 | Pomander of Verse |  |
55
MYRRH
57
THE PAST
Make strong your door with bolt and bar,
Make every window fast;
Strong brass and iron as they are,
They are so easy passed—
So easy broken and cast aside,
And by the open door
My footsteps come to your guarded home,
And pass away no more.
Make every window fast;
Strong brass and iron as they are,
They are so easy passed—
So easy broken and cast aside,
And by the open door
My footsteps come to your guarded home,
And pass away no more.
In the golden noon—by the lovers' moon,
My shadow bars your way,
My shroud shows white in the blackest night
And grey in the gladdest day.
And by your board and by your bed
There is a place for me,
And in the glow when the coals burn low,
My face is the face ye see.
My shadow bars your way,
My shroud shows white in the blackest night
And grey in the gladdest day.
And by your board and by your bed
There is a place for me,
And in the glow when the coals burn low,
My face is the face ye see.
58
I come between when ye laugh and lean,
I burn in the tears ye weep:
I am there when ye wake in the gray day-break
From the gold of a lovers' sleep.
I wither the rose and I spoil the song,
And Death is not strong to save—
For I shall creep while your mourners weep,
And wait for you in your grave.
I burn in the tears ye weep:
I am there when ye wake in the gray day-break
From the gold of a lovers' sleep.
I wither the rose and I spoil the song,
And Death is not strong to save—
For I shall creep while your mourners weep,
And wait for you in your grave.
59
THE BETTER PART
There's a grey old church on a wind-swept hill
Where three bent yew trees cower,
The gipsy roses grow there still,
And the thyme and Saint John's gold flower,
The pale blue violets that love the chalk
Cling light round the lichened stone,
And starlings chatter and grey owls talk
In the belfry o' nights alone.
Where three bent yew trees cower,
The gipsy roses grow there still,
And the thyme and Saint John's gold flower,
The pale blue violets that love the chalk
Cling light round the lichened stone,
And starlings chatter and grey owls talk
In the belfry o' nights alone.
It's a thousand leagues and a thousand years
From the brick-built, gas-lit town
To the little church where the wild thyme hears
The bees and the breeze of the down.
The town is crowded and hard and rough;
Let those fight in its press who will—
But the little churchyard is quiet enough,
And there's room in the churchyard still.
From the brick-built, gas-lit town
To the little church where the wild thyme hears
The bees and the breeze of the down.
The town is crowded and hard and rough;
Let those fight in its press who will—
But the little churchyard is quiet enough,
And there's room in the churchyard still.
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THE GRAY FOLK
The house, with blind unhappy face,
Stands lonely in the last year's corn,
And in the grayness of the morn
The gray folk come about the place.
Stands lonely in the last year's corn,
And in the grayness of the morn
The gray folk come about the place.
By many pathways, gliding gray
They come past meadow, wood, and wold,
Come by the farm and by the fold
From the green fields of yesterday.
They come past meadow, wood, and wold,
Come by the farm and by the fold
From the green fields of yesterday.
Past lock and chain and bolt and bar
They press, to stand about my bed,
And like the faces of the dead
I know their hidden faces are.
They press, to stand about my bed,
And like the faces of the dead
I know their hidden faces are.
They will not leave me in the day
And when night falls they will not go,
Because I silenced, long ago,
The only voice that they obey.
And when night falls they will not go,
Because I silenced, long ago,
The only voice that they obey.
61
THE TREASURE
Under our lead we lie
While the sun and the snow go by,
And our shrouds lie close, lie close,
Like the leaves of a shut white rose
That knows not what summer knows
Before it is time to die.
While the sun and the snow go by,
And our shrouds lie close, lie close,
Like the leaves of a shut white rose
That knows not what summer knows
Before it is time to die.
You, in the sun, up there
Where the wild thyme scents the air;
Is it warm still—and sweet and gay
Up there in the wide blue day?
Do you pity us, shut away
From the fields where the flowers are fair?
Where the wild thyme scents the air;
Is it warm still—and sweet and gay
Up there in the wide blue day?
Do you pity us, shut away
From the fields where the flowers are fair?
Pity us here? shut in
In the dark, where the flowers begin?
The coins lie light on our eyes,
In our empty hands is the prize,
The treasure that fools and wise
Are breaking their hearts to win!
In the dark, where the flowers begin?
The coins lie light on our eyes,
In our empty hands is the prize,
The treasure that fools and wise
Are breaking their hearts to win!
62
NEW YEAR SNOW
The white snow falls on hill and dale,
The snow falls white by square and street,
Falls on the town, a bridal veil,
And on the fields a winding-sheet.
The snow falls white by square and street,
Falls on the town, a bridal veil,
And on the fields a winding-sheet.
A winding-sheet for last year's flowers,
For last year's love, and last year's tear,
A bridal veil for the New Hours,
For the New Love and the New Year.
For last year's love, and last year's tear,
A bridal veil for the New Hours,
For the New Love and the New Year.
Soft snow, spread out his winding-sheet!
Spin fine her veil, O bridal snow!
Cover the print of her dancing feet,
And the place where he lies low.
Spin fine her veil, O bridal snow!
Cover the print of her dancing feet,
And the place where he lies low.
63
LOVE'S GUERDONS
Dearest, if I almost cease to weep for you,
Do not doubt I love you just the same;
'Tis because my life has grown to keep for you
All the hours that sorrow does not claim.
Do not doubt I love you just the same;
'Tis because my life has grown to keep for you
All the hours that sorrow does not claim.
All the hours when I may steal away to you,
Where you lie alone through the long day,
Lean my face against your turf and say to you
All that there is no one else to say.
Where you lie alone through the long day,
Lean my face against your turf and say to you
All that there is no one else to say.
Do they let you listen—do you lean to me?
Know now what in life you never knew,
When I whisper all that you have been to me,
All that I might never be to you?
Know now what in life you never knew,
When I whisper all that you have been to me,
All that I might never be to you?
Dear, lie still. No tears but mine are shed for you,
No one else leaves kisses day by day,
No one's heart but mine has beat and bled for you,
No one else's flowers push mine away.
No one else leaves kisses day by day,
No one's heart but mine has beat and bled for you,
No one else's flowers push mine away.
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No one else remembers—do not call to her,
Not alone she treads the churchyard grass;
You are nothing now who once were all to her,
Do not call her—let the strangers pass!
Not alone she treads the churchyard grass;
You are nothing now who once were all to her,
Do not call her—let the strangers pass!
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