 | Brackenham Church |  |
1
BRACKENHAM CHURCH
‘The clock's voice and the syllables of your dress
Together stay my hand. Tune and silk
Forbid a further flow of ink. The pen falls flat
Upon a blotter; the verseman nods to Love.
Dear, are you come for flowering
Amid the books and papers in my room?
Or do you wish to hear
Your poem, written to a second shape?
Or do you want no treasure else
Than sitting on my rug to learn
The whimsies breathed by wood and coal
For light to publish, at its own expense?
Do you know,
I think the third must be your favourite want.’
‘Yes; if you sit beside me in the dusk
And marry me again.’
Together stay my hand. Tune and silk
Forbid a further flow of ink. The pen falls flat
Upon a blotter; the verseman nods to Love.
Dear, are you come for flowering
Amid the books and papers in my room?
Or do you wish to hear
Your poem, written to a second shape?
Or do you want no treasure else
Than sitting on my rug to learn
The whimsies breathed by wood and coal
For light to publish, at its own expense?
Do you know,
I think the third must be your favourite want.’
2
And marry me again.’
‘How like you, Snowdrop!
Wilt thou have
This man to be thy wedded husband here,
With coal and wood for witnesses, by song
As homely as the verse of William Barnes?’
Wilt thou have
This man to be thy wedded husband here,
With coal and wood for witnesses, by song
As homely as the verse of William Barnes?’
‘Thou being thou, I will!’
‘Lend me love's ring.
I want to feel it press
Along your finger on the way to home.
One night last week I broke a thought in half
To watch you rub a speck upon the gold
While kitty's soothing, soothing, in your lap—
Four-footed sameness never quite the same—
Recalled, in spite of fur, the evening of a dove.
Ring, kitten, Snowdrop! William Barnes
Had never bent to shape a theme so fair
While warm with tenderness and country song
At evenfall.’
I want to feel it press
Along your finger on the way to home.
One night last week I broke a thought in half
To watch you rub a speck upon the gold
While kitty's soothing, soothing, in your lap—
Four-footed sameness never quite the same—
Recalled, in spite of fur, the evening of a dove.
Ring, kitten, Snowdrop! William Barnes
Had never bent to shape a theme so fair
While warm with tenderness and country song
At evenfall.’
3
‘Only a Fairyman could wander thus
Among the holiday parts of speech.
Oak, Coal, and Dorset dialect,
Collaborating, could not give so quick—
So bright—a run of melody,
For all their dear companionship.
Come close beside me on the rug and be
Man, kitten, dove combined,
With lots and lots—and other lots—of sweet.
To-morrow at this hour, if reading flame,
Let us consent to live as stirless as a bell
Not ringing on a white campanula.
Now's a too precious now.’
Among the holiday parts of speech.
Oak, Coal, and Dorset dialect,
Collaborating, could not give so quick—
So bright—a run of melody,
For all their dear companionship.
Come close beside me on the rug and be
Man, kitten, dove combined,
With lots and lots—and other lots—of sweet.
To-morrow at this hour, if reading flame,
Let us consent to live as stirless as a bell
Not ringing on a white campanula.
Now's a too precious now.’
‘Agreed.
Besides, I want to tell you what was found
Midway between my first and second self
While you were weeding flowers this afternoon.’
Besides, I want to tell you what was found
Midway between my first and second self
While you were weeding flowers this afternoon.’
‘Come closer—closer yet! I always shrink
From second selves; and yours is dark, dark, dark.’
From second selves; and yours is dark, dark, dark.’
4
‘The story is as quiet as a story told by moss.’
‘Quiet is a temple. Will the telling leave me glad?’
‘It will.
At four o'clock,
Being out of tune with tyrant words,
I dropped my pen, leaned back, and slept.
When near a wood, I met a Dream
Wearing the frock of lavender grey
You wore in Kent the April afternoon
That leaped to instant summer when you rose,
Came with a smile, and wondered if I cared
To see a flush of pansies all your own ...
Our meeting well-nigh broke my trance
With dreamlessness, so sharp the strain
Of fronting eyes and lips that had the look
Of sharing with your breast a hope
Of finding in my heart a king.
Were kisses trembling in the deep
Of blueness almost grey?
Love questioned. Love replied. Then—too soon
Having steadied to a calm, you pointed where
A glittering loftier than the trees disclosed
The spire of Brackenham Church.’
At four o'clock,
Being out of tune with tyrant words,
I dropped my pen, leaned back, and slept.
When near a wood, I met a Dream
Wearing the frock of lavender grey
You wore in Kent the April afternoon
That leaped to instant summer when you rose,
Came with a smile, and wondered if I cared
To see a flush of pansies all your own ...
Our meeting well-nigh broke my trance
With dreamlessness, so sharp the strain
Of fronting eyes and lips that had the look
Of sharing with your breast a hope
Of finding in my heart a king.
Were kisses trembling in the deep
Of blueness almost grey?
5
Having steadied to a calm, you pointed where
A glittering loftier than the trees disclosed
The spire of Brackenham Church.’
‘Where was that church?
Who spoke its name on being stopped by you?’
Who spoke its name on being stopped by you?’
‘A lipless voice.
Not even a child in search of flowers
Wavered the air so sweet to Solitude;
And yet I heard intensely well
How you and I were come to Brackenham Church
It slept along the looping of a stream
Where meadowsweet was paler than its wont
And loosestrife purple lessened, since the sun
Of trance out-shone the sunning of our world.
Forward we went
As though a hidden thread
Of heavenly weaving drew us to the porch.
Next, while we wondered if the lock were fast,
The oaken halves moved inward.
Then was seen the aisle,
The flock of pews,
The Table of refreshment for the soul.
Thither we went, hand keeping hand,
Till we were come beneath a glory of glass
Devoted to a Saint among the Twelve
To whom their Lord, though shadowed then by death,
Busily tendered equal bread and wine.
How long we stood departed from our selves,
I cannot answer.
Was not the Ancient, Time,
Fallen fast asleep, as long ago he slept
For Israel serving God in Ajalon?
Then suddenly we, the statues of the fane,
Knelt as if two were one divinely told
The nearness of a miracle yet to—
A Priest! A Priest!—
The window was a life!
That Spirit moved toward the purple cloth,
As if remembering bread and wine,
And prophecy from the lips he loved,
Before, with not a rustle of robe, he turned
Toward our shaken hearts and gleamed
In front of us!
Never shall I forget how close he read
With eyes of Heaven the history of your face;
Nor how he shot the arrow of his look
To pierce my soul when yours had given to him
Reply in tune with question. Had he found
A fault in me too grave for Mercy's heart
To speak forgiveness?
So long endured his frozen search,
I feared he could not bless me, for a harm
In wait to shadow what he knew
Was loveliness resident in your life;
But, in a flash, the arrow lost
Its bitter point.
Turning from heart to heart,
His eyes embraced us both, and shone content.
Wordless, he took your tremulous hand in his
And made it one with mine;
Wordless, he melted gravity with a look
The shadow of a smile;
Wordless, his very presence was as though
A counsel given in words.
Then—we were left to pray.
Who walked with Christ of old was gone
Apart from us, without a sound or stir,
Without a backward look, to watch in hope
For souls in need of loneliness
And confirmation. We, he knew, were his.
By him to whom the clustering graves had vowed
That church—Saint John, the Dearly-Loved—
Our lives, confronted, questioned, weighed,
Had been accepted.
Thus ran my dream. I kept it for an hour
Of stillness spent with you in little light.’
Not even a child in search of flowers
Wavered the air so sweet to Solitude;
And yet I heard intensely well
How you and I were come to Brackenham Church
It slept along the looping of a stream
Where meadowsweet was paler than its wont
And loosestrife purple lessened, since the sun
Of trance out-shone the sunning of our world.
Forward we went
As though a hidden thread
Of heavenly weaving drew us to the porch.
Next, while we wondered if the lock were fast,
The oaken halves moved inward.
6
The flock of pews,
The Table of refreshment for the soul.
Thither we went, hand keeping hand,
Till we were come beneath a glory of glass
Devoted to a Saint among the Twelve
To whom their Lord, though shadowed then by death,
Busily tendered equal bread and wine.
How long we stood departed from our selves,
I cannot answer.
Was not the Ancient, Time,
Fallen fast asleep, as long ago he slept
For Israel serving God in Ajalon?
Then suddenly we, the statues of the fane,
Knelt as if two were one divinely told
The nearness of a miracle yet to—
A Priest! A Priest!—
The window was a life!
That Spirit moved toward the purple cloth,
As if remembering bread and wine,
7
Before, with not a rustle of robe, he turned
Toward our shaken hearts and gleamed
In front of us!
Never shall I forget how close he read
With eyes of Heaven the history of your face;
Nor how he shot the arrow of his look
To pierce my soul when yours had given to him
Reply in tune with question. Had he found
A fault in me too grave for Mercy's heart
To speak forgiveness?
So long endured his frozen search,
I feared he could not bless me, for a harm
In wait to shadow what he knew
Was loveliness resident in your life;
But, in a flash, the arrow lost
Its bitter point.
Turning from heart to heart,
His eyes embraced us both, and shone content.
Wordless, he took your tremulous hand in his
And made it one with mine;
8
The shadow of a smile;
Wordless, his very presence was as though
A counsel given in words.
Then—we were left to pray.
Who walked with Christ of old was gone
Apart from us, without a sound or stir,
Without a backward look, to watch in hope
For souls in need of loneliness
And confirmation. We, he knew, were his.
By him to whom the clustering graves had vowed
That church—Saint John, the Dearly-Loved—
Our lives, confronted, questioned, weighed,
Had been accepted.
Thus ran my dream. I kept it for an hour
Of stillness spent with you in little light.’
‘I wish I knew a lovely way of thanks
In lovely keeping with a tremulous hour
Never to be forgotten.
Sleep will come slow to-night;
For, watchful of the window given by dream
The presence and the absence of that Priest
By whom our hands were joined,
How should I feel mere body slip away
From tumult? Wonder of wonders, this!
Now tell what force, what colouring, what increase
The poet in you added when he woke.’
In lovely keeping with a tremulous hour
Never to be forgotten.
Sleep will come slow to-night;
For, watchful of the window given by dream
9
By whom our hands were joined,
How should I feel mere body slip away
From tumult? Wonder of wonders, this!
Now tell what force, what colouring, what increase
The poet in you added when he woke.’
‘I call Saint John to witness, of his truth,
That I have spoken nothing else than trance
Unaltered by a word of wakefulness.’
That I have spoken nothing else than trance
Unaltered by a word of wakefulness.’
‘Even the beautiful can bring a wound.
This startling, will it be one load the more
To press a mind so lost in images,
So split,
So travel-stained?
Forgive me if I seem to cloud
Its vividness by telling of a breast
That falters when you lose your country self
Among immensities.
Are you aware of this,
That far too often in our bridal year,
Lover of lipless voices, you have given
No answer to my question? If you spoke,
Replies were contradiction of the sense,
Opposites hard for me to bear.
You could not tell me, even for a kiss,
The sudden wrong I did a week ago,
When, since a third time you had failed
To hear my voice, though but a yard
Divided us, I coloured in despair.
You cannot tell. Then listen. This was done:
I struck a glass so roughly with my spoon
That bowl and stem were shattered.
No word! No quivering! Breath alone!
Your soul and mine were strangers then.
Blankness so withered me,
Although I knew the riches of your love,
That now, Orion being shadowed, I am forced
To battle for my treasure, lest a mood
Already at the danger-point become a worse
Eclipsing of my household stars,
So true, so native, so resolved.
Forgive again!
Because my hour had come
To tell, to show, to plead,
I dared for gain or loss. Remember this,
If what you are must still be you,
Love can but teach me how to double love.’
This startling, will it be one load the more
To press a mind so lost in images,
So split,
So travel-stained?
Forgive me if I seem to cloud
Its vividness by telling of a breast
That falters when you lose your country self
Among immensities.
Are you aware of this,
That far too often in our bridal year,
10
No answer to my question? If you spoke,
Replies were contradiction of the sense,
Opposites hard for me to bear.
You could not tell me, even for a kiss,
The sudden wrong I did a week ago,
When, since a third time you had failed
To hear my voice, though but a yard
Divided us, I coloured in despair.
You cannot tell. Then listen. This was done:
I struck a glass so roughly with my spoon
That bowl and stem were shattered.
No word! No quivering! Breath alone!
Your soul and mine were strangers then.
Blankness so withered me,
Although I knew the riches of your love,
That now, Orion being shadowed, I am forced
To battle for my treasure, lest a mood
Already at the danger-point become a worse
Eclipsing of my household stars,
So true, so native, so resolved.
11
Because my hour had come
To tell, to show, to plead,
I dared for gain or loss. Remember this,
If what you are must still be you,
Love can but teach me how to double love.’
‘Fragrance and Flower, how grieved I am!
To think of it!—
To think your voice became a shuffled sound
Without significance, the tuning dead
That should have sung me homeward from the mist!
Even in childhood I was wont
To lean my forehead on a windowpane,
Weary of being held so far
From lamb-like clouds without a friend
To fold them when the blueness died to grey.
At last—so late—I see, because of you,
Why Mother often ran to turn me round
And fill my ears with poems said
To fetch me out of sky to her.
Straining to breach the fortress held by Truth
Is Martyrdom; no less;
Each wrong direction but a setting-forth again.
So loss begets a losing;
So a zest of double fire
Becomes the master's master, hounding him
To leap, to snatch, to suffer empty hands.’
To think of it!—
To think your voice became a shuffled sound
Without significance, the tuning dead
That should have sung me homeward from the mist!
Even in childhood I was wont
To lean my forehead on a windowpane,
Weary of being held so far
From lamb-like clouds without a friend
To fold them when the blueness died to grey.
At last—so late—I see, because of you,
Why Mother often ran to turn me round
And fill my ears with poems said
To fetch me out of sky to her.
12
Is Martyrdom; no less;
Each wrong direction but a setting-forth again.
So loss begets a losing;
So a zest of double fire
Becomes the master's master, hounding him
To leap, to snatch, to suffer empty hands.’
‘Is not the centre here?
Are not the radiants more than we can count?
Consider, Dearest, how a rose
Resembles well the nebula's way
Of bending petals from the heart
Of generation.
Be slow to hold a pansy's share
Of mystery smaller than the grant
Of mystery resident in a sun.
Why barter Here and There,
Since There and Here are samenesses?
To drift from what, being Earth-in-Star,
Has flowered so fair beyond expectancy
Is leaving love to pine.
If All is not beneath our roof,
Then am I not the All I long to be,
The All-in-All your fineness needs to have.’
Are not the radiants more than we can count?
Consider, Dearest, how a rose
Resembles well the nebula's way
Of bending petals from the heart
Of generation.
Be slow to hold a pansy's share
Of mystery smaller than the grant
Of mystery resident in a sun.
Why barter Here and There,
Since There and Here are samenesses?
To drift from what, being Earth-in-Star,
Has flowered so fair beyond expectancy
Is leaving love to pine.
13
Then am I not the All I long to be,
The All-in-All your fineness needs to have.’
‘Even the beautiful can bring a wound.
I must remember.
The windowpane my Mother lived to dread!—
The ambush in the heavens that caught a wife
Whose only zenith was her husband's roof!—
The nebula causing in my dream
(For this, I hold, can well explain
That tensity of hushed regard)
The Dearly-Loved to question if the souls
In front of him were fortified
Above defeat!
For long, the child of Tenderness, you breathed
As patient as a rosebud in the dark.
If, since the habit in my blood is strong,
You find me deaf and mute in seeming space,
Run to my chair! Recover me from quest!
Darken the Pleiades! certain of the end,
Sure of my folding love!
Home stars are best,
And you, Forgiveness, have the central light.’
I must remember.
The windowpane my Mother lived to dread!—
The ambush in the heavens that caught a wife
Whose only zenith was her husband's roof!—
The nebula causing in my dream
(For this, I hold, can well explain
That tensity of hushed regard)
The Dearly-Loved to question if the souls
In front of him were fortified
Above defeat!
For long, the child of Tenderness, you breathed
As patient as a rosebud in the dark.
If, since the habit in my blood is strong,
You find me deaf and mute in seeming space,
Run to my chair! Recover me from quest!
Darken the Pleiades! certain of the end,
Sure of my folding love!
14
And you, Forgiveness, have the central light.’
‘Stand up, True Comforter!
Though blinded utterly by tears—
The happiest ever woman shed—
I see what lately was an hour
Flash to a new-come star.’
Though blinded utterly by tears—
The happiest ever woman shed—
I see what lately was an hour
Flash to a new-come star.’
15
SPEAK!
I could not bear a book of humdrum prose
When this familiar miracle in green and white,
Half-way across the honoured field,
Was adding light to light.
When this familiar miracle in green and white,
Half-way across the honoured field,
Was adding light to light.
Foxglove with fingerstalls of velvety snow,
I hurried to find you at a glamorous hour
And whisper, ‘Are you bloom alone,
Or girlhood fused with flower?’
I hurried to find you at a glamorous hour
And whisper, ‘Are you bloom alone,
Or girlhood fused with flower?’
Listen! A wildered loveliness was turned
To fountain; Daphne to laurel stem and spray.
If almost caught in Thessaly,
Tell how you swerved away!
To fountain; Daphne to laurel stem and spray.
If almost caught in Thessaly,
Tell how you swerved away!
16
THE PROPOSAL
Why warm this bud with loving looks
Denied to me? Turn round and give
The friend that cannot change to flower
A moment sweet to live.
Denied to me? Turn round and give
The friend that cannot change to flower
A moment sweet to live.
Along the woodland's wearying length
A dread was night, a hope was morn.
Believe me, turning is the rose,
Refusal is the thorn.
A dread was night, a hope was morn.
Believe me, turning is the rose,
Refusal is the thorn.
No! Not an inch, nor two, nor half,
But all; unless you darkly choose
To squander on that bud the face
My soul shall never lose!
But all; unless you darkly choose
To squander on that bud the face
My soul shall never lose!
I had not dreamed a maid could whirl
So stormily to dart the zest
Of lightning's sudden self, and tear
With joy her lover's breast.
So stormily to dart the zest
Of lightning's sudden self, and tear
With joy her lover's breast.
17
EXAMPLE
Remember how a stream,
If weak or strong,
Lives lending in all weathers
To fins and feathers
His run of song.
If weak or strong,
Lives lending in all weathers
To fins and feathers
His run of song.
Thus let your care for me,
As his for those,
Live music by the sounding
Of love abounding,
And never close.
As his for those,
Live music by the sounding
Of love abounding,
And never close.
18
INVOCATION
Now eve is floating into night.
Come, Fragrance! be yourself the light
To make this shadowed study bright.
Come, Fragrance! be yourself the light
To make this shadowed study bright.
Out of my room—I know not when,
Being held the like of nebulous men
Who drift from voice and book and pen—
Being held the like of nebulous men
Who drift from voice and book and pen—
Stole the young Sweetness loved by me
As hedge and cloverfield agree
In June to love the bridal bee.
As hedge and cloverfield agree
In June to love the bridal bee.
Rousing, I listened for the stir
Of needles clicking over fur
But half-alive with throbs of purr.
Of needles clicking over fur
But half-alive with throbs of purr.
Thereon I rose and called the name
That took, when first the fancy came,
Your breast with leaps, your throat with flame.
That took, when first the fancy came,
Your breast with leaps, your throat with flame.
19
Dull showed the velvet of your chair;
Perished my hope to gather there
With looks the blossoming of your hair.
Perished my hope to gather there
With looks the blossoming of your hair.
Dusk, weary at the windowsill,
And fretted not to have her fill
Of loveliness, is sighing still.
And fretted not to have her fill
Of loveliness, is sighing still.
Dead be the stay of clock and door!
In bud from head to foot, restore
The sweetness gone by bringing more!
In bud from head to foot, restore
The sweetness gone by bringing more!
20
TOGETHER APART
Here lies, beyond the tenderness of sleep
On earth, a maid too rare to lie thus deep.
On earth, a maid too rare to lie thus deep.
Seven days ago she stood with me and read
Some lines that Love had carved for beauty dead.
Some lines that Love had carved for beauty dead.
Yet now a verse is waiting in my breast
To grieve upon the cross above her rest.
To grieve upon the cross above her rest.
She left me broken, even as the sigh
That, but for weakness, would have been Good-bye.
That, but for weakness, would have been Good-bye.
Black Death is but a servant, who can care
For dust alone. The Spirit takes the air.
For dust alone. The Spirit takes the air.
My heart believes that now in cloven space
A soul looks fondly back to love my face.
A soul looks fondly back to love my face.
21
SOLILOQUY
‘When it was proved my Dear had turned to thief,
As proved it was, or Pain had not gone fuming—
His unbelief the victim of belief—
Adown love's path become a path of glooming,
The common seemed as shabby as a cloud
Bereft of vivid friendliness with thunder,
And wearisome the little finch that vowed
His broody girl the moorland's only wonder.
By what keen faulting had my sweetheart slipped
Thus soon from perfectness to imperfection,
Denying heavenly fare so often lipped
And stored in honey combs of recollection?
As proved it was, or Pain had not gone fuming—
His unbelief the victim of belief—
Adown love's path become a path of glooming,
The common seemed as shabby as a cloud
Bereft of vivid friendliness with thunder,
And wearisome the little finch that vowed
His broody girl the moorland's only wonder.
By what keen faulting had my sweetheart slipped
Thus soon from perfectness to imperfection,
Denying heavenly fare so often lipped
And stored in honey combs of recollection?
Who yesterday clung close as ivy born
For holding fast is now a tearing thorn.’
For holding fast is now a tearing thorn.’
22
THE MEETING
My shadow met, one hour in dream,
With Christ along the flinted road
That led toward the settled weight
Of Duty's load.
The Saviour lifted up his hand
To check me by a gentle touch,
Asking a little in return
For very much.
With Christ along the flinted road
That led toward the settled weight
Of Duty's load.
The Saviour lifted up his hand
To check me by a gentle touch,
Asking a little in return
For very much.
The Christian service of a heart
In tune with what He spoke of old
While preaching Heaven upon the Mount
In words of gold,
This recompense alone He named
Before He smiled and pointed straight
Across the field that had for end
The Vineyard gate.
In tune with what He spoke of old
While preaching Heaven upon the Mount
In words of gold,
This recompense alone He named
Before He smiled and pointed straight
Across the field that had for end
The Vineyard gate.
23
That revelation of the truth
Upon a hillside long ago
Was all the Saviour's flock of souls
Could need to know.
What other grief shall wound a world
Of lives astray than shattering loss
When madmen dare to lift the Purse
Above the Cross?
Upon a hillside long ago
Was all the Saviour's flock of souls
Could need to know.
What other grief shall wound a world
Of lives astray than shattering loss
When madmen dare to lift the Purse
Above the Cross?
The hallowed words He spoke, to pour
His fountain to the thirsty few
That walked with Him, are bread and wine
To-day anew.
I serve, commanded by the dream,
The warning hand, the gentle touch;
Giving my little in return
For very much.
His fountain to the thirsty few
That walked with Him, are bread and wine
To-day anew.
I serve, commanded by the dream,
The warning hand, the gentle touch;
Giving my little in return
For very much.
24
THOREAU
In Walden, on a deathless page, he bends—
Not caring how the woodland minutes pass—
To weed his double crop of thought and food
While making earth say beans instead of grass.
Not caring how the woodland minutes pass—
To weed his double crop of thought and food
While making earth say beans instead of grass.
Methinks a Spirit, beside the fallen hoe,
Still questions, questions, all the long-loved scenes;
Withdrawn so tensely that he cannot hear
Time making earth say bricks instead of beans.
Still questions, questions, all the long-loved scenes;
Withdrawn so tensely that he cannot hear
Time making earth say bricks instead of beans.
25
TIME IN LOVE
Clearly he wants her. Could he speak,
How fast his words would run in claiming
Her many joys! But Father Time
Has not a single word for naming.
Though sworn of old to wither life,
He falters, falters, in the duty
Of shaking petals from a flower
Almost beyond—
Almost beyond the hope of Beauty.
How fast his words would run in claiming
Her many joys! But Father Time
Has not a single word for naming.
Though sworn of old to wither life,
He falters, falters, in the duty
Of shaking petals from a flower
Almost beyond—
Almost beyond the hope of Beauty.
She is not young, except in heart,
With two score years and five to carry,
So Time's rebellious want is how
To coax her loveliness to tarry.
His touches on her forehead show
But dimly, and all other lining
Is tender in a way to seem
As youth not gone—
As youth not gone, but youth refining.
With two score years and five to carry,
So Time's rebellious want is how
To coax her loveliness to tarry.
His touches on her forehead show
But dimly, and all other lining
Is tender in a way to seem
As youth not gone—
As youth not gone, but youth refining.
26
His labour is to keep the vow
And yet to welcome Beauty pressing
The hurt that pierced him when she drove
His mood from withering to caressing.
Those deep-set lakes of blue, those lips,
That throat a little browned by heaven,
Shall suffer changes trebly slow,
And Time's deceit—
And Time's deceit shall be forgiven.
And yet to welcome Beauty pressing
The hurt that pierced him when she drove
His mood from withering to caressing.
Those deep-set lakes of blue, those lips,
That throat a little browned by heaven,
Shall suffer changes trebly slow,
And Time's deceit—
And Time's deceit shall be forgiven.
27
KEEPING FAITH
Good morrow, tousled Ragwort! come again
With gold to flaunt among the harebells showing,
For all the fisticuffs of thunder-rain,
How slender lives are helped to bear with blowing.
Your wealth the poverty of commonlands,
You put my heart in double debt by spending
(As benefactors rich with open hands)
The gold was granted for a flower's defending.
When first your kinsmen nodded from the grass
Their rumpled heads to me in autumn glory
I vowed that never nodless would I pass
Their civil breed. This, Ragwort, is my story.
With gold to flaunt among the harebells showing,
For all the fisticuffs of thunder-rain,
How slender lives are helped to bear with blowing.
Your wealth the poverty of commonlands,
You put my heart in double debt by spending
(As benefactors rich with open hands)
The gold was granted for a flower's defending.
When first your kinsmen nodded from the grass
Their rumpled heads to me in autumn glory
I vowed that never nodless would I pass
Their civil breed. This, Ragwort, is my story.
Time's a poor scholar, but he knows at least
How seldom man says grace before a feast.
How seldom man says grace before a feast.
28
MOMENTS
Millions there are to whom great cities call
With luring voices: Theatre, Concert Hall,
Museum, Abbey, Mart. In many a street
Shuffle and grind and tap symphonic feet
Of unremitting strangers, who repose,
Or seem to, in such blunderment as throws
My heart to panic, beaten from the rose
And other wildings dear to men that roam
Where Stillness has, and needs, a country home,
Not greatly caring if the cuckoo sends
Loud love too often to his female friends;
But tides of tumult, were they now to leap
In swirls across the meadows where I keep
My hand in Solitude's, to fondle it
Till lofty lamps of silver-gold are lit
In eastward spaces, would, as though a death
About to fall upon and strangle breath,
Turn me from tame to wild ere swamping joys
With all those rough Niagaras of noise.
Blest are the heathland musers! for to these
Uproar's no dainty, silence no disease.
With luring voices: Theatre, Concert Hall,
Museum, Abbey, Mart. In many a street
Shuffle and grind and tap symphonic feet
Of unremitting strangers, who repose,
Or seem to, in such blunderment as throws
My heart to panic, beaten from the rose
And other wildings dear to men that roam
Where Stillness has, and needs, a country home,
Not greatly caring if the cuckoo sends
Loud love too often to his female friends;
But tides of tumult, were they now to leap
In swirls across the meadows where I keep
My hand in Solitude's, to fondle it
Till lofty lamps of silver-gold are lit
In eastward spaces, would, as though a death
About to fall upon and strangle breath,
Turn me from tame to wild ere swamping joys
With all those rough Niagaras of noise.
29
Uproar's no dainty, silence no disease.
In chance-come shreds of workless time,
Morning a bell, and evenfall a chime,
Fast ran the fairy minutes when I found
Stars in a thistled heaven of common ground;
Aconites eager for the splitting fold
Of green well wrapped about the baby gold
Designed by Wisdom for the firstborn—Spring—
To watch a month ere yet the blackbirds sing;
Beetles so packed with hardihood, so squat,
So David-like in going forth to trounce
Goliath Log with half of half an ounce,
Masters and servants of their creeping lot;
Countryfolk pansies, taught how best to wear
June velvet with enough of seemly care
To make a flight of honey women think
Its newborn gloss the fairest of the fair;
Waters not running only through a vale
For minnow, marigold, and nightingale,
But also through the offices where men's
Queer farming tills a paper soil with pens,
Holiday tune of rivulets the sound
To help December's wheel go creaking round;
And then, still lingering for the scythe to cut,
As brown as sun can burn a hazelnut,
What men and plough and horse have sown,
And Clod, the ever-willing labourer, grown;
Ragworts, plebeian, if you will, but yet
Tough English peasants of the bygone cast,
Nodding their welcomes, be it fine or wet,
And, in the autumn, making money fast;
Fungus that flutters timid life with red—
The Cardinal's colour—angry on his head,
And stirs a poet, fretful at the sight,
To sit him down upon a stump and write
A lyric for his children to repeat
While clustered on the hearthrug at his feet.
Morning a bell, and evenfall a chime,
Fast ran the fairy minutes when I found
Stars in a thistled heaven of common ground;
Aconites eager for the splitting fold
Of green well wrapped about the baby gold
Designed by Wisdom for the firstborn—Spring—
To watch a month ere yet the blackbirds sing;
Beetles so packed with hardihood, so squat,
So David-like in going forth to trounce
Goliath Log with half of half an ounce,
Masters and servants of their creeping lot;
Countryfolk pansies, taught how best to wear
June velvet with enough of seemly care
To make a flight of honey women think
Its newborn gloss the fairest of the fair;
Waters not running only through a vale
For minnow, marigold, and nightingale,
30
Queer farming tills a paper soil with pens,
Holiday tune of rivulets the sound
To help December's wheel go creaking round;
And then, still lingering for the scythe to cut,
As brown as sun can burn a hazelnut,
What men and plough and horse have sown,
And Clod, the ever-willing labourer, grown;
Ragworts, plebeian, if you will, but yet
Tough English peasants of the bygone cast,
Nodding their welcomes, be it fine or wet,
And, in the autumn, making money fast;
Fungus that flutters timid life with red—
The Cardinal's colour—angry on his head,
And stirs a poet, fretful at the sight,
To sit him down upon a stump and write
A lyric for his children to repeat
While clustered on the hearthrug at his feet.
Warm in the arms of Memory, when Rest,
Not wearied, makes the third of us in bed,
How soothingly I breathe the breath of flowers
While listening to a rivulet in my head!
Not wearied, makes the third of us in bed,
How soothingly I breathe the breath of flowers
While listening to a rivulet in my head!
31
FULL CIRCLE
Child East came, laughed, and fled;
Lad South came, glowed, and sped.
Lad South came, glowed, and sped.
Limp West, who's feebly kind,
Potters about a bed,
Pulls up and down the blind
And shakes his rheumy head.
Potters about a bed,
Pulls up and down the blind
And shakes his rheumy head.
Yet how the Child and Lad,
Two runaways from rest,
Can leap from warmth they had
In Memory's breast!
Two runaways from rest,
Can leap from warmth they had
In Memory's breast!
The Child shall tread a spade
In sand that shone of old;
The Lad shall pluck a maid
Her brookside marigold,
Present be past,—a glade,
A wound, a passion told!
In sand that shone of old;
The Lad shall pluck a maid
Her brookside marigold,
Present be past,—a glade,
A wound, a passion told!
West, shall we run to East
Behind returning South
To share a nursery feast,
With sugar in the mouth;
Twirl yet once more a top,
Sow darling names in cress,
See Mothers never stop
From loving loveliness;
Race back with Lad to mount
The horse of life, and keep
Big courage for the count
Of what's ahead to leap;
Fall, rise, endure, renew,
Examine, learn, attain,
Then tuck the fair review
In Memory's bed again?
Behind returning South
32
With sugar in the mouth;
Twirl yet once more a top,
Sow darling names in cress,
See Mothers never stop
From loving loveliness;
Race back with Lad to mount
The horse of life, and keep
Big courage for the count
Of what's ahead to leap;
Fall, rise, endure, renew,
Examine, learn, attain,
Then tuck the fair review
In Memory's bed again?
Joy, at the birth of breath,
With miracles begun,
As though to sweeten death,
Gave man two lives in one.
For me, I shall not fear
The pang of setting forth
From recollection here
To Love behind the North.
With miracles begun,
As though to sweeten death,
Gave man two lives in one.
For me, I shall not fear
The pang of setting forth
From recollection here
To Love behind the North.
33
COMPLETION
The girl, aware of only thought,
Woke him from musing in the wood
Of Consolation. Coming close,
She did not see him where he stood
To learn the maid he long had sought.
Woke him from musing in the wood
Of Consolation. Coming close,
She did not see him where he stood
To learn the maid he long had sought.
A glitter, and his life came whole!
The glitter swept him, and was gone,
To stay his central spark of time.
Leaving him other than alone,
She passed his body, not his soul.
The glitter swept him, and was gone,
To stay his central spark of time.
Leaving him other than alone,
She passed his body, not his soul.
34
LOVE'S RETURN
I heard my silver clock say ‘Ten.’
After three hours of fountain-pen
With no release,
I shared again the tonic moor
That rolled in heather to my door
A tide of peace.
After three hours of fountain-pen
With no release,
I shared again the tonic moor
That rolled in heather to my door
A tide of peace.
Methought a footfall not my own
Spoke on the path and edged a stone
To touch my shoe.
How sweet of Fancy, by a flint
Upon the moorland, thus to hint
The old was new!
Spoke on the path and edged a stone
To touch my shoe.
How sweet of Fancy, by a flint
Upon the moorland, thus to hint
The old was new!
35
GOLDEN WEDDING
‘Though radiance now is driven to leave behind
Beautiful ashes only, these are still
A pulse of guardian heat to warm the mind
That cannot fade from you, nor ever will,
By force of years in bloom with holiday
Beyond life's wearing practice to remove;
For all you pledged in front of God must stay
The lamp I took with towering pride from Love
To watch so piercingly that none but Death
Should blow it into darkness. Even he
Might stoop in doubt, before his gathered breath
Drove life from flame—and homely heaven from me.
Beautiful ashes only, these are still
A pulse of guardian heat to warm the mind
That cannot fade from you, nor ever will,
By force of years in bloom with holiday
Beyond life's wearing practice to remove;
For all you pledged in front of God must stay
The lamp I took with towering pride from Love
To watch so piercingly that none but Death
Should blow it into darkness. Even he
Might stoop in doubt, before his gathered breath
Drove life from flame—and homely heaven from me.
What is a fruit? The old age of a flower.
And what the windfall at my feet? This hour.’
And what the windfall at my feet? This hour.’
36
MY GRATITUDE
Sweet-William, harvest is not come,
Nor can be, till along my lawn
You make of time no time but dawn.
Nor can be, till along my lawn
You make of time no time but dawn.
A friend—so Musing loves to think—
Fonder than poppies fallen away
As though disliking holiday,
Fonder than poppies fallen away
As though disliking holiday,
You call me from a studious count
Of nebulas, from foreign words,
No less commandingly than birds;
Of nebulas, from foreign words,
No less commandingly than birds;
And even when that milky band
Of stars related to your bloom
Is glitter, glitter, in my room
Of stars related to your bloom
Is glitter, glitter, in my room
You tell my heart to go to bed
Assured of loveliness when sight
Comes home to live again with light.
Assured of loveliness when sight
Comes home to live again with light.
37
Not yours to wake the look I give
When oriental poppies start
With seeming coldness to depart,
When oriental poppies start
With seeming coldness to depart,
As though my presence were a blight
To shrivel colour. You disdain
The visit shortened to a pain.
To shrivel colour. You disdain
The visit shortened to a pain.
Sweet-William, harvest is not here,
Nor can be, till you come and spend
Your savings to enrich a friend.
Nor can be, till you come and spend
Your savings to enrich a friend.
38
DISTRAUGHT
In all his briefer travelling on the road
Styled Broad than on the flinted road men name
The Narrow, has he fared without a load
To burn his shoulder, as a leap of flame
Would brand him were he caught by common fire?
Yes. But hurried along his separate track—
The third—so flowered to sting him with desire,
So fruited that his life is on the rack,
He blunders from the cross his worth should bear
In radiant honour of the martyred Lord;
Now pulls it close; now drops it in despair,
Alive and dead between the Strait and Broad.
Styled Broad than on the flinted road men name
The Narrow, has he fared without a load
To burn his shoulder, as a leap of flame
Would brand him were he caught by common fire?
Yes. But hurried along his separate track—
The third—so flowered to sting him with desire,
So fruited that his life is on the rack,
He blunders from the cross his worth should bear
In radiant honour of the martyred Lord;
Now pulls it close; now drops it in despair,
Alive and dead between the Strait and Broad.
Friend, stoop to conquer! Now! With all your might!
For lifting, lifting, lifting makes the cross seem light.
For lifting, lifting, lifting makes the cross seem light.
39
THE END
Go you where you will at last,
Since nothing I can do
Shall ever bring to me afresh
The sweet that once was you.
Searching with fairness in my soul,
No shadows can I find
Sombre enough in me to dull
The colouring of your mind.
Since nothing I can do
Shall ever bring to me afresh
The sweet that once was you.
Searching with fairness in my soul,
No shadows can I find
Sombre enough in me to dull
The colouring of your mind.
Go you where you will, Caprice,
Beyond the home and life
Perceived as glittering when the maid
In you had flowered to wife.
Honour is flushing, Love is wroth,
To have you fling away,
With less redemption than a sigh,
From married yesterday.
Beyond the home and life
Perceived as glittering when the maid
In you had flowered to wife.
Honour is flushing, Love is wroth,
To have you fling away,
With less redemption than a sigh,
From married yesterday.
40
AMEN
Light come, light go.Methinks the end,
If this be so,
Will prove a friend.
What shall I leave?
My worst, my best.
And what receive
For certain? Rest.
| Brackenham Church | |