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53
WHILE THE GRASS GROWS.
“Tout vient à qui sait attendre.”
“Yes, but ‘While the grass grows’—the proverb is something musty.”
In a country, where I know not; maybe very far away,
'Neath those skies which sometime sheltered Master Raphael Hythloday,
Or perchance in merry England,—let it be as be it may;
'Neath those skies which sometime sheltered Master Raphael Hythloday,
Or perchance in merry England,—let it be as be it may;
There the grass was growing, growing; one who stooped could wellnigh hear
Fluctuant wavelets of the spring-sap, softly throbbing on the ear,
For the grass was growing, growing, in the growth-tide of the year.
Fluctuant wavelets of the spring-sap, softly throbbing on the ear,
For the grass was growing, growing, in the growth-tide of the year.
Oh, the glory of the meadows, oh, the verdurous seas on seas,
Blown on by the self-same winds that cool the ‘delicate plain called Ease;’
If a child therein should enter he were hidden to the knees.
Blown on by the self-same winds that cool the ‘delicate plain called Ease;’
If a child therein should enter he were hidden to the knees.
Sweet the smell of that fair herbage by the sheen of spring-time lit;
Martlets skimming swiftly over slacken speed because of it;
And the breeze above it sweeping maketh music exquisite.
Martlets skimming swiftly over slacken speed because of it;
And the breeze above it sweeping maketh music exquisite.
54
And away, away in distance, far from meadow-sheen and glow,
On the barren moor where never grace of meadow-growth can go,
Is the seely steed a-waiting for the goodly grass to grow.
On the barren moor where never grace of meadow-growth can go,
Is the seely steed a-waiting for the goodly grass to grow.
Can he sniff the delicate odour as he crops with pain and care
At the scrannel where one, looking, would in verity declare
For a steed were sure no pasture on that soil so stiff and bare?
At the scrannel where one, looking, would in verity declare
For a steed were sure no pasture on that soil so stiff and bare?
He is very lean, my masters, leaner than behoves, indeed,
Slender though he be and graceful, as befitteth clean his breed—
When the grass have grown to ripeness ye will feed your starving steed.
Slender though he be and graceful, as befitteth clean his breed—
When the grass have grown to ripeness ye will feed your starving steed.
‘Patience, patience for a little; one must learn to bear and wait;
Only patience and it cometh, matters not if soon or late;
Seely steed, have patience only, plenty knocketh at the gate.’
Only patience and it cometh, matters not if soon or late;
Seely steed, have patience only, plenty knocketh at the gate.’
Now is come the time of plenty; in the lush green shall he tread;
In that fairest of all meadows shall the seely steed be fed;—
Nay, my masters, take no troubling, for the seely steed is dead.
In that fairest of all meadows shall the seely steed be fed;—
Nay, my masters, take no troubling, for the seely steed is dead.
In the busy streets of London, years, perhaps, or months, ago,
You might see a little lady wending daily to and fro;
Once her step was quick and lightsome; but that step grew heavy and slow.
You might see a little lady wending daily to and fro;
Once her step was quick and lightsome; but that step grew heavy and slow.
She had fought a manful battle, she had worked while work she could;
She was only one of many struggling hard for daily food,
And she lost her little foothold, sorely baffled and withstood.
She was only one of many struggling hard for daily food,
And she lost her little foothold, sorely baffled and withstood.
55
She had loved the strenuous life of women and men who ‘work apace’—
Good is Labour, great is Labour, ‘Labour wears a lovely face;’
But they pressed so hard upon her that they pushed her from her place.
Good is Labour, great is Labour, ‘Labour wears a lovely face;’
But they pressed so hard upon her that they pushed her from her place.
She had written many letters to her friends of other days
When she needed labour only for her pleasure or their praise:
And they answered with a promise, they would think of her always.
When she needed labour only for her pleasure or their praise:
And they answered with a promise, they would think of her always.
‘Everything to him there cometh who has learnt the way to wait;
Time would surely crown her patience; slow and sure is fortune's gait.’
(Oh, the green grass in its growing! oh, the seely steed's estate!)
Time would surely crown her patience; slow and sure is fortune's gait.’
(Oh, the green grass in its growing! oh, the seely steed's estate!)
Did she wait a little longer something fair and sweet were won,
Easeful work should fill her daytime 'neath the shining of the sun,
And the dews of evening softly cool her feet when day was done.
Easeful work should fill her daytime 'neath the shining of the sun,
And the dews of evening softly cool her feet when day was done.
And she read their letters knowing how her time was come to meet
Him who stilleth pain and sorrow when he bringeth silent feet
To the quiet country homestead and the noisy city street.
Him who stilleth pain and sorrow when he bringeth silent feet
To the quiet country homestead and the noisy city street.
Oh, the grass was growing, growing in the air that quickeneth;
Soon an ample pasture for her utmost need, your poet saith;
But she looked to God and gave her to His angel men call Death.
Soon an ample pasture for her utmost need, your poet saith;
But she looked to God and gave her to His angel men call Death.
56
On her thin white face of calmness now no shade of trouble falls,
As she lies on naked boarding, bounded round by naked walls:
You will find her little havings underneath yon Golden Balls.
As she lies on naked boarding, bounded round by naked walls:
You will find her little havings underneath yon Golden Balls.
And a letter lies beside her telling of relief from need,
Rest and home and joy and plenty; now the grass is grown indeed,
But alas the seely worker! and alas the seely steed!
Rest and home and joy and plenty; now the grass is grown indeed,
But alas the seely worker! and alas the seely steed!
What's to say O men and women? When is help of no avail?
That's enough, methinks, for saying; and a poet still must fail
If he plainly point a moral where he should but tell a tale.
That's enough, methinks, for saying; and a poet still must fail
If he plainly point a moral where he should but tell a tale.
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