 | The point of view (some talks and disputations) |  |
35
ISSERCLERAN
(A LETTER)
How rarely now do we together stand
Here where the clouds above us dreaming pass,
Where Time seems pointing with unchangeful hand,
And from the grass
The trefoils, tipped with red,
Look up with birdlike head
Over their stone-strewn floor,
And the wild wheels of Change seem locked for evermore.
Here where the clouds above us dreaming pass,
Where Time seems pointing with unchangeful hand,
And from the grass
The trefoils, tipped with red,
Look up with birdlike head
Over their stone-strewn floor,
And the wild wheels of Change seem locked for evermore.
Back, back along its chequered path my thought
Moves to a past bediamonded by Time,
Decked with a tender rippling pattern, wrought
Of sea, lake, moor, or rhyme,
Of moon-flecked night, and sunlit day,
Of rain-washed skies, divinely grey,
For whose worst wrath no mortal cared,
Since youth sang loud and strong with music unimpaired.
Moves to a past bediamonded by Time,
Decked with a tender rippling pattern, wrought
Of sea, lake, moor, or rhyme,
Of moon-flecked night, and sunlit day,
Of rain-washed skies, divinely grey,
For whose worst wrath no mortal cared,
Since youth sang loud and strong with music unimpaired.
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How little know they of the lights of morn
Who on such wind-swept grass have never strayed,
Who have not joyed, as thou, heedless of storm,
Uncanopied to range
The woods, the pastures wide,
To climb, to race, to ride,
In childish glee, in youth's wild mirth,
Living a joyous life that hath no peer on earth.
Who on such wind-swept grass have never strayed,
Who have not joyed, as thou, heedless of storm,
Uncanopied to range
The woods, the pastures wide,
To climb, to race, to ride,
In childish glee, in youth's wild mirth,
Living a joyous life that hath no peer on earth.
Now racing up some little hill at eve
In one glad rush; face seaward, hands held out,
As if the soul might slip its sheath, might leave
Behind it every doubt,
Westward across those plains to fare,
There meet its flying kindred, with them share
The gale's fierce raptures, and reform
Life to a winged thing grown great by ceaseless storm.
In one glad rush; face seaward, hands held out,
As if the soul might slip its sheath, might leave
Behind it every doubt,
Westward across those plains to fare,
There meet its flying kindred, with them share
The gale's fierce raptures, and reform
Life to a winged thing grown great by ceaseless storm.
Again, where 'gainst a brook gnarled alders lean,
Prone on the grass I see thee with a book,
Head lifted, wide grey eyes intent and keen,
Fixed with entranced look
On visions gliding slow or fast,
The emblazoned Pageant of the Past;
Mid scouring sheep, and barking dogs,
And whiffs of thymy scent fresh blowing from the bogs.
Prone on the grass I see thee with a book,
Head lifted, wide grey eyes intent and keen,
Fixed with entranced look
On visions gliding slow or fast,
The emblazoned Pageant of the Past;
Mid scouring sheep, and barking dogs,
And whiffs of thymy scent fresh blowing from the bogs.
37
Not without hints at times of ancient gloom—
Terrors close clinging to the skirts of ghosts—
Perturbed spirits, clothed and shod with doom,
Whose half-seen hosts,
Mist-grey, or glimmering white,
Scare at dead hour of night
The sleepers of yon stone-strewn plain,
By cries of quenchless rage or moans of sobbing pain.
Terrors close clinging to the skirts of ghosts—
Perturbed spirits, clothed and shod with doom,
Whose half-seen hosts,
Mist-grey, or glimmering white,
Scare at dead hour of night
The sleepers of yon stone-strewn plain,
By cries of quenchless rage or moans of sobbing pain.
Yet for such phantoms life had little room,
Since who could credit in those days of spring
That mortals ever tasted hopeless gloom?
While on light wing
The vagrant gull glanced overhead;
While thick and fast the roses shed
Their sun-filled sweetness; while birds sang,
And the swift coming years with pealing promise rang?
Since who could credit in those days of spring
That mortals ever tasted hopeless gloom?
While on light wing
The vagrant gull glanced overhead;
While thick and fast the roses shed
Their sun-filled sweetness; while birds sang,
And the swift coming years with pealing promise rang?
Oh flower-filled, and fairy-footed days,
Lingering so kindly, yet escaped so soon,
How far from you seemed Autumn's leaf-strewn ways,
December's snow-bound noon!
How could dull prescience e'er to you belong,
To you to whom sleep's self seemed all too long;
How dream that Peace her comrades could betray,
The shrill perfidious gusts scare even Hope away?
Lingering so kindly, yet escaped so soon,
How far from you seemed Autumn's leaf-strewn ways,
December's snow-bound noon!
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To you to whom sleep's self seemed all too long;
How dream that Peace her comrades could betray,
The shrill perfidious gusts scare even Hope away?
'Twixt that old shore and this on which we stand
—As 'twixt two headlands crowned each with a home—
Spreads a wild waste of waves, a cold rough strand,
Whitened with drifting foam.
Oh days, so intimately fair,
Thought flits, lovelit, towards you there,
Across yon space malign and black,
Yet days, kind beckoning days, I would not call you back!
—As 'twixt two headlands crowned each with a home—
Spreads a wild waste of waves, a cold rough strand,
Whitened with drifting foam.
Oh days, so intimately fair,
Thought flits, lovelit, towards you there,
Across yon space malign and black,
Yet days, kind beckoning days, I would not call you back!
Loudly men claim, fond pilgrims, to regain
The far-off, happy, golden strand once more,
Forgetting that before their bark could gain
That well-loved shore
It needs must skirt the shadowy place,
Where sits the ogre of our race,
Old Recollection in his bone-strewn lair,
A sight the very staunchest soul to scare.
The far-off, happy, golden strand once more,
Forgetting that before their bark could gain
That well-loved shore
It needs must skirt the shadowy place,
Where sits the ogre of our race,
Old Recollection in his bone-strewn lair,
A sight the very staunchest soul to scare.
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Then not for thee, for me, that glittering strand,
We needs must keep to our predestined track,
In vain it calls, in vain with eager hand
Beckons us back;
The tide has run too fast, too long,
Too deep the gulf, the waves too strong,
Not ours to reach it now at will,
Yet, 'cross that mist-filled void, it smiles upon us still.
We needs must keep to our predestined track,
In vain it calls, in vain with eager hand
Beckons us back;
The tide has run too fast, too long,
Too deep the gulf, the waves too strong,
Not ours to reach it now at will,
Yet, 'cross that mist-filled void, it smiles upon us still.
July 1906
| The point of view (some talks and disputations) | |