 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
377
FOUR PARABLES.
I. HEIGHT UPON HEIGHT.
Height upon height, all washed by heavenly air
And crowned of heaven, I saw them rising free,—
Those heights of Love, where I was fain to be,—
And there I knew Love reigned, benign and fair,
With noble gifts for whoso enters there.
But, since between those heavenly heights and me
Stretched weary miles, with no compassionate tree
To shade me from the noon-tide's pitiless glare,
And crowned of heaven, I saw them rising free,—
Those heights of Love, where I was fain to be,—
And there I knew Love reigned, benign and fair,
With noble gifts for whoso enters there.
But, since between those heavenly heights and me
Stretched weary miles, with no compassionate tree
To shade me from the noon-tide's pitiless glare,
I paused brief while in a cool, wayside lane,
Under green boughs, and heard a strange bird sing;
But when I fain would struggle on again,
Lo, round me Elfin things had drawn their ring,
And clouds shut out from me Love's shining height,
And Fate's strong sword flashed threatening in my sight.
Under green boughs, and heard a strange bird sing;
But when I fain would struggle on again,
Lo, round me Elfin things had drawn their ring,
And clouds shut out from me Love's shining height,
And Fate's strong sword flashed threatening in my sight.
II. ABOUT THIS LAND MOVES MANY A SAD-EYED GHOST.
About this land moves many a sad-eyed ghost;
And there is wail of weeping all night long,
And sounds by day of melancholy song:
Weird is the land, and beautiful, almost;
But wrecks of mighty ships strew thick the coast,
Though now the sea looks innocent of wrong,
And low, soft waves the deep sea-caverns throng,
Where sirens sing, and Death waits at his post.
And there is wail of weeping all night long,
And sounds by day of melancholy song:
Weird is the land, and beautiful, almost;
But wrecks of mighty ships strew thick the coast,
Though now the sea looks innocent of wrong,
And low, soft waves the deep sea-caverns throng,
Where sirens sing, and Death waits at his post.
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Rise, rise, my soul, that we may strive with fate,
And flee the baneful beauty which delays
Us through warm, weeping nights and hectic days;
Spread sail and steer where fresh life may await.
But, ah, what words sigh down these trackless ways,—
What words but these: “Too late — Too late — Too late”?
And flee the baneful beauty which delays
Us through warm, weeping nights and hectic days;
Spread sail and steer where fresh life may await.
But, ah, what words sigh down these trackless ways,—
What words but these: “Too late — Too late — Too late”?
III. I WALKED ONE SPRING DAY, WHILE YET WINDS WERE COLD.
I walked one spring day, while yet winds were cold,
Between the waning day and waxing night,
And the boughs strained and whirled in the wind's might.
I took a simple wild-flower in my hold,
And fair it was and delicate of mold,
And sweet to smell, and tremulous with light;
And something lurking in its petals white
Meant more to me than even its fragrance told.
Between the waning day and waxing night,
And the boughs strained and whirled in the wind's might.
I took a simple wild-flower in my hold,
And fair it was and delicate of mold,
And sweet to smell, and tremulous with light;
And something lurking in its petals white
Meant more to me than even its fragrance told.
Full long I held that flower, until one day
I came where queenliest, reddest roses grew;
Then from my hand afar the flower I threw,
Roses to gather. But, behold, this hour,
When roses and their thorn-stems strew the way,
I vainly seek for my lost woodland flower.
I came where queenliest, reddest roses grew;
Then from my hand afar the flower I threw,
Roses to gather. But, behold, this hour,
When roses and their thorn-stems strew the way,
I vainly seek for my lost woodland flower.
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IV. BEFORE THIS NEW LORD CAME.
Before this new Lord came into my house
It was a quiet place, — within its halls
Were gracious pictures that made glad the walls
With hints of Southern slopes and olive boughs,
Or saints that wore bright halos on their brows;
But now that here the new Lord's footstep falls,
Now that his voice the ancient peace appals
Where once from dreams soft music did arouse:
It was a quiet place, — within its halls
Were gracious pictures that made glad the walls
With hints of Southern slopes and olive boughs,
Or saints that wore bright halos on their brows;
But now that here the new Lord's footstep falls,
Now that his voice the ancient peace appals
Where once from dreams soft music did arouse:
Lo! all is changed. Gone the fair, pictured things,
And in their stead are many a grinning face,
And loathly shapes, and hurry of strange wings.
Shrieks rend the air, and blood-stained are the ways:
Yet — heard by me alone — a spirit sings,
This Lord shall not forever hold the place.
And in their stead are many a grinning face,
And loathly shapes, and hurry of strange wings.
Shrieks rend the air, and blood-stained are the ways:
Yet — heard by me alone — a spirit sings,
This Lord shall not forever hold the place.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |