University of Virginia Library

Just where the forest thins towards its edge,
On the western side
Is a clearing wide,
Or a glade, if you will,
And beyond the copse is a quickset hedge,
But this is the brow of the hill.
Over the hillside climbs the wheat;
In the August sun—like a golden tide—
It washes over the whole hillside,
Except for a narrow and tortuous track
Left for the passage of hardy feet.
Far down a little bridge looks black,
Spanning a stream which chimes and tinkles,
Leaps in the sunlight, sparkles and twinkles,
Rolls its smooth white pebbles, and sprinkles
Crisp green turf upon either hand.
Further again is the rising land,
This time with bearded barley and rye
Draped in the sunlight gorgeously;
But climb you over that further slope,
For a splendid stretch of the sky's blue cope
Bends to the West, and the breeze comes thence,
Over the low plain, keen and intense—
Rife with rumour of riot and rout—
Salted and strong from the sea far out.

To watch the sunset smoulder and burn
Over the surf-line, churn'd and creamy;
To see the mists on the plain assemble,
The dotted lamps of the inns dissemble
Their fullest light
Till it's really night;
To see the sky turn mauve and dreamy
And so many stars in the dark a-tremble;
To hear the anthem roll of the main
And the strong response of a seawind's strain—
Take your stand on the further height;
But for real magic 'twixt eve and night,
And a speculation strange and deep
From the inmost heart of the house of sleep,
At a fitting hour the hills forsake
For the edge of the woodland cover and brake.
Over the clearing, high and far,
You shall see only a single star;
Trees, in the dubious light convoked,
Stand, like mystæ muffled and cloak'd;
And lone in the midst of the lonely glade
To the cubical stone which no hand has made,
Shalt thou in the border twilight bring—
If thou hast the gift of soul to bear
A glimpse of the secrets of earth and air—
As an outward sign of the heart's desire,
Thy little parcel of sacred fire
And an incense-pot for an offering.

May he who has offer'd his incense tell
Of something which follows this kind of spell?
Say that the smoke will rise and spread,
Making a nimbus round one's head,
While glade and bush through the vaporous mist
Take shapes uncertain, which writhe and twist.
The sky looks marshlike, the star is dim,
And the air, which haply is moist and damp,
Seems to cling close, or just to swim;
The coal glows dull like a dying lamp,
And the moss-grown altar-stone, unbidden
Passing into the cloud, is hidden.
A change comes over the face of things,
And twixt the sense of a soul alone
And the subtle hint of invisible wings,
Tense expectation thrills and swings;
Till suddenly welling and surging round,
Down from the welkin and up from the ground,
From common motion and sight and sound
Isolated and terribly free,
The sense of a thing which is all unknown
Shapes in a moment and pierces thee.

Scatter the coals, for the rite is done;
Go to the hillside—one by one
Number the stones on the downward way;
Note how the wheat-ears bend and sway;
Get with haste to the village and choose
The tavern which most the yokels use;
Or hang on the bridge till one comes near
With a light step and a listening ear.
You have touch'd as close as one rite may reach
To that which lies undeclared behind
The things of Nature and things of mind—
Out of vision, exceeding speech—
And it isn't intended that men should get
A fuller glimpse of the secret yet.
Meanwhile it shews you that this life's scheme
Has more of omen and sign and dream
Than enters into the hearts of those
Who cannot the inner eyes unclose;
And that after all the life of man
Is shaped on a sacramental plan;
That all the light which he gets is clouded
Because of the manifold veils between;
The truth which he seeks to clasp is shrouded
And thus the beauty he longs for seen.
Yet truth and beauty and light exist,
And the sign is bright and the umbrage mist.
The border twilight melts at times,
And through the twilight or over the verge
Gleams from beyond do at times emerge—
Meaning of sorrow and sense of song,
The second import of runes and rhymes,
The seed of right at the core of wrong,
And in many legends and mystic tales
A rumour of what is behind the veils.

Nota Bene—the heart's desire
Is surely good as a charcoal fire,
And the heart, I think that we all may own,
Is as much an altar as woodland stone;
Wherefore the incense cloud may well
Be aspiration's transforming spell,
And for shades and forests and woodland dew,
With the lone star's lustre sifting through,
And all other things that I've been telling,
Choose any corner in your own dwelling.