University of Virginia Library

7
A POEM WITHOUT A NAME

I

Surely before the time my Sun has set:
The evening had not come, it was but noon,
The gladness passed from all my Pleasant Land;
And, through the night that knows nor star nor moon,
Among clean souls who all but Heaven forget,
Alone remembering I wander on.
They sing of triumph, and a Mighty Hand
Locked fast in theirs through sorrow's Mystery;
They sing of glimpses of another Land,
Whose purples gleam through all their agony.
But I—I did not choose like them, I chose
The summer roses, and the red, red wine,
The juice of earth's wild grapes, to drink with those
Whose glories yet thro' saddest memories shine.
I will not tell of them, of him who came;
I will not tell you what men call my land.
They speak half-choked in fogs of scorn and sin.
I turn from all their pitiless human din
To voices that can feel and understand.
O ever-laughing rivers, sing his name
To all your lilies;—tell it out, O chime,
In hourly four-fold voices;—western breeze
Among the avenues of scented lime
Murmur it softly to the summer night;—
O sunlight, water, music, flowers and trees,
Heart-beats of nature's infinite delight,
Love him for ever, all things beautiful!
A little while it was he stayed with me,
And taught me knowledge sweet and wonderful,
And satisfied my soul with poetry:
But soon, too soon, there sounded from above
Innumerable clapping of white hands,
And countless laughing voices sang of love,
And called my friend away to other lands.
Well—I am very glad they were so fair,
For whom the lightening east and morning skies;
For me the sunset of his golden hair,
Fading among the hills of Paradise.
Weed-grown is all my garden of delight;—
Most tired, most cold without the Eden-gate,
With eyes still good for ache, tho' not for sight,
Among the briers and thorns I weep and wait.
Now first I catch the meaning of a strife,
A great soul-battle fought for death or life.
Nearing me come the rumours of a war,
And blood and dust sweep cloudy from afar,
And, surging round, the sobbing of the sea
Choked with the weepings of humanity.
Alas! no armour have I fashioned me,
And, having lived on honey in the past,
Have gained no strength. From the unfathomed sea
I draw no food, for all the nets I cast.
I am not strong enough to fight beneath,
I am not clean enough to mount above;
Oh let me dream, although to dream is death,
Beside the hills where last I saw my Love.