University of Virginia Library

The thorn-tree keeps its leaves for ever green
All the year round; and when the wind blows keen,
And strips all trees the summer's pride and chief,
This holdeth fast, and will not quit one leaf.
Likewise when Christ had worn the thorny crown,
That year the sorry thorn-tree trickled down
With drops of blood, and ever since hath worn
Those bleeding berries in its leaves of thorn.
Wherefore all doleful lovers prize that tree,
Both for its sorrow and its constancy;
And all they say that it is good to wear
Its leaves so sharp and green upon their hair,
As Christ did then; for Christ who loved us died
In love of us, and whoso would abide
His baptism, must in loving die also,
That life may rise again from deathly woe.

It is great marvel to me that I keep
My hand in writing tales of love and sleep,
And life and God; for long ago has ceased
The stir of things in me; I stand released
A long time now from all that coil severe
Which knitteth heart to heart: I have grown clear
Perchance in watching our old Abbot's eyes,
Burn softly like a dove's, when he replies
To us who ask his blessing in the hall:
He gives the same old gift to great and small,
Just peering with his old mouth and white hair
At what you are, a moment; and, you swear,
As instantly forgetting: howsoe'er
The quiet of our life here day by day
Has somehow won on me to put away
All other thought save to write on and on,
Between the prayer times, as if life were gone
In threescore years for me as from the rest;
Alas! that earnest e'er should grow a jest!

So let me reason how I first began
To write my tales in praise of those who ran
Furthest in love; of what did set me on
To make my body lean, and my face wan
In praising that which was my utter woe
A long time past: hear, and ye well shall know
That I fulfil my life in writing well
Of love and God, and life, the tales I tell.

It being then the happy Christmas time,
And all the orchards thick with frosty rime,
I took me by the happy paths that go
Along the dumb and frozen river, so
That I might taste the goodness of the day;
Passing through many meadows on my way,
Where all the grass and flowers were dead asleep,
Through many sheepfolds full of bleating sheep,
By many watercourses, whereby grew
The little-headed willows, two and two,
And also poplars: onward thus I sped,
Until the pathway reached a little head
Of brushwood, screening up a wicket gate,
Whereat I entered, and beheld elate
A wide and scattered wood of late-leaved beech
And oaks and thorn-trees, standing on the reach
Of long-withdrawing glades: at sight of these
And the snow-dabbled grass, and broken knees
Of large red ferns in patches, as I went,
Felt I great exaltation and consent
Unto the sweetness of the place and day:
The robin called the merle, who was away,
And yet the robin answered from his bough:
The squirrel dropt from branch to branch, although
Few leaves did screen him; and with frequent bounds
The rabbits visited each others' mounds,
And o'er the dead leaves pattered. Thus I went
Until I reached a little thorn-tree bent—
A thorn-tree knotted like a human throat,
Set so, and all its leaves together smote
Out the resemblance of a saddened face
Raised on two knotty arms, thrust, as for grace,
Among wild hair: the tree was such I saw,
And crossed the glades for, thinking with much awe
About the time of year; for in seven days
Would be the shortest day; and last year's haze
Rose all about me then; last year that day
Found I that I was given all away
For nought; and all that winter had I gone
In loneliness, and when the summer shone,
Sadder was I to see the buds drawn out
On the long branches till they tossed about
In perfect flower; making me but more sad
To see the sweet completeness all things had.
And I remember, sleeping in my bed,
A mighty clap of thunder shook my head
About laburnum time; and I awoke
And watched the lightning make a great white stroke
Three hours above the poplar tops, and then
Came morning and the writing of a pen
Telling me that my love and reverence
Three days before had sold herself for pence
Unto a clown who riches had in store;
Yea, sold herself for that three days before.
Ah! Lord, thy lightnings should have wakened me
Three nights before they did: more bitterly
Was nothing ever done; and all the moons
The golden apples ripened, came long swoons
Of utter woe and trouble, shot across
By roaring and sad weeping for my loss.
Nor found I quiet till the autumn time
Was finished, and brought back the frosty rime;
And knights rode forth to quest upon the leas,
And seek adventure underneath the keys
Of the bare ash-trees, and by wayside stones,
And where roads met; and then I thought my moans
Had been ill-spent, and half my pain was crime;
For while I was lamenting all the time,
I might have been at tennis, or have made
Six pictures, or twelve stories; so I said.

Love hath great store of sweetness, and 'tis well;
A moment's heaven pays back an age of hell:
All who have loved, be sure of this from me,
That to have touched one little ripple free
Of golden hair, or held a little hand
Very long since, is better than to stand
Rolled up in vestures stiff with golden thread,
Upon a throne o'er many a bowing head
Of adulators; yea, and to have seen
Thy lady walking in a garden green,
Mid apple blossoms and green twisted boughs,
Along the golden gravel path, to house
Herself, where thou art watching far below,
Deep in thy bower impervious, even though
Thou never give her kisses after that,
Is sweeter than to never break the flat
Of thy soul's rising, like a river tide
That never foams; yea, if thy lady chide
Cruelly thy service, and indeed becomes
A wretch, whose false eyes haunt thee in all rooms,
'Tis better so, than never to have been
An hour in love; than never to have seen
Thine own heart's worthiness to shrink and shake,
Like silver quick, all for thy lady's sake,
Weighty with truth, with gentleness as bright.

Moreover, let sad lovers take delight
In this, that time will bring at last their peace:
We watch great passions in their huge increase,
Until they fill our hearts, so that we say,
“Let go this, and I die;” yet nay and nay,
We find them leave us strangely quiet then,
When they must quit; one lion leaves the den,
Another enters; wherefore thus I cross
All lovers pale and starving with their loss.

And yet, and yet, and yet, how long I tore
My heart, O love! how long, O love! before
I could endure to think of peace, and call
For remedy, from what time thou didst all
Shatter with one bad word, and bitter ruth
Didst mete me for my patience and my truth.
That way thou hadst: once, cutting like a knife,
Thy hand sheared off what seemed my very life,
And I felt outside coldness bite within:
The lumpish axe that scales away false skin
Of some corruption clumped upon the bark,
Leaves the tree aching with the pale round mark,
And sweating till the wound be overshot
By the gums swelling out into a blot,
Where the bees lose their wings, and dead leaves stick.
Even so, O love, my flesh was sore and quick
From that astonishment, when I seemed flayed,
Torn piecemeal up, and shred abroad, and made
A victim to some brutal lack of skill;
Yet kissing still the hand so rough to kill.
So, so; I never meant but to live on
The old, old way; now the old life is gone—
Has it?—and left me living! This I thought,
Kneeling before the thorn-bush, over fraught
With many memories, when I saw the sweet
Red berries hanging in it, and its feet
Rolled up in withered moss; also I saw
Birds sit among its sharp green leaves and caw.
Gently I drew a branch of berries down,
And severed it to be my very own,
And on a pine log, lying full hard by,
Cast I myself and looked upon the sky.

Oh, then behold a glorious vision fair,
Which came to comfort me in that despair;
Branched in the clouds I saw a mighty tree,
As dearly twisted as the thorn, as free,
As kindly wild, clear springing through the green
Fields of the frosty Orient, and between
Four great hills rooted, where the earth upreared
Herself into the sky; and as this cleared
I looked towards the thorn-tree standing there,
So happy, with the woods about all bare,
And then nine gentle forms did I behold—
Five men and four sweet ladies, as I told—
All walking towards me, with a gentle pace,
Round from the thorn, all with full solemn face,
And head bent solemnly: to me they came,
One led the band, the rest led each his dame.

The first who came waved forth a long green wand,
Whereat the others in fair show did stand
Divided, four on either side, a knight
And queen together, on the left and right.
Those knights had golden crowns upon their heads,
And their long hair drawn out with golden threads,
And rightly were they harnessed, and each bore
A coronal of thorn leaves, with good store
Of berries red, which shone like drops of wine
Amongst the green leaves and the gold wire fine.
Those four queens wore the thorn-leaves; I saw there
Red berries spread about upon their hair:
Their crisped tresses hung more clear and fine
Than yellow amber holding gold-red wine;
Their looks were wildly gentle, and more fair
Than full-eyed fawn just shaken from her lair;
Wild looks of sorrow, wildly worn and past;
Wild looks of wild peace, wildly won at last:
One wore a white robe, like a thin white cloud,
Through which strange drops of crimson slowly ploughed;
One wore a white robe with a crimson seam,
In which strange quivering shapes did hang and gleam;
One wore a robe of dark deep violet,
In which, like eyes, gold passion-flowers were set;
One wore a robe of saffron, shot and stained
With willow leaves, and wolfsbane purple-veined:
Each stood contented, with a tender white
Hand in the reverent holding of a knight.

At sight of this fair worship I had dropped
Upon my knees, and then uprose and stopped,
Until they stood more near, and then again
Knelt down before them, being very fain
To gaze upon their glory all so nigh.
Then he who led them, with a bitter sigh,
Began to chide me gently for my fault
In leaving love, and making that revolt
From him, since not a man shall miss reward
From love, who pays true service and regard.
“Ah, sir,” said I, “how in God's truth and mine,
How I have loved, never canst thou divine.
If I blame love I do not scorn his might,
And have no other done in love than right.
Nay, I so truly dealt with my false dame,
And spent such pains, that many cried her shame
Because she paid me nought for my long quest.
I hold that love lights love in gentle breast;
Now hath she left me nought but scorn and loss.
Oh, never meet with love; oh, never cross
A fair false face to torture all your thoughts,
For ever brooding, fiend-like, on the thwarts
Of all the paths you move in; better far
To wage with fortune such a cruel war
As makes all joy to be a sin and crime:
Oh, to live rankly were a blessed time
In such a beggar's filth and press of wants
As gives no leave for wasting royal grants
Of love upon some brainless beauty-snare,
As sweet as false: so he is sure to fare,
Who trusts a woman,—save the worship sweet
Of these dear ladies, who with pity meet
My cursed complaining: can I not suppress
Some bitterness of soul, this tide and stress?”

“Thou shalt not need,” replied his sovereign voice;
“Behold how they with pity droop in poise
Of their sweet heads; for drop by drop thy rain
Has filled their cups, until they stoop and drain
Upon the ground their fulness—thy bestowing;
Then rise,—unemptied, but no more o'erflowing.
Ah! lilies, ah! sweet friends, weep not so sore;
He who can rail in love hath yet good store
Of lightness left him, whensoe'er he take
Good counsel, good advisement, and awake
Unto himself, see what he hath, let pass
This frenzy, this lewd mist blown on the glass
Wherein his clear eyes should behold themselves.
Now take this counsel from me: wise man delves
In his own heart for comforts; never seeks
Outside himself; and falls not when fate wreaks
Herself on what he hath, but cannot smutch
That which he is: he hath his creed; not much
To say, but cons it shortly, and so holds:
Being forearmed, 'tis drawing fast the folds
Of mail that hung unrivetted for air.
Hast not thou such a creed? thou hast? prepare
To hear me con it to thee, lest thou cause
Ladies weep for thee; nay, shouldst make a pause
In nature's kindness for thee, and go mad,
And swash about in madness, thinly clad,
A violent creature sinning. Think this o'er:
Wouldst in a vase of many crannies pour
And say the liquor should not flow throughout,
But keep in certain hollows? Have no doubt
Up to its level it will flood the whole:
So does the tide of love o'erflood the soul
Admitting it, and so to dumbness fill
With very fulness; thou canst not distil
Into the air one sound not muffled up
In love; as after being filled, the cup
Gives not its crystal echo to the stroke
The same as empty: now in furious smoke
Thy love hath whirled itself away, and left
The vessel of thy nature all bereft
And emptied quite: now therefore it is due,
That it ring out its ancient tone as true
As at the first, ring loud and merrily,
Singing of old things in the time gone by,
Most precious to thy heart, recalling all,
With little pain for what is past recall.”

“O gentle ladies! I have worship done,”
I answered, “even when I made my moan;
O knights! I long had known your name and state,
Had not this lay prevented, with debate
Of my st this: now tell me who ye be,
Which I in part already seem to see.”

“Nine lovers are we, who have lost our loves,
Alike we are in that, and us behoves
To hold together, for by unhappiness,
Not by our fault, we fell beneath the press
Of the monster time, that ever coils about
The universe, and beats life in and out,
Being one living flail, and quick and fierce,
And full of hideous fancies: sometimes steers
His bulk straight onwards to the flying life,
With blood-fret head produced before the grife
Wave of his monster trunk, as shoots a spar
Of some wave-wallowing wreck before the far
Rush of the savage tides that urge it on;
Sometimes o'ertakes his prey, and straight is gone
In one quick flash of serpent head, and tongue,
And eyes, and then surrounds, and lashes strong
His sinewy tail before the victim's eyes,
In hideous gambols; all the while snake-wise,
His head is japing close behind. Now we
Were played with thus: Jules there, who secretly
Torments the hand of Ellen till he grow
To feel a need of her, enough to know
That no one can replace his need of needs;
And Ellen, knowing well that still she feeds
With her own heart a fire that Jules can ne'er
Become the food for; Mark, who in despair
Long ago calm holds only by the cross
Upon his sword, and thinks not of his loss,
Save joined with all that God must be; Lucrece,
Whose eyes now gain beginnings of great peace,
Watching her thin hands and the flowers they hold;
Gilbert, who stands half ruffled, feeling bold
To say and do what he would never do
Were the time come; Madoline looking so
Having done great self-sacrifice in love,
Yet thinking rather of the cost than of
The joy that should be hers from nobleness;
Miles, whose eyes pale before the glorious dress
Of Columbe's hair, but she means nought for him,
Nor he indeed for her; they scarcely dream.
All these are waiting ever—we all wait—
For some completion to fill up the date
Of life as yet unfinished; yet I say,
Perhaps in vain, as thou too; best are they
Who love their life in all things: is not life
Its own fulfilment? Steadfast marble rife
With knotty veins, like thoughts, inscrutable,
Broods on the altar's frontel, takes the spell
Of every taper pure caressing it,
Of every sun that warms the shadow-fit
From its pale, tranquil, capable, cold face;
Lives under sun and shadow, lets light trace
Its crumbled grain, and darkness thicken on't,
Struck blind by neither, neither is its want.
Man should do more than marble; make meet change
For day and night within himself, estrange
His heart from nought that meets him, even laugh
When bitter roots are given him to graff
Upon joy's stem, yea, even if it bear
Yew leaves and berries weighty on the air,
And dropping on the sleek soil underneath,
Where dead things rankle,—'tis a bloom from Death,
And true souls always are hilarious,
They see the way-marks on their exodus
From better unto better; still they say,
Lo! the new law, when old things pass away;
Still keep themselves well guarded, nothing swerve
From the great purposes to which they serve
Scarce knowingly; still smile and take delight
In arduous things, as brave men when they fight
Take joy in feeling one another's might.
Ah! now, poor wounded man, drag not thy coils
In shattered volume sadly through the toils,
Backward and forward, tearing more and more
Each torn quick part, and adding to the sore
That earth-clods stick in, like a mangled worm.
There is one way for thee; but one; inform
Thyself of it; pursue it; one way each
Soul hath by which the infinite in reach
Lieth before him; seek and ye shall find:
To each the way is plain; that way the wind
Points all the trees along; that way run down
Loud singing streams; that way pour on and on
A thousand headlands with their cataracts
Of toppling flowers; that way the sun enacts
His travel, and the moon and all the stars
Soar; and the tides move towards it; nothing bars
A man who goes the way that he should go;
That which comes soonest is the thing to do.
Thousand light-shadows in the rippling sand
Joy the true soul; the waves along the strand
Whiten beyond his eyes; the trees tossed back
Show him the sky; or, heaped upon his track
In a black wave, wind-heaped, point onward still
His one, one way. O joy, joy, joy, to fill
The day with leagues! Go thy way, all things say,
Thou hast thy way to go, thou hast thy day
To live; thou hast thy need of thee to make
In the hearts of others; do thy thing; yes, slake
The world's great thirst for yet another man!
And be thou sure of this; no other can
Do for thee that appointed thee of God;
Not any light shall shine upon thy road
For other eyes; and thou mayest not pursue
The track of other feet, although they drew
Lucidly o'er wide waters, like the dip
Of speeding paddles, like the diamond drip
Of a white wing upon a lake struck dead
With shadows; no, though the innumerous head
Of flowers should curtain up the foot that falls.
Thou shalt not follow; thee the angel calls,
As he calls others; and thy life to thee
Is precious as the greatest's life can be
To him ; so live thy life, and go thy way.

Now we have gained this knowledge by essay,
In part; some struggling yet, for we all thought
To gain another, hand in hand, upcaught,
Drawn onwards our soul's path; and of us some
About our hearts meshed the loved hair with comb
Of our great love, to twine and glisten there,
And when 'twas stiffened in our life blood dear,
Then was it rent away; (ah! so with thee;)
We learn to pardon those who could not be
A part of us, their way lying different;
And learn to waste no grief on our intent
Thus warped; but live on bravely; tend the sore
Just at odd moments, when it oozes gore
Less sufferably: how our eyes draw fire
From the fire fount of pain! Our wounds grow drier,
And memories walk beside us, as a shade
Walks by a great magician in his trade,
When deep night falls on all the paths, and he
Discourses to his friend, invisibly
Accompanied; our memories walk by us,
Stand by us, when we look on others thus,
Face upon face; steal from us half our thoughts,
Flake after flake; us therefore it imports
To make them our good servants, as the mage
Uses his shadows upon service sage.
O faithful gobetweens! knit each to each;
O memories! give to dead lips living speech,
Limbs motion, eyes their spirit-pulse; bestow
On everything its value; grow and glow
A white intensity of chastest flame,
That all things may but seem to make the same
Great undulation of a wave of heaven
That flowed to us; so giving and so given,
May we pass on to death!

Now, therefore, write
Tales of our true love; both of those who quite
Bootlessly thought that love unto their love
Must knit itself; and those who, happier, strove
Only with fortune, overcast at length
By death alone, and walking in the strength
Of meat long eaten in the desert since.
First act is over, and the next begins,
Yet proves the same again, for us and thee.
What next? Why, all is ended.”

“Plaudite
Remains,” I cried, “though your five tragic acts
That should have been, are shortened: fate enacts
A two-act farce, the dream and the awaking.”
“Farewell,” said he, “give largely; we are staking
A little on thy mercy. Do thou write;
Let thine eye soften o'er the page; let spite,
And hate, and over-sadness die away;
Thou shalt see others calming in the sway
Of all within them. Love, too, blossoms out
More perfectly from agony and doubt;
Hath wider ranges, and a kind of laugh
At human things in him; in short, can quaff
Easier of joy; can grasp the world and use;
Is kindlier to all living life; would lose
Not one process of nature; but o'erspreads
In genial current all things; hath no dreads,
No hates, no self-tormenting; cherishes,
Blesses, and gives great teaching, for it frees:
Thus much more precious is love's after-birth.”
Wind and much wintry blue then swept the earth.