson petals over all. + + Then she whose gown is gold, and gold her hair, + Swept down the golden steep straight sunbeam-stair, + She lit the tulip-lamps, she lit the torch + Of hollyhock beside the cottage porch. + She dressed the honeysuckle in fringe of gold, + She gave the king-cups fairy wealth to hold, + She kissed St. John's wort till it opened wide, + She set the yarrow by the river side. + + Then came the lady all whose robes are white: + She made the pale buds blossom in delight, + Set silver stars upon the jasmine's hair, + And gave the stream white lily-buds to wear. + She painted lilies white, and pearl-white phlox, + White poppies, passion-flowers and gray-leaved stocks. + Her pure kind touch redeemed the most forlorn, + And even the vile petunia smiled, new-born. + + The dearest fairy of all--green is her gown-- + She kissed the plane-trees in the tiresome town, + She smoothed the pastures and the lawn's pale sheen, + She decked the boughs with hangings fresh and green, + She showed each flower the one and only way + Its beauty of shape and colour to display; + She taught the world to be a Paradise + Of changing leaf and blade, for tired eyes. + + Then, one and all, they came where you were laid + In your strait bed, my little lovely maid; + The red-robed fairy kissed your lips, your face, + The white-robed made your heart her dwelling-place. + Into your eyes the green robed fairy smiled; + The golden fairy touched your dreams, my child, + And one, not named, but mightiest, made my Dear + The innermost rose of the re-flowered year. + May, 1898. + + + BIRTHDAY TALK FOR A CHILD. + (IRIS.) + + DADDY dear, I'm only four + And I'd rather not be more: + Four's the nicest age to be-- + Two and two, or one and three. + + All I love is two and two, + Mother, Fabian, Paul and you; + All you love is one and three, + Mother, Fabian, Paul and me. + + Give your little girl a kiss + Because she learned and told you this. + + + TO ROSAMUND. + + AND it is fair and very fair + This maze of blossom and sweet air, + This drift of orchard snows, + This royal promise of the rose + Wherein your young eyes see + Such buds of scented joys to be. + A gay green garden, softly fanned + By the blythe breeze that blows + To speed your ship of dreams to the enchanted land. + + But I--beyond the budding screen + Of green and red and white and green, + Behind the radiant show + Of things that cling and grow and glow + I see the plains where lie + The hopes of days gone by: + Gray breadths of melancholy, crossed + By winds that coldly blow + From that cold sea wherein my argosy is lost. + + + FROM THE TUSCAN. + + WHEN in the west the red sun sank in glory, + The cypress trees stood up like gold, fine gold; + The mother told her little child the story + Of the gold trees the heavenly gardens hold. + + In golden dreams the child sees golden rivers, + Gold trees, gold blossoms, golden boughs and leaves, + Without, the cypress in the night wind shivers, + Weeps with the rain and with the darkness grieves. + + + MOTHER SONG. + + _From the Portuguese._ + + HEAVY my heart is, heavy to carry, + Full of soft foldings, of downy enwrapments-- + And the outer fold of all is love, + And the next soft fold is love, + And the next, finer and softer, is love again; + And were they unwound before the eyes + More folds and more folds and more folds would unroll + Of love--always love, + And, quite at the last, + Deep in the nest, in the soft-packed nest, + One last fold, turned back, would disclose + You, little heart of my heart, + Laid there so warm, so soft, so soft, + Not knowing where you lie, nor how softly, + Nor why your nest is so soft, + Nor how your nest is so warm. + You, little heart of my heart, + You lie in my heart, + Warm, safe and soft as this body of yours, + This dear kissed body of yours that lies + Here in my arms and sucks the strength from my breast, + The strength you will break my heart with one of these days. + + + + + VI. + + + THE ISLAND. + + DOES the wind sing in your ears at night, in the town, + Rattling the windows and doors of the cheap-built place? + Do you hear its song as it flies over marsh and down? + Do you feel the kiss that the wind leaves here on my face? + Or, wrapt in a lamplit quiet, do you restrain + Thoughts that would take the wind's way hither to me, + And bid them rest safe-anchored, nor tempt again + The tumult, and torment, and passion that live in the sea? + + I, for my part, when the wind sings loud in its might, + I bid it hush--nor awaken again the storm + That swept my heart out to sea on a moonless night, + And dashed it ashore on an island wondrous and warm + Where all things fair and forbidden for ever flower, + Where the worst of life is a dream, and the best comes true, + When the harvest of years was reaped in a single hour + And the gods, for once, were honest with me and you. + + I will not hear when the wind and the sea cry out, + I will not trust again to the hurrying wind, + I will not swim again in a sea of doubt, + And reach that shore with the world left well behind; + But you,--I would have you listen to every call + Of the changing wind, as it blows over marsh and main, + And heap life's joys in your hands, and offer them all, + If only your feet might touch that island again! + + + POSSESSION. + + THE child was yours and none of mine, + And yet you gave it me to keep, + And bade me sew it raiment fine, + And wrap my kisses round its sleep. + + I carried it upon my breast, + I fed it in a world apart, + I wrapped my kisses round its rest, + I rocked its cradle with my heart. + + When in mad nights of rain and storm + You turned us homeless from your door, + I wrapped it close, I kept it warm, + And brought it safe to you once more. + + But the last time you drove us forth, + The snow was wrapped about its head, + That night the wind blew from the North, + And on my heart the child was dead. + + The child is mine and none of yours, + My life was his while he had breath, + What of your claim to him endures, + Who only gave him birth and death? + + + ACCESSION. + + ONCE I loved, and my heart bowed down, + Subject and slave, for Love was a King; + He sat above with sceptre and crown, + Turning his eyes from my sorrowing. + The laugh of a god on his lips lay light-- + His lips victorious that mocked my pain, + And I mourned in the cold and the outer night, + And my tears and my prayers were vain. + + Now the old spell is over and done, + Myself I wear the ermine and gold, + My brows are crowned, I ascend the throne, + I have taken the sceptre and orb to hold. + I smile victorious, set far above + The music of voices that moan and pray, + My feet are wet with the tears of love, + And I turn my eyes away. + + + THE DESTROYER. + + ACROSS the quiet pastures of my soul + The invading army marched in splendid might + My few poor forces fled beyond control, + Scattered, defeated, hidden in the night. + + My fields were green, their hedges white with May, + With gold of buttercups made bright and fair, + The careless conquerors did not even stay + To gather one of all the blossoms there. + + Only when they had passed, the fields were brown, + The grass and blossoms trampled in the mud: + The flowering hedges withered and torn down, + And no one richer by a single bud. + + + THE EGOISTS. + + TWO strangers, from opposing poles, + Meet in the torrid zone of Love: + And their desire seems set above + The limitation of their souls. + + This is the trap; this is the snare, + This is the false, enchanting light, + And when it smoulders into night, + How can each know the other is there? + + They own no bond of common speech; + Each, from far shores by wild winds brought, + Gropes for some cord of common thought + To draw the other within reach. + + Each when the dark tide drowns their star, + Cries out, "Thou art not one with me: + One flesh we seemed when eyes could see, + But now, how far thou art! How far!" + + Each calling, "Come! be mine! be wise!" + Stands obstinately in his place, + How can these two come face to face, + Till light spring from their meeting eyes? + + Could both but once cry, "Far thou art, + But I am coming!" How the beat + Of waves that part them would retreat, + Resurge and find them, heart to heart! + + + THE WAY OF LOVE. + + THE butterfly loves the rose, + He flutters around her bed, + Till the soft curled leaves unclose, + And she raises her darling head. + + He whispers of dawn and of dew, + Of love, and the heart of love, + Of worship, timid and true, + And she takes no joy thereof. + + But when, through the noon's blind heat, + The arrogant bee flaunts by, + She yields him her heart's hid sweet, + And he leaves her alone, to die. + + The depth of her dying bliss + Her grief-white butterfly knows: + And the bee laughs low in the kiss + Of another, a redder rose. + + + TO ONE WHO PLEADED FOR CANDOUR IN LOVE. + + HERE is the dim enchanted wood + Your face, a mystery divine, + But half revealed, half understood, + Appears the counterpart of mine. + + Beyond the wood the daylight lies; + Cruel and hard, it lies in wait + To steal the magic from your eyes + And from your lips the thrill of fate. + + Ah, stay with me a little while + Here, where the magic shadows rest, + Where all my world is in your smile + And all my heaven on your breast. + + Ah no!--cling close, what need to move, + What need to advance or explore? + We came here blindly, led by love, + Who will not lead us any more. + + Thank God that here we two have stood, + Thank God this shade was ours to win; + Time with his axe has marked our wood + And he will let the daylight in. + + + THE ENCHANTED GARDEN. + + OH, what a garden it was, living gold, living green, + Full of enchantments like spices embalming the air, + There, where you fled and I followed--you ever unseen, + Yet each glad pulse of me cried to my heart, "She is there!" + + Roses and lilies and lilies and roses again, + Tangle of leaves and white magic of blossoming trees, + Sunlight that lay where, last moment, your footstep had lain-- + Was not the garden enchanted that proffered me these? + + Ah, what a garden it is since I caught you at last-- + Scattered the magic and shattered the spell with a kiss: + Wintry and dreary and cold with the wind of the past, + Ah that a garden enchanted should wither to this! + + + THE POOR MAN'S GUEST. + + ONE came to me in royal guise + With banners flying fair and free + But many griefs had made me wise + And I refused to bow the knee. + + Then one drew near who bore the flower + Of all the flowers of June and May; + But many griefs had lent me power + And I was strong to turn away. + + Then came a beggar to my gate + With shoulders bowed to sorrow's pack, + So weary and so desolate + I had no heart to turn him back. + + I let him share my board, my bed, + I warmed him in my shrinking breast, + I gave him all I had, and said: + "You, only you, have been my guest. + + "Love passed in many a fair disguise + But never could an entrance win, + But you came in such piteous wise, + Poor friend, I could but let you in." + + Low laughed my guest: "Kind friend!" said he, + And dropped the rags he was weary of; + And I, betrayed, saw over me + The terrible face of outraged Love. + + + IN THE SHALLOWS. + + AMONG the shallows where the sand + Is golden and the waves are small, + I love to lie, and to my hand + How many little treasures fall! + What shells and seaweed grace the shore, + What happy birds on happy wings, + And for companions, what a store + Of humble, happy, living things! + + Yet the sea's depths are also mine, + And in the old days I used to dive + Into the caves, where corals shine + And where the shimmering mer-folk live. + I am the master of the sea + In deeps where fairy flowers uncurl; + That treasure-house belongs to me, + Those amber halls, those stairs of pearl. + + But now thereto I go no more, + Because of all the argosies, + Deep sunk upon the ocean floor, + Where all the world's lost treasure lies. + Where loveless laughter curls the lips + Of wild sea creatures at their sport + About the bones of noble ships, + My ships, that never came to port. + + + "AND THE RAINS DESCENDED AND THE FLOODS CAME." + + NOW the far waves roll nearer and more near, + The wind's awake, the pitiless wind's awake, + It shrieks the menace that I dare not hear, + Soon at my feet the angry waves will break + In desolating wrath--and here I stand + Helpless my house is built upon the sand. + + O you, whose house upon a rock is set, + Laugh, safe and sure, at threatening wave and wind. + You chose the better part and yet--and yet, + There was no other ground that I could find, + And I was weary and I longed to raise + A house to guard my shivering nights and days. + + And it was pleasant in the house I made, + While still the floods and winds were held asleep. + I blessed it at the dawn, at night I prayed + As though its dear foundations had been deep + Sunk in the rock. I whispered in surmise, + "What if winds never wake, floods never rise?" + + And now the waves are near and very near, + And here I wait and wonder which may be + The wave in which my house will disappear, + My little house that loved and sheltered me, + Where joy still sings, her garland in her hand, + Built on the sand, oh God, built on the sand! + + + THE STAR. + + I HAD a star to sing by, a beautiful star that led, + But when I sang of its splendour the world in its wisdom said: + "Sweet are your songs, yet the singer sings but in madness when + He hymns but stars unbeholden of us his fellows of men; + Glow-worms we see and marshlights; sing us sweet songs of those + For the guerdons we have to give you, laurel and gold and rose; + Or if you must sing of stars, unseen of your brother man, + Go, starve with your eyes on your vision; your star may save if it can!" + + So I said, "If I starve and die I never again shall see + The glory, the high white radiance that hallows the world for me; + I will sing their songs, if it must be, and when I have golden store, + I will turn from the marsh and the glow-worms, and sing of my star once more." + So I walked in the warm wet by-ways, not daring to lift my eyes + Lest love should drive me to singing my star supreme in the skies, + And the world cried out, "We will crown him, he sings of the lights that are, + Glories of marshlight and glow-worms, not visions vain of a star!" + + I said, "Now my brows are laurelled, my hands filled full of their gold, + I will sing the starry songs that these earthworms bade withhold. + It is time to sing of my star!" for I dreamed that my star still shone, + Then I lifted my eyes in my triumph. Night! night! and my star was gone. + + + + + VII. + + + THE PRODIGAL SON. + + COME home, come home, for your eyes are sore + With the glare of the noonday sun, + And nothing looks as it did before, + And the best of the day is done. + + You have played your match, and ridden your race, + You have fought in your fight--and lost; + And life has set its claws in your face, + And you know what the scratches cost. + + Out there the world is cruel and loud, + It strikes at the beaten man; + Come out of the press of the stranger crowd + To the place where your life began. + + The best robe lies in the cedar chest, + And your father's ring is here; + You have known the worst, come home to the best-- + You will pay for it, never fear! + + In every kiss of your sister's mouth, + In each tear from your mother's eyes, + You will pay the price of the days in the South + Where the far-off country lies. + + + DESPAIR. + + SMILE on me, mouth of red--so much too red, + Shine on me, eyes which darkened lashes shade, + Turn, turn my way, oh glorious golden head, + My soul is lost, then let the price be paid! + Amid rich flowers your rosy lamplight gleams, + Amid rich hangings pass your scented hours, + And woods and fields are green but in my dreams, + And only in my dreams grow meadow-flowers. + + I have forgotten everything but you-- + The apple orchard where the whitethroat sings, + The quiet fields, the moonlight, and the dew, + The virgin's bower that in wet hedgerow clings. + I have forgotten how the cool grass waves + Where clean winds blow, and where good women pray + For happy, honest men, safe in their graves; + And--oh, my God! I would I were as they! + + + THE TEMPTATION. + + YOU bring your love too late, dear, I have no love to buy it, + I spent my love on worthless toys, at fairs you do not know; + I am a bankrupt trader--dear eyes, do not deny it, + I could have bought your love, dear, but that was long ago. + + My soul has left me widowed, my heart has made me orphan, + Leave me--all good things, dear, have left me--leave me too! + For here is ice no tears of yours, no smiles of yours can soften: + Leave me, leave me, leave me, I have no love for you! + + I have no flowers to give you, they grow not in my garden; + I have no songs to sing you, my songs have all been sung; + I have no hope of heaven, no faith in any pardon, + I might have loved you once, dear, when I was good and young. + + I will not steal, nor cheat you; take back the heart you lent me. + O God, whom I have outraged, now teach me how to pray, + That love come never again so near me to torment me, + Lest I be found less faithful than, by Thy grace, to-day. + + + SECOND NATURE. + + WHEN I was young how fair the skies, + Such folly of cloud, such blue depths wise, + Such dews of morn, such calms of eve, + So many the lure and the reprieve-- + Life seemed a toy to break and mend + And make a charm of in the end. + + Then slowly all the dew dried up + And only dust lay in the cup; + And since, to slake his thirst, man must, + I sought a cup that had no dust, + And found it at the Goat and Vine-- + Mingled of brandy, beer and wine. + + The goat-cup, straight, drew down the skies + And lit them in lunatick wise: + What had been rose went scarlet red, + And the pearl tints grew like the dead. + And the fresh primrose of the morn + Was the wet red of rain-spoiled corn. + + Now, with a head that aches and nods + I hold weak hands out to the gods; + And oh! forgiving gods and kind, + They give me healing to my mind, + And show me once again the lawn + Green and clear-gemmed with dews of dawn. + + O gods, who look down from above + Upon our tangle of lust and love, + And, in your purity, perceive + The worth of what our follies leave: + Give us but this, and sink the rest-- + To know that dew and dawn are best. + + + DE PROFUNDIS. + + NOW I am cast into the serpent pit + And, catching difficult breath + From the writhing, loathsome, ceaseless stir of it, + The venomous whispers of curling, clasping Death, + I lift my soul out of the pit to Thee + And reaching with my soul to where Thou art + Look down, seeing with free heart + The beast God gave my soul for company + Lie with companions fit; + And bid, with a good will, + The serpent-fangs of ill + Take their foul fill + Of the foul fell it wore. + Though a thousand serpent heads were raised to slay, + A thousand twisting coils writhed where it lay, + There lies the beast, there let it lie for me + And agonize and rave; + For Thou has raised my soul, Thy soul, to Thee! + Thy soul, dear Lord, Thou hast been strong to save! + + + + + VIII. + + + AT THE GATE. + + THE monastery towers, as pure and fair + As virgin vows, reached up white hands to Heaven; + The walls, to guard the hidden heart of prayer, + Were strong as sin, and white as sin forgiven; + And there came holy men, by world's woe driven; + And all about the gold-green meadows lay + Flower-decked, like children dear that keep May-holiday. + + "Here," said the Abbot, "let us spend our days, + Days sweetened by the lilies of pure prayer, + Hung with white garlands of the rose of praise; + And, lest the World should enter with her snare-- + Enter and laugh and take us unaware + With her red rose, her purple and her gold-- + Choose we a stranger's hand the porter's keys to hold." + + They chose a beggar from the world outside + To keep their worldward door for them, and he, + Filled with a humble and adoring pride, + Built up a wall of proud humility + Between the monastery's sanctity + And the poor, foolish, humble folk who came + To ask for love and care, in the dear Saviour's name. + + For when the poor crept to the guarded gate + To ask for succour, when the tired asked rest, + When weary souls, bereft and desolate, + Craved comfort, when the murmur of the oppressed + Surged round the grove where prayer had made her nest, + The porter bade such take their griefs away, + And at some other door their bane and burden lay. + + "For this," he said, "is the white house of prayer, + Where day and night the holy voices rise + Through the chill trouble of our earthly air, + And enter at the gate of Paradise. + Trample no more our flower-fields in such wise, + Nor crave the alms of our deep-laden bough; + The prayers of holy men are alms enough, I trow." + + So, seeing that no sick or sorrowing folk + Came ever to be healed or comforted, + The Abbot to his brothers gladly spoke: + "God has accepted our poor prayers," he said; + "Over our land His answering smile is spread. + He has put forth His strong and loving hand, + And sorrow and sin and pain have ceased in all the land. + + "So make we yet more rich our hymns of praise, + Warm we our prayers against our happy heart. + Since God hath taken the gift of all our days + To make a spell that bids all wrong depart, + Has turned our praise to balm for the world's smart, + Fulfilled of prayer and praise be every hour, + For God transfigures praise, and transmutes prayer, to power." + + So went the years. The flowers blossomed now + Untrampled by the dusty, weary feet; + Unbroken hung the green and golden bough, + For none came now to ask for fruit or meat, + For ghostly food, or common bread to eat; + And dreaming, praying, the monks were satisfied, + Till, God remembering him, the beggar-porter died. + + When they had covered up the foolish head, + And on the foolish loving heart heaped clay, + "Which of us, brothers, now," the Abbot said, + "Will face the world, to keep the world away?" + But all their hearts were hard with prayer, and "Nay," + They cried, "ah, bid us not our prayers to leave; + Ah, father, not to-day, for this is Easter Eve". + + And, while they murmured, to their midst there came + A beggar saying, "Brothers, peace, be still! + I am your Brother, in our Father's name, + And I will be your porter, if ye will, + Guarding your gate with what I have of skill". + So all they welcomed him and closed the door, + And gat them gladly back unto their prayers once more. + + But, lo! no sooner did the prayer arise, + A golden flame athwart the chancel dim, + Then came the porter crying, "Haste, arise! + A sick old man waits you to tend on him; + And many wait--a knight whose wound gapes grim, + A red-stained man, with red sins to confess, + A mother pale, who brings her child for you to bless". + + The brothers hastened to the gate, and there + With unaccustomed hand and voice they tried + To ease the body's pain, the spirit's care; + But ere the task was done, the porter cried: + "Behold, the Lord sets your gate open wide, + For here be starving folk who must be fed, + And little ones that cry for love and daily bread!" + + And, with each slow-foot hour, came ever a throng + Of piteous wanderers, sinful folk and sad, + And still the brothers ministered, but long + The day seemed, with no prayer to make them glad; + No holy, meditative joys they had, + No moment's brooding-place could poor prayer find, + Mid all those heart to heal and all those wounds to bind. + + And when the crowded, sunlit day at last + Left the field lonely with its trampled flowers, + Into the chapel's peace the brothers passed + To quell the memory of those hurrying hours. + "Our holy time," they said, "once more is ours! + Come, let us pay our debt of prayer and praise, + Forgetting in God's light the darkness of man's ways!" + + But, ere their voices reached the first psalm's end, + They heard a new, strange rustling round their house; + Then came the porter: "Here comes many a friend, + Pushing aside your budding orchard boughs; + Come, brothers, justify your holy vows. + Here be God's patient, poor, four-footed things + Seek healing at God's well, whence loving-kindness springs." + + Then cried the Abbot in a vexed amaze, + "Our brethren we must aid, if 'tis God's will; + But the wild creatures of the forest ways + Himself God heals with His Almighty skill. + And charity is good, and love--but still + God shall not look in vain for the white prayers + We send on silver feet to climb the starry stairs; + + "For, of all worthy things, prayer has most worth, + It rises like sweet incense up to heaven, + And from God's hand falls back upon the earth, + Being of heavenly bread the accepted leaven. + Through prayer is virtue saved and sin forgiven; + In prayer the impulse and the force are found + That bring in purple and gold the fruitful seasons round. + + "For prayer comes down from heaven in the sun + That giveth life and joy to all things made; + Prayer falls in rain to make broad rivers run + And quickens the seeds in earth's brown bosom laid; + By prayer the red-hung branch is earthward weighed, + By prayer the barn grows full, and full the fold, + For by man's prayer God works his wonders manifold." + + The porter seemed to bow to the reproof; + But when the echo of the night's last prayer + Died in the mystery of the vaulted roof, + A whispered memory in the hallowed air, + The Abbot turned to find him standing there. + "Brother," he said, "I have healed the woodland things + And they go happy and whole--blessing Love's ministerings, + + "And, having healed them, I shall crave your leave + To leave you--for to-night I journey far. + But I have kept your gate this Easter Eve, + And now your house to heaven shines like a star + To show the Angels where God's children are; + And in this day your house has served God more + Than in the praise and prayer of all its years before. + + "Yet I must leave you, though I fain would stay, + For there are other gates I go to keep + Of houses round whose walls, long day by day, + Shut out of hope and love, poor sinners weep-- + Barred folds that keep out God's poor wandering sheep-- + I must teach these that gates where God comes in + Must not be shut at all to pain, or want, or sin. + + "The voice of prayer is very soft and weak, + And sorrow and sin have voices very strong; + Prayer is not heard in heaven when those twain speak, + The voice of prayer faints in the voice of wrong + By the just man endured--oh, Lord, how long?-- + If ye would have your prayers in heaven be heard, + Look that wrong clamour not with too intense a word. + + "But when true love is shed on want and sin, + Their cry is changed, and grows to such a voice + As clamours sweetly at heaven to be let in-- + Such sound as makes the saints in heaven rejoice; + Pure gold of prayer, purged of the vain alloys + Of idleness--that is the sound most dear + Of all the earthly sounds God leans from heaven to hear. + + "Oh, brother, I must leave thee, and for me + The work is heavy, and the burden great. + Thine be this charge I lay upon thee: See + That never again stands barred thy abbey gate; + Look that God's poor be not left desolate; + Ah me! that chidden my shepherds needs must be + When my poor wandering sheep have so great need of me. + + "Brother, forgive thy Brother if he chide, + Thy Brother loves thee--and has loved--for see + The nails are in my hands, and in my side + The spear-wound; and the thorns weigh heavily + Upon my brow--brother, I died for thee-- + For thee, and for my sheep that are astray, + And rose to live for thee, and them, on Easter Day!" + + "My Master and my Lord!" the Abbot cried. + But, where that face had been, shone the new day; + Only on the marble by the Abbot's side, + Where those dear feet had stood, a lily lay-- + A lily white for the white Easter Day. + He sought the gate--no sorrow clamoured there-- + And, not till then, he dared to sink his soul in prayer. + + And from that day himself he kept the gate + Wide open; and the poor from far and wide, + The weary, and wicked, and disconsolate, + Came there for succour and were not denied; + The sick were healed, the repentant sanctified; + And from their hearts rises more prayer and praise + Than ever the abbey knew in all its prayer-filled days. + + And there the Heavenly vision comes no more, + Only, each Easter now, a lily sweet + Lies white and dewy on the chancel floor + Where once had stood the beloved wounded feet; + And the old Abbot feels the nearing beat + Of wings that bring him leave at last to go + And meet his Master, where the immortal lilies grow. + + + VIA AMORIS. + + I. + + IT is not Love, this beautiful unrest, + This tremor of longing that invades my breast: + For Love is in his grave this many a year, + He will not rise--I do not wish him here. + It is not memory, for your face and eyes + Are not reflected where that dark pool lies: + It is not hope, for life makes no amends, + And hope and I are long no longer friends: + It is a ghost out of another Spring + It needs but little for its comforting-- + That I should hold your hand and see your face + And muse a little in this quiet place, + Where, through the silence, I can hear you sigh + And feel you sadden, O Virgin Mystery, + And know my thought has in your thought begot + Sadness, its child, and that you know it not. + + II. + + If this were Love, if all this bitter pain + Were but the birth-pang of Love born again, + If through the doubts and dreams resolved, smiled + The prophetic promise of the holy child, + What should I gain? The Love whose dream-lips smiled + Could never be my own and only child, + But to Love's birth would come, with the last pain, + Renunciation, also born again. + + III. + + If this were Love why should I turn away? + Am I not, too, made of the common clay? + Is life so fair, am I so fortunate, + I can refuse the capricious gift of Fate, + The sudden glory, the unhoped-for flowers, + The transfiguration of my earthly hours? + + Come, Love! the house is garnished and is swept, + Washed clean with all the tears that I have wept, + Washed from the stain of my unworthy fears, + Hung with the splendid spoils of wasted years, + Lighted with lamps of hope, and curtained fast + Against the gathered darkness of the past. + + I draw the bolts! I throw the portals wide, + The darkness rushes shivering to my side, + Love is not here--the darkness creeps about + My house wherein the lamps of hope die out. + Ah Love! it was not then your hand that came + Beating my door? your voice that called my name? + + IV. + + "It is not Love, it is not Love," I said, + And bowed in fearful hope my trembling head. + "It is not Love, for Love could never rise + Out of the rock-hewn grave wherein he lies." + But as I spake, the heavenly form drew near + Where close I clasped a hope grown keen as fear, + Upon my head His very hand He laid + And whispered, "It is I, be not afraid!" + + V. + + And this is Love, no rose-crowned laughing guest + By whom my passionate heart should be caressed, + But one re-risen from the grave; austere, + Cold as the grave, and infinitely dear, + To follow whom I lay the whole world down, + Take up the cross, bind on the thorny crown; + And, following whom, my bleeding pilgrim feet + Find the rough pathway sure and very sweet. + The august environment of mighty wings + Shuts out the snare of vain imaginings, + For by my side, crowned with Love's death-white rose, + The Angel of Renunciation goes. + + + RETRO SATHANAS. + + "REFUSE, refrain: for this is not the love + The Annunciation Angel warned you of; + This is the little candle, not the sun; + It burns, but will not warm, unhappy one!" + + "But ah! suppose the sun should never shine, + Then what an anguish of regret were mine + To know that even from this I turned away! + Candles may serve, if there should be no day." + + "Nay, better to go cold your whole life long + Than do the sun, than do your soul such wrong: + And if the sun shine not, be life's the blame + And yours the pride, who scorned the meaner flame." + + + THE OLD DISPENSATION. + + O THOU, who, high in heaven, + To man hast given + This clouded earthly life + All storm and strife, + Blasted with ice and fire, + Love and desire, + Filled with dead faith, and love + That change is master of-- + + O Thou, who mightest have given + To all Thy heaven, + But who, instead, didst give + This life we live-- + Who feedest with blood and tears + The hungry years-- + I make one prayer to Thee, + O Great God! grant it me. + + Some day when summer shows + Her leaf, her rose, + God, let Thy sinner lie + Under Thy sky, + And feel Thy sun's large grace + Upon his face; + Then grant him this, that he + May not believe in Thee! + + + THE NEW DISPENSATION. + + OUT in the sun the buttercups are gold, + The daisies silver all the grassy lane, + And spring has given love a flower to hold, + And love lays blindness on the eyes of pain. + + Within are still, chill aisles and blazoned panes + And carven tombs where memory weeps no more. + And from the lost and holy days remains + One saint beside the long-closed western door. + + Outside the world goes laughing lest it weep, + With here and there some happy child at play; + A mother worshipping the babe asleep, + Or two young lovers dreaming 'neath the May. + + Within, the soul of love broods o'er the place; + The carven saint forgotten many a year + Still lifts to heaven his rapt adoring face + To pray, for those who leave him lonely here, + + That once again the silent church may ring + With songs of joy triumphant over pain-- + Ah! God, who makest the miracle of spring + Make Thou dead faith and love to rise again. + + + THE THREE KINGS. + + WHEN the star in the East was lit to shine + The three kings journeyed to Palestine; + + They came from the uttermost parts of earth + With long trains laden with gifts of worth. + + The first king rode on a camel's back, + He came from the land where the kings are black, + + Bringing treasures desired of kings, + Rubies and ivory and precious things. + + An elephant carried the second king, + He came from the land of the sun-rising, + + And gems and gold and spices he bare + With broidered raiment for kings to wear. + + The third king came without steed or train + From the misty land where the white kings reign. + + He bore no gifts save the myrrh in his hand, + For he came on foot from a far-off land. + + Now when they had travelled a-many days + Through tangled forests and desert ways, + + By angry seas and by paths thorn-set + On Christmas Vigil the three kings met. + + And over their meeting a shrouded sky + Made dark the star they had travelled by. + + Then the first king spake and he frowned and said: + "By some ill spell have our feet been led, + + "Now I see in the darkness the fools we are + To follow the light of a lying star. + + "Let us fool no more, but like kings and men + Each get him home to his land again!" + + Then the second king with the weary face, + Gold-tinct as the sun of his reigning place, + + Lifted sad eyes to the clouds and said, + "It was but a dream and the dream is sped. + + "We dreamed of a star that rose new and fair, + But it sets in the night of the old despair. + + "Yet night is faithful though stars betray, + It will lead to our kingdoms far away." + + Then spake the king who had fared alone + From the far-off kingdom, the white-hung throne: + + "O brothers, brothers, so very far + Ye have followed the light of the radiant star, + + "And because for a while ye see it not + Shall its faithful shining be all forgot? + + "On the spirit's pathway the light still lies + Though the star be hid from our longing eyes. + + "To-morrow our star will be bright once more + The little pin-hole in heaven's floor-- + + "The Angels pricked it to let it bring + Our feet to the throne of the new-born King!" + + And the first king heard and the second heard + And their hearts grew humble before the third. + + And they laid them down beside bale and beast + and their sleeping eyes saw light in the East. + + For the Angels fanned them with starry wings + And the waft of visions of unseen things. + + And the next gold day waned trembling and white + And the star was born of the waxing night. + + And the three kings came where the Great King lay, + A little baby among the hay, + + The ox and the ass were standing near + And Mary Mother beside her Dear. + + Then low in the litter the kings bowed down, + They gave Him gold for a kingly crown, + + And frankincense for a great God's breath + and Myrrh to sweeten the day of death. + + The Maiden Mother she stood and smiled + And she took from the manger her little child. + + On the dark king's head she laid His hand + And anger died at that dear command. + + She laid His hand on the gold king's head + And despair itself was comforted. + + But when the pale king knelt in the stall + She heard on the straw his tears down fall. + + And she stooped where he knelt beside her feet + And laid on his bosom her baby sweet. + + And the king in the holy stable-place + Felt the little lips through the tears on his face. + + * * * * * * * + + Christ! lay Thy hand on the angry king + Who reigns in my breast to my undoing, + + And lay thy hands on the king who lays + The spell of sadness on all my days, + + And give the white king my soul, Thy soul, + Of these other kings the high control. + + That soul and spirit and sense may meet + In adoration before Thy feet! + + Now Glory to God the Father Most High, + And the Star, the Spirit, He leads us by. + + And to God's dear Son, the Babe who was born + And laid in the manger on Christmas morn! + + + + + IX. + + + AFTER DEATH. + + IF we must part, this parting is the best: + How would you bear to lay + Your head on some warm pillow far away-- + Your head, so used to lying on my breast? + + But now your pillow is cold; + Your hands have flowers, and not my hands, to hold; + Upon our bed the worn bride-linen lies. + I have put the death-money upon your eyes, + So that you should not wake up in the night. + I have bound your face with white; + I have washed you, yes, with water and not with tears,-- + Those arms wherein I have slept so many years, + Those feet that hastened when they came to me, + And all your body that belonged to me. + I have smoothed your dear dull hair, + And there is nothing left to say for you + And nothing left to fear or pray for you; + And I have got the rest of life to bear: + Thank God it is you, not I, who are lying there. + + If I had died + And you had stood beside + This still white bed + Where the white, scented, horrible flowers are spread,-- + I know the thing it is, + And I thank God that He has spared you this. + If one must bear it, thank God it was I + Who had to live and bear to see you die, + Who have to live, and bear to see you dead. + + You will have nothing of it all to bear: + You will not even know that in your bed + You lie alone. You will not miss my head + Beside you on the pillow: you will rest + So soft in the grave you will not miss my breast. + But I--but I--Your pillow and your place-- + And only the darkness laid against my face, + And only my anguish pressed against my side-- + Thank God, thank God, that it was you who died! + + + CHLOE. + + NIGHT wind sighing through the poplar leaves, + Trembling of the aspen, shivering of the willow, + Every leafy voice of all the night-time grieves, + Mourning, weeping over Chloe's pillow. + + Chloe, fresher than the breeze of dawn, + Fairer than the larches in their young spring glory, + Brighter than the glow-worms on the dewy lawn, + Hear the dirge the green trees sing to end your story:-- + + "Chloe lived and Chloe loved: she brought new gladness, + Hope and life and all things good to all who met her; + Only, dying, wept to know the lifelong sadness + Willed, against her will, to those who can't forget her." + + + INVOCATION. + + COME to-night in a dream to-night, + Come as you used to do, + Come in the gown, in the gown of white, + Come in the ribbon of blue; + Come in the virgin's colours you wear, + Come through the dark and the dew, + Come with the scent of the night in your hair, + Come as you used to do. + + Blue and white of your eyes and your face, + White of your gown and blue, + Will you not come from the happy place, + Come as you used to do? + Tears so many, so many tears + Where there were once so few-- + Can they not wash the gray of the years + From the white of your gown and blue? + + + THE LAST BETRAYAL. + + AND I shall lie alone at last, + Clear of the stream that ran so fast, + And feel the flower roots in my hair, + And in my hands the roots of trees; + Myself wrapt in the ungrudging peace + That leaves no pain uncovered anywhere. + + What--this hope left? this way not barred? + This last best treasure without guard? + This heaven free--no prayers to pay? + Fool--are the Rulers of men asleep? + Thou knowest what tears They bade thee weep, + But, when peace comes, 'tis thou wilt sleep, not They. + + + A PRAYER FOR THE KING'S MAJESTY. + + 22nd January, 1901. + + THE Queen is dead. God save the King, + In this his hour of grief, + When sorrow gathers memories in a sheaf + To lay them on his shoulders as he stands + Inheriting her glories and her lands-- + First gain of his at which his Mother's voice + Has not been first to bless and to rejoice-- + A man, set lonely between gain and loss. + (O words of love the heart remembereth, + O mighty loss outweighing every gain!) + A Son whose kingdom Death's arm lies across, + A King whose Mother lies alone with Death + Wrapped in the folds of white implacable sleep. + O God, who seest the tears Thy children weep, + O God, who countest each sad heart-beat, see + How our King needs the grace we ask of Thee! + Thou knowest how little and how vain a thing + Is Empire, when the heart is sick with pain-- + God, save the King! + The Queen is dead. The splendour of her days, + The sorrow of them both alike merge now + In the new aureole that lights her brow. + The clamour of her people's voice in praise + Must hush itself to the still voice that prays + In the holy chamber of Death. Tread softly here, + A mighty Queen lies dead. + Her people's heart wears black, + The black bells toll unceasing in their ear, + And on the gold sun's track + The great world round + Like a black ring the voice of mourning goes, + Till even our ancient foes + With eyes downbent, and brotherly bared head, + Keep mourning watch with us. This is the hour + When Love lends all his power + To speed grief's arrows from the bow of Death, + When sighs are idle breath, + When tears are fountains vain. + She will not wake again, + Not now, not here. + O great and good and infinitely dear, + O Mother of your people, sleep is sweet, + No more Life's thorny ways will wound your feet. + + O Mother dear, sleep sound! + When you shall wake, + Your brows freed from the crown that made them ache + So many a time, and wear the heavenly crown, + Then, then you will look down + On us who love you, and, remembering, + The love of earth will breathe with us our prayer, + Our prayer prayed here, joined to your prayer prayed there: + Who knows what radiant answer it may bring? + "God save the King!" + + The Queen is dead. God save the King! + From all ill thought and deed, + From heartless service and from selfish sway, + From treason, and the vain imagining + Of evil counsellors, and the noisome breed + Of flatterers who eat the soul away, + God save the King! + + From loss and pain and tears + Such as her many years + Brought her; from battle and strife, + And the inmost hurt of life, + The wounds that no crown can heal, + No ermine robes conceal, + God save the King! + + God, by our memories of his Mother's face, + By the love that makes our heart her dwelling-place, + Grant to our sorrow this desired grace: + God save the King! + + * * * * * * * * * + + The Queen is dead. God save the King. + This is no hour when joy has leave to sing; + Only, amid our tears, we are bold to pray, + More boldly, in that we pray sorrowing, + In this most sorrowful day. + God, who wast of a mortal Mother born, + Who driest the tears with which Thy children mourn, + God, save the King! + + Look down on him whose crown is wet with tears + In which its splendour fades and disappears-- + His tears, our tears, tears out of all her lands. + The Queen is dead. + God! strengthen the King's hands! + God, save the King! + + + TRUE LOVE AND NEW LOVE. + + OVER the meadow and down the lane + To the gate by the twisted thorn: + Your feet should know each turn of the way + You trod so many many a day, + Before the old love was put out of its pain, + Before the new love was born. + + Kiss her, hold her and fold her close, + Tell her the old true tale: + You ought to know each turn of the phrase,-- + You learned them all in the poor old days + Before the birth of the new red rose, + Before the old rose grew pale. + + And do not fear I shall creep to-night + To make a third at your tryst: + My ghost, if it walked, would only wait + To scare the others away from the gate + Where you teach your new love the old delight, + With the lips that your old love kissed. + + + DEATH. + + NEVER again: + No child shall stir the inmost heart of her + And teach her heaven by that first faint stir; + No little lips shall lie against her breast + Save the cold lips that now lie there at rest; + No little voice shall rouse her from her sleep + And bid her wake to pain: + Her sleep is calm and deep, + Call not! refrain. + + Close in her arm + As though even death drew back before the face + Of Motherhood in this white stilly place, + The gathered bud lies waxen white and cold, + As ever a flower your winter gardens hold. + She bore the pain, she never wore the crown, + She worked the bitter charm, + But all she won thereby is here laid down + Renounced--for good or harm. + + Dream? Feed your soul + With dreams, while we must starve our hearts on clay, + Dream of a glorious white-winged sun-crowned day + When you shall see her once more face to face + Beside Christ's Mother in the blessed place! + But while you dream, they carry her from here, + The black bells toll and toll. + Oh God! if only she cannot see or hear, + Not hear those ghoul-like bells that crowd so near, + Not see that cold clay hole. + + + IN MEMORY OF + + SARETTA DEAKIN. + + _Who Died on October 25th_, 1899. + + THERE was a day, + A horrible Autumn day, + When from her home, the home she made for ours + And that day made a nightmare of white flowers + And folk in black who whispered pityingly, + They carried her away; + And left our hearts all cold + And empty, yet with such a store to hold + Of sodden grief the slow drops still ooze out, + And, falling on all fair things, they wither these. + Tears came with time--but not with time went by. + + And still we wander desolate about + The poor changed house, the garden and the croft, + Warm kitchen, sunny parlour, with the soft + Intolerable pervading memories + Of her whose face and voice made melodies, + Sweet unforgotten songs of mother-love-- + Dear songs of all the little joys that were. + We see the sun, and have no joy thereof, + Because she gathered in her dying hands + And carried with her to the fair far lands + The flower of all our joy, because she went + Out of the garden where her days were spent, + And took the very sun away with her. + + The cross stands at her head. + Over her breast, that loving mother-breast, + Close buds of pansies purple and white are pressed. + It seems a place for rest, + For happy folded sleep; but ah, not there, + Not there, not there, our hardest tears are shed, + But in the house made empty for her sake. + Here, in the night intolerable, wake + The hungry passionate pains of Love still strong + To fight with death the bitter slow night long. + Then the rich price that poor Love has to pay + Is paid, slow drop by drop, till the new day + With thin cold fingers pushes back night's wings, + And drags us out to common cruel things + That sting, and barb their stings with memory. + O Love--and is the price too hard to give? + Thine is the splendour of all things that live, + And this thy pain the price of life to thee-- + The sacrament that binds to the beloved, + The chain that holds though mountains be removed, + The portent of thine immortality. + + So, in the house of pain imprisoned, we + Endure our bondage, and work out our time, + Nor seek from out our dungeon walls to climb-- + Bondsmen, who would not, if we could, be free. + Thank God, our hands still hold Love's cord--and she-- + Do not her hands still clasp the cord we hold, + Drawing us near, coiling bright fold on fold, + Till the far day when it shall draw us near + To the sight of her--her living hands, her dear + Tired face, grown weary of watching for our face? + And we shall hold her, in the happy place, + And hear her voice, the old same voice we knew-- + "Ah! children, I am tired of wanting you!" + + Or, in some world more beautiful and dear + Than any she ever even dreamed of here, + Where time is changed, does she await the day + She longed for, and so little a while away, + When all the love we watered with our tears + Shall bloom, transplanted by the kindly years? + Dreaming through her new garden does she go, + Remembering the old garden, long ago, + Tending new flowers more fair than those that grow + In this sad garden where such sad flowers blow; + And, fondly touching bud and leaf and shoot, + Training her flowers to perfect branch and root, + Does she sometimes entreat some darling flower + To wait a little for its opening hour? + Can you not hear her voice: "Ah, not to-day, + While my dear flowers, my own, are far away. + Be patient, bud! to-morrow soon will come: + Ah! blossom when my little girl comes home!" + + But now. But here. + The empty house, the always empty place-- + The black remembrance that no night blots out, + The memories, white, unbearable, and dear + That no white sunlight makes less cruel and clear? + The resistless riotous rout + Of cruel conquering thoughts, the night, the day? + Love is immortal: this the price to pay. + Worse than all pain it would be to forget-- + On Love's brave brow the crown of thorns is set. + Love is no niggard: though the price be high + Into God's market Love goes forth to buy + With royal meed God's greatest gifts and gain, + Love offers up his whole rich store of pain, + And buys of God Love's immortality. + + + FOR DOROTHY, 18th August, 1900. + + A PARTING. + + I WILL not wake you, dear; no tears shall creep + To chill the still bed where you lie asleep; + No cry, no word, shall break the sanctity + Of the great silence where God lets you lie. + I will not tease your grave with flower or stone; + You are tired, my heart; you shall be left alone. + And even the kisses that my lips must lay + Upon the mould of the triumphant clay + Shall be so soft--like those a mother lays + Upon her sleeping baby's little face-- + You will not feel my kisses, will not hear; + You are tired: sleep on, I will not wake you, dear! + But when the good day comes, you will hear me cry, + "Ah, make a little place where I can lie!" + And half awakened, you will feel me creep + Into the folds of your familiar sleep, + And draw them round us, with a tender moan, + "How could you let me sleep so long alone?" + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Rainbow and the Rose, by E. 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