Dirge for Aoine and other poems by Nora Chesson [i.e. Nora Hopper] |
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 | A DEAD GIRL TO HER LOVER AND OTHER POEMS |
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 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
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A DEAD GIRL TO HER LOVER AND OTHER POEMS
vii
A DEAD GIRL TO HER LOVER
I hear the hill-winds. I hear them calling
The long gray twilights and white morns through.
The tides are rising, the tides are falling,
And how will I answer or come to you?
For over my head the waves are brawling,
And I shall never come back to you!
The long gray twilights and white morns through.
The tides are rising, the tides are falling,
And how will I answer or come to you?
For over my head the waves are brawling,
And I shall never come back to you!
Dark water's flowing my dark head over,
And where's the charm that shall bid it back?
Wild merrows sing, and strange fishes hover
Above my bed o' the pale sea-wrack,
And Achill sands have not kept for my lover
The fading print of my footsteps' track.
And where's the charm that shall bid it back?
Wild merrows sing, and strange fishes hover
Above my bed o' the pale sea-wrack,
And Achill sands have not kept for my lover
The fading print of my footsteps' track.
Under the sea all my nights are lonely,
Wanting a song that I used to hear.
I dream and I wake and I listen only
For the sound of your footfall kind and dear.
Avourneen deelish, your Moirin's lonely,
And is the day of our meeting near?
Wanting a song that I used to hear.
I dream and I wake and I listen only
For the sound of your footfall kind and dear.
Avourneen deelish, your Moirin's lonely,
And is the day of our meeting near?
The hill-winds coming, the hill-winds going,
I send my voice on their wings to you,—
To you, mo bouchal, whose boat is blowing
Out where the green sea meets the blue.
Come down to me now, for there 's no knowing
But the bed I lie in might yet hold two!
I send my voice on their wings to you,—
To you, mo bouchal, whose boat is blowing
Out where the green sea meets the blue.
Come down to me now, for there 's no knowing
But the bed I lie in might yet hold two!
viii
THE DEAD LOVERS
(All Souls' Eve, November 1)
O good it is to see old love relighted in your eyes,
As we meet down by the river beneath October skies!
O good it is to touch your hand and know that you forget
The grave-dust that has clogged my feet, Margaret!
As we meet down by the river beneath October skies!
O good it is to touch your hand and know that you forget
The grave-dust that has clogged my feet, Margaret!
I had not known you, too, were dead, my sweet, until to-day;
I wondered that no footstep came to strike fire through my clay;
But glad I am to know that Time the Spoiler never set
Mark on the flower of your face, Margaret.
I wondered that no footstep came to strike fire through my clay;
But glad I am to know that Time the Spoiler never set
Mark on the flower of your face, Margaret.
Did you think long as I thought long before our hands might meet,
And are you glad as I am glad that here our wandering feet
Are stayed that might have strayed so far afield, and never met
On any kind November Eve, Margaret?
And are you glad as I am glad that here our wandering feet
Are stayed that might have strayed so far afield, and never met
On any kind November Eve, Margaret?
And are you glad as I am glad that we have died so young,
Before the May dew off my feet, the honey off your tongue
Had died and dried? And are you glad there is no period set
To this, our loving after death, Margaret?
Before the May dew off my feet, the honey off your tongue
ix
To this, our loving after death, Margaret?
And are you glad the wan water rose to your lips, and sealed
You to be always fresh and fair as any flower in field?
And are you glad the fever lit a fire no wind could fret
And burned my body unto death, Margaret?
You to be always fresh and fair as any flower in field?
And are you glad the fever lit a fire no wind could fret
And burned my body unto death, Margaret?
It is my soul that holds your soul, and not my hand of clay
That holds your hand, and from your hair wrings the cold dew away,
That feels old love alive again and knoweth no regret
But blesses Death we died so young, Margaret.
That holds your hand, and from your hair wrings the cold dew away,
That feels old love alive again and knoweth no regret
But blesses Death we died so young, Margaret.
x
THE DEAD WIFE
Can you not hear me knocking at midnight on your door?
Can you not see my shadow cast on your moonlit floor?
To fair and mass and pattern with you I come and go;
I scarcely leave you in your dreams and yet you never know.
Can you not see my shadow cast on your moonlit floor?
To fair and mass and pattern with you I come and go;
I scarcely leave you in your dreams and yet you never know.
The blind old dog I used to stroke has keener ears to hear;
He whines with wistful pleasure to hear my footfall near.
Woman or ghost, all 's one to him: his faith knows naught of change,
And if you saw and heard me, Dear, would you not find me strange?
He whines with wistful pleasure to hear my footfall near.
Woman or ghost, all 's one to him: his faith knows naught of change,
And if you saw and heard me, Dear, would you not find me strange?
Could you look deep into my eyes and feel no whit afraid
Of wisdom that must come with death to any man or maid?
My grief, I think my eyes would blind the gazing soul of you,
And you would never find again the colleen that you knew.
Of wisdom that must come with death to any man or maid?
My grief, I think my eyes would blind the gazing soul of you,
And you would never find again the colleen that you knew.
xi
Call me no more from out my place; you see not when I come.
More faithful to my memory is the poor dog that's dumb.
Sleep soundly, Ulick, every night: wake gladly every day
Because between your soul and mine the links are snapt away.
More faithful to my memory is the poor dog that's dumb.
Sleep soundly, Ulick, every night: wake gladly every day
Because between your soul and mine the links are snapt away.
And you shall find a wife more kind, and she shall love you long,
But at your passing, Ulick, when I can do no wrong
To any timid hope of hers, you'll turn your eyes to me
To guide you to the Quiet Place beyond the utmost sea.
But at your passing, Ulick, when I can do no wrong
To any timid hope of hers, you'll turn your eyes to me
To guide you to the Quiet Place beyond the utmost sea.
xii
THE DECADENT
Dulness, less comely than grief, has gone over my soul.
Sullen and sluggish its waters of bitterness roll;
It is naught to me now
How the wind-stricken woods to the lash of the nor'-wester bow,
How the bubbles are bright on the vanishing track of the vole,
How beauty is writ on the world, as a legend is writ on a scroll.
Sullen and sluggish its waters of bitterness roll;
It is naught to me now
How the wind-stricken woods to the lash of the nor'-wester bow,
How the bubbles are bright on the vanishing track of the vole,
How beauty is writ on the world, as a legend is writ on a scroll.
It is naught to me, drunken of dulness, an alien here,
How the peoples are trodden of anger and sorrow and fear;
How lust on the shoulder of love has laid tremulous hand.
I am dull, I am slack;
And doubt goes before me, and following fast on my track,
A ghost I can hear stepping soft o'er the leaf-sodden land.
How the peoples are trodden of anger and sorrow and fear;
How lust on the shoulder of love has laid tremulous hand.
I am dull, I am slack;
And doubt goes before me, and following fast on my track,
A ghost I can hear stepping soft o'er the leaf-sodden land.
I am old, I am cold.
I have trafficked for dreams in the markets where visions are sold!
I have bought me a dream, and the dream of my spirit takes toll,
And of dreams I am sick.
In the place of dead dreams, dead desires, I alone stand up quick—
Dulness, less comely than grief, has encompassed my soul.
I have trafficked for dreams in the markets where visions are sold!
I have bought me a dream, and the dream of my spirit takes toll,
xiii
In the place of dead dreams, dead desires, I alone stand up quick—
Dulness, less comely than grief, has encompassed my soul.
xiv
DESIRÉE
She had as many loves as she had follies,
And all her light loves lightly sang her praises;
But now, laid low beneath sharp-leaved sea-hollies
And pale sea-daisies,
Here at the limit of the hollow shore,
Folly and praise are covered meetly o'er.
And all her light loves lightly sang her praises;
But now, laid low beneath sharp-leaved sea-hollies
And pale sea-daisies,
Here at the limit of the hollow shore,
Folly and praise are covered meetly o'er.
We will not tell her beads of beauty over:
All that we say, and all we leave unsaid
Be buried with her. There 's no lightest lover
But scatters on her bed
Pansies for thoughts, and woodruff white as she,
And, for remembrance, quiet rosemary.
All that we say, and all we leave unsaid
Be buried with her. There 's no lightest lover
But scatters on her bed
Pansies for thoughts, and woodruff white as she,
And, for remembrance, quiet rosemary.
Here is the end of laughter: quenched together
Are grief and mirth. Here, dancing feet fall still,
Here, where wild thyme and sea-pinks brave wild weather
And die at the wind's will.
Bring her no dreams here to her quiet home
Thou Sea, her sister! bring her weeds and foam.
Are grief and mirth. Here, dancing feet fall still,
Here, where wild thyme and sea-pinks brave wild weather
And die at the wind's will.
Bring her no dreams here to her quiet home
Thou Sea, her sister! bring her weeds and foam.
xv
THE DYING SWEETHEART
Where are you going,
O muirnean, muirnean?
Beyond all snowing,
Beyond all reach
Of tenderest speech,
Or waves that break
Upon any beach,
Or wind's rough blowing
On linn or lake—
It's there is going
Your muirnean O.
O muirnean, muirnean?
Beyond all snowing,
Beyond all reach
Of tenderest speech,
Or waves that break
Upon any beach,
Or wind's rough blowing
On linn or lake—
It's there is going
Your muirnean O.
Where are you going,
O muirnean, muirnean?
Love is not knowing
Why you fell weary,
Why you found dreary
The way all feet in the world are going.
Stay with us, dearie—
Ah, muirnean, O!
O muirnean, muirnean?
Love is not knowing
Why you fell weary,
Why you found dreary
The way all feet in the world are going.
Stay with us, dearie—
Ah, muirnean, O!
I must be going;
Though you stand nearest
Of all, and dearest,
You cannot keep me, for I must go.
Though my heart's breaking
That I 'm forsaking
The faces kent and the ways I know,
I 'll not be staying,
For all your praying,
For all the gifts in kind Love's bestowing.
I must not stay though you hold me so—
Ah no, no, no!
Though you stand nearest
Of all, and dearest,
You cannot keep me, for I must go.
xvi
That I 'm forsaking
The faces kent and the ways I know,
I 'll not be staying,
For all your praying,
For all the gifts in kind Love's bestowing.
I must not stay though you hold me so—
Ah no, no, no!
My bird 's the raven;
The doves no more
Will I be heeding,
Will I be feeding
Here at my door,
Crooning together,
As once of old.
My bed 's the heather,
My bed is green,
And it is not cold.
To the quiet haven
My boat is going,
Where no wind 's blowing
Or storm has been.
The Ninth Wave 's creeping
About my feet;
Let me go, Sweet—
I'm to my sleeping,
And fain to go.
O muirnean, muirnean,
My muirnean, O!
The doves no more
Will I be heeding,
Will I be feeding
Here at my door,
Crooning together,
As once of old.
My bed 's the heather,
My bed is green,
And it is not cold.
To the quiet haven
My boat is going,
Where no wind 's blowing
Or storm has been.
The Ninth Wave 's creeping
About my feet;
Let me go, Sweet—
xvii
And fain to go.
O muirnean, muirnean,
My muirnean, O!
xviii
EASTER
I am the dream of April, I am the soul of May;
The sallows scatter, the sallows splatter their gold upon my way:
The gorses swing censers of spring to honour Easter Day.
The sallows scatter, the sallows splatter their gold upon my way:
The gorses swing censers of spring to honour Easter Day.
I am the baby April, the woman May will be:
I set the berry and hang the cherry on briar and cornel-tree;
Mine 's the shut rose, the apple-blows, the rainbow on the sea.
I set the berry and hang the cherry on briar and cornel-tree;
Mine 's the shut rose, the apple-blows, the rainbow on the sea.
My tears are all of April, my laughter is of May,
My sorrow's all a cowslip-ball, so light to toss away:
My heart is bright with Easter light, my face is fair to see.
Because God's risen, and out of prison the whole round world goes free.
My sorrow's all a cowslip-ball, so light to toss away:
My heart is bright with Easter light, my face is fair to see.
Because God's risen, and out of prison the whole round world goes free.
xix
THE FAIRY FIDDLER
(To Caroline Augusta Hopper)
'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling,
By weedy ways forlorn;
I make the blackbird's music
Ere in his breast 'tis born:
The sleeping larks I waken
'Twixt the midnight and the morn.
By weedy ways forlorn;
I make the blackbird's music
Ere in his breast 'tis born:
The sleeping larks I waken
'Twixt the midnight and the morn.
No man alive has seen me,
But women hear me play
Sometimes at door or window,
Fiddling the souls away,—
The child's soul and the colleen's
Out of the covering clay.
But women hear me play
Sometimes at door or window,
Fiddling the souls away,—
The child's soul and the colleen's
Out of the covering clay.
None of my fairy kinsmen
Makes music with me now:
Alone the raths I wander
Or ride the whitethorn bough,
But the wild swans they know me
And the horse that draws the plough.
Makes music with me now:
Alone the raths I wander
Or ride the whitethorn bough,
But the wild swans they know me
And the horse that draws the plough.
xx
FEBRUARY
I purify
With my clear rain the sombre sky;
I wake the snowdrops from their sleep
In the earth's bosom brown and deep.
I am the stained world's lavender.
With my clear rain the sombre sky;
I wake the snowdrops from their sleep
In the earth's bosom brown and deep.
I am the stained world's lavender.
Because of me
The birds make love from tree to tree:
I whisper to the daffodil
Her hidden cup with gold to fill
Since March is on his way to her.
I bid the drooping boughs and bare
A crown of almond blossoms wear.
The birds make love from tree to tree:
I whisper to the daffodil
Her hidden cup with gold to fill
Since March is on his way to her.
I bid the drooping boughs and bare
A crown of almond blossoms wear.
I call to Earth,
Asleep beside her fireless hearth,
To rise and come into the air,
And shake the snow from feet and hair,
What time the new lives in her stir
And sap runs sweet in larch and fir.
Asleep beside her fireless hearth,
To rise and come into the air,
And shake the snow from feet and hair,
What time the new lives in her stir
And sap runs sweet in larch and fir.
xxi
SONG OF THE FOMOROH
Who dare set bounds to the Red Wind,
The East Wind in his wrath?
Lo! we have bitted and bridled him,
And turned him from his path!
From the waves that beat we have called his feet
To the long grass of the rath.
The East Wind in his wrath?
Lo! we have bitted and bridled him,
And turned him from his path!
From the waves that beat we have called his feet
To the long grass of the rath.
He hath heard our call through his tempest fall,
And he maketh no delay,
Though the house of the Dawn's his homestead
Yet there he will not stay;
And the voice that compels his coming
Is neither of night nor day.
And he maketh no delay,
Though the house of the Dawn's his homestead
Yet there he will not stay;
And the voice that compels his coming
Is neither of night nor day.
The voice blows out of the twilight
As thistle-drift is blown.
It's light and tender and merry
And the seeds that it hath sown
Are sin and desire and sorrow;
And the world hears, and moves on.
As thistle-drift is blown.
It's light and tender and merry
And the seeds that it hath sown
Are sin and desire and sorrow;
And the world hears, and moves on.
From his wings we've taen the scarlet stain,
The red plumes from his crest;
We've snatched from his hands the sea-pinks
Wherewith his cliffs were drest.
We have fed our fire to heart's desire
With the bird that beat in his breast.
The red plumes from his crest;
We've snatched from his hands the sea-pinks
Wherewith his cliffs were drest.
xxii
With the bird that beat in his breast.
Ay, we have bridled the red East Wind
With none to say him nay.
With his heart's blood red our fires we fed
That the sword might be swift to slay,
And the ashes at last to his own wind cast
That they might be blown away.
With none to say him nay.
With his heart's blood red our fires we fed
That the sword might be swift to slay,
And the ashes at last to his own wind cast
That they might be blown away.
For we are the dark Fomoroh,
And sore we travail that ye
May cast off care and grow strong and fair
And still our bondsmen be.
We shall enter in your souls, our kin,
And who shall our slaying see?
And sore we travail that ye
May cast off care and grow strong and fair
And still our bondsmen be.
We shall enter in your souls, our kin,
And who shall our slaying see?
xxiii
THE GATE-KEEPER
Rough gown, stuff gown, my love hath noble raiment,
Silk robes and scarlet robes, pearls of great price:
If a man kiss her gown, death is his payment—
“Nay: but I keep the gates of Paradise.”
Silk robes and scarlet robes, pearls of great price:
If a man kiss her gown, death is his payment—
“Nay: but I keep the gates of Paradise.”
Chained hand, stained hand, my love has fingers whiter
Than any lily that rocks upon the lake:
If a man kiss her hand death falls the lighter—
“She sends thee sleeping fast? I bid thee wake.”
Than any lily that rocks upon the lake:
If a man kiss her hand death falls the lighter—
“She sends thee sleeping fast? I bid thee wake.”
Bare head, fair head, my love's head on her pillow
Black as a bird's wing lies, circled with gold:
If a man touch it, he swings from a willow—
“Doth her love burn thee so? My breast is cold.”
Black as a bird's wing lies, circled with gold:
If a man touch it, he swings from a willow—
“Doth her love burn thee so? My breast is cold.”
Torn wings, shorn wings, my love goeth wingless:
She is wind and water, fire that upward springs.
Ere I died praising her I left my harp all stringless.
“From my stripped pinions my children make them wings.”
She is wind and water, fire that upward springs.
Ere I died praising her I left my harp all stringless.
“From my stripped pinions my children make them wings.”
Grave eyes, brave eyes, wert thou fain to bear them?
Once my love in childbed lay, and cried for pain.
I, too, bore dreams with tears, and the four winds tare them.
“My children are thy dreams warm with life again.”
Once my love in childbed lay, and cried for pain.
xxiv
“My children are thy dreams warm with life again.”
End me or mend me: heavy is my burden!
Years ago we died, and I claim her sins for mine.
So she walks heaven's paths hell shall be my guerdon— “I who ope the gate to thee was once that love of thine.”
Years ago we died, and I claim her sins for mine.
So she walks heaven's paths hell shall be my guerdon— “I who ope the gate to thee was once that love of thine.”
xxv
A GEISHA SONG
At the sign of the Beckoning Kitten
We geishas dwell;
Over our doorway is written
“Hail and farewell.”
Broad is our gateway and litten,
Full of sounds as a shell and bright as a star,
That all men passing and pausing may surely tell
Here lightness and laughter are.
We geishas dwell;
Over our doorway is written
“Hail and farewell.”
Broad is our gateway and litten,
Full of sounds as a shell and bright as a star,
That all men passing and pausing may surely tell
Here lightness and laughter are.
Than the foam of the sea we are lighter;
No souls have we
To lose, or to wane, or grow brighter
(Thus say the women that hear us, the men that see).
We laugh, though our way be wending,
Plain to all sight,
Deathwards—away from delight;
We laugh, though our world be ending
This very night.
No souls have we
To lose, or to wane, or grow brighter
(Thus say the women that hear us, the men that see).
We laugh, though our way be wending,
Plain to all sight,
Deathwards—away from delight;
We laugh, though our world be ending
This very night.
We dance on the edge of sorrow;
We make our song
Of yesterday's roses tied with a knotted thong,
Of joy that shall end to-morrow.
Joy lasts not long,
But grief is enduring, and wrong,
That man from his evil may borrow
Strength, and be strong.
We make our song
Of yesterday's roses tied with a knotted thong,
Of joy that shall end to-morrow.
Joy lasts not long,
But grief is enduring, and wrong,
xxvi
Strength, and be strong.
We are harps by strange fingers smitten,
Broken, and soon cast by;
Cups emptied of wine, and dry.
We are lamps in the doorway litten
And the dawn draws nigh.
Soon is our story written
Who dance—and die—
At the sign of the Beckoning Kitten:
Hail and good-bye.
Broken, and soon cast by;
Cups emptied of wine, and dry.
We are lamps in the doorway litten
And the dawn draws nigh.
Soon is our story written
Who dance—and die—
At the sign of the Beckoning Kitten:
Hail and good-bye.
xxvii
GIPSY SONG
You are the safe and firelit room,
I am the open wold.
You are the city, and this your doom—
Never to feel the outer cold,
Never to fear the inner dark,
Never to strain the ears and hark
For any foot but the foot of Time,
Never to know a loss worth gain
Or soul that's worth the birthing-pain,
Never to find hill worth the climb
Or joy that may be worth the tear—
My Dear!
I am the open wold.
You are the city, and this your doom—
Never to feel the outer cold,
Never to fear the inner dark,
Never to strain the ears and hark
For any foot but the foot of Time,
Never to know a loss worth gain
Or soul that's worth the birthing-pain,
Never to find hill worth the climb
Or joy that may be worth the tear—
My Dear!
You are shut in from snow and sleet,
I am out in the wind.
My feet are strange to the trodden street
As you are strange to the winds that beat,
The mists that hover and blind.
I cannot stay, you cannot bind:
My hands unclasp and let you go,
As if you were no more than snow
That slips away from me in rain.
I love you, yet our souls are twain,
For I am knowledge, you are fear,
My Dear.
I am out in the wind.
My feet are strange to the trodden street
As you are strange to the winds that beat,
The mists that hover and blind.
I cannot stay, you cannot bind:
My hands unclasp and let you go,
As if you were no more than snow
That slips away from me in rain.
I love you, yet our souls are twain,
For I am knowledge, you are fear,
My Dear.
xxviii
GOLD-HEART
“Gold of butterflies, gold of bees,
Gold of ragweeds and golden seas;
Gold on gorses for kissing's sake,
Which of these will you touch and take,
Moirín, Moirín?”
Gold of ragweeds and golden seas;
Gold on gorses for kissing's sake,
Which of these will you touch and take,
Moirín, Moirín?”
“Golden butterfly's not for me,
I'll ha' none o' the golden bee:
My heart of gold shall not beat or break,
Though I love the gorses for kissing's sake,
Mother, Mother!”
I'll ha' none o' the golden bee:
My heart of gold shall not beat or break,
Though I love the gorses for kissing's sake,
Mother, Mother!”
“Then rest you merry, through heat and cold,
Sweet lips of cherry, sweet heart of gold;
Yet Gold-Heart surely shall come some day
To cry for gray wings to fly away,
Moirín, Moirín!”
Sweet lips of cherry, sweet heart of gold;
Yet Gold-Heart surely shall come some day
To cry for gray wings to fly away,
Moirín, Moirín!”
xxix
HATHOR
I sit beneath my fig-tree, while my kinePasture around me drowsily, knee-deep
In lilies, chewing sweetest cud of sleep,
While I sing softly to this wheel of mine.
A skein of many-coloured threads I twine
And know not why, or why indeed I sing
Low, as the bees do in their wandering
From lotus unto lotus round my shrine.
My light is only sunset's: it burns low
And lower yet these seasons till I dread
The darkness creeping on me from the skies.
I loved the full fair nights of long ago
When Sphinx and Sekhet worked their mysteries!
Then I rocked Horus: now I rock the dead.
xxx
HELEN OF TROY
I am that Helen, that very Helen,
Of Leda, born in the days of old.
Men's hearts were as inns that I might dwell in:
Houseless I wander to-night and cold.
Of Leda, born in the days of old.
Men's hearts were as inns that I might dwell in:
Houseless I wander to-night and cold.
Because man loved me, no God takes pity:
My ghost goes wailing where I was Queen!
Alas! my chamber in Troy's tall city,
My golden couches, my hangings green!
My ghost goes wailing where I was Queen!
Alas! my chamber in Troy's tall city,
My golden couches, my hangings green!
Wasted with fire are the halls they built me,
And sown with salt are the streets I trod,
Where flowers they scattered and spices spilt me.
Alas that Zeus is a jealous God!
And sown with salt are the streets I trod,
Where flowers they scattered and spices spilt me.
Alas that Zeus is a jealous God!
Softly I went on my sandals golden;
Of love and pleasure I took my fill;
With Paris' kisses my lids were holden,
Nor guessed I, when life went at my will
That the fates behind me went softlier still.
Of love and pleasure I took my fill;
With Paris' kisses my lids were holden,
Nor guessed I, when life went at my will
That the fates behind me went softlier still.
xxxi
HERTHA
I am the spirit of all that lives,
Labours and loses and forgives.
My breath's the wind among the reeds;
I'm wounded when a birch-tree bleeds.
I am the clay nest 'neath the eaves
And the young life wherewith it brims.
The silver minnow where it swims
Under a roof of lily-leaves
Beats with my pulses. From my eyes
The violet gathered amethyst.
I am the rose of winter skies,
The moonlight conquering the mist.
Labours and loses and forgives.
My breath's the wind among the reeds;
I'm wounded when a birch-tree bleeds.
I am the clay nest 'neath the eaves
And the young life wherewith it brims.
The silver minnow where it swims
Under a roof of lily-leaves
Beats with my pulses. From my eyes
The violet gathered amethyst.
I am the rose of winter skies,
The moonlight conquering the mist.
I am the bird the falcon strikes;
My strength is in the kestrel's wing,
My cruelty is in the shrikes.
My pity bids the dock-leaves grow
Large, that a little child may know
Where he shall heal the nettle's sting.
I am the snowdrop and the snow,
Dead amber, and the living fir—
The corn-sheaf and the harvester.
My strength is in the kestrel's wing,
My cruelty is in the shrikes.
My pity bids the dock-leaves grow
Large, that a little child may know
Where he shall heal the nettle's sting.
I am the snowdrop and the snow,
Dead amber, and the living fir—
The corn-sheaf and the harvester.
My craft is breathed into the fox
When, a red cub, he snarls and plays
With his red vixen. Yea, I am
The wolf, the hunter, and the lamb;
I am the slayer and the slain,
The thought new-shapen in the brain.
I am the ageless strength of rocks,
The weakness that is all a grace
Being the weakness of a flower.
The secret on the dead man's face
Written in his last living hour,
The endless trouble of the seas
That fret and struggle with the shore,
Strive and are striven with evermore—
The changeless beauty that they wear
Through all their changes; all of these
Are mine. The brazen streets of hell
I know, and heaven's gold ways as well.
Mortality, eternity,
Change, death, and life are mine—are me.
When, a red cub, he snarls and plays
xxxii
The wolf, the hunter, and the lamb;
I am the slayer and the slain,
The thought new-shapen in the brain.
I am the ageless strength of rocks,
The weakness that is all a grace
Being the weakness of a flower.
The secret on the dead man's face
Written in his last living hour,
The endless trouble of the seas
That fret and struggle with the shore,
Strive and are striven with evermore—
The changeless beauty that they wear
Through all their changes; all of these
Are mine. The brazen streets of hell
I know, and heaven's gold ways as well.
Mortality, eternity,
Change, death, and life are mine—are me.
xxxiii
HUGH, A CHILD
Not star or flower, but lovelier than these
The child came to us out of mysteries,
And to the Giver
We prayed that He should lay upon His gift
Wisdom and health and sweetness, that his days
Might flow like some fair river,
Might go as bright and lightly as the ways
Of a bird's wing in the blue summer lift.
The child came to us out of mysteries,
And to the Giver
We prayed that He should lay upon His gift
Wisdom and health and sweetness, that his days
Might flow like some fair river,
Might go as bright and lightly as the ways
Of a bird's wing in the blue summer lift.
Now all the stars and all the flowers are his
Near and dear neighbours; but our portion is
Sorrow and discontent,
Because so little way the child's feet went
In this our twisting pathway, that they knew
Only that grass was soft and speedwell blue—
Not breath or touch of failure, little Hugh!
Near and dear neighbours; but our portion is
Sorrow and discontent,
Because so little way the child's feet went
In this our twisting pathway, that they knew
Only that grass was soft and speedwell blue—
Not breath or touch of failure, little Hugh!
And I, the stranger, make a song for him,
The little child, run truant into dim
Countries of dreams fulfilled,
More dear and fair
Perhaps than here our visions for him were;
And I, who knew his love not, share his lack
And fain would help his kindred call him back;
But, being helpless, stand and see him pass
Heavenwards again ere dew dries off the grass
Or glow is off the dream-house we did build.
The little child, run truant into dim
Countries of dreams fulfilled,
More dear and fair
Perhaps than here our visions for him were;
And I, who knew his love not, share his lack
And fain would help his kindred call him back;
xxxiv
Heavenwards again ere dew dries off the grass
Or glow is off the dream-house we did build.
I that would speak of comfort give no more
Than foolish tears on handle of a door
Fast bolted, that drop down like bitter myrrh.
My hand is on the latch I dare not move:
I stand outside the room of death and love—
The mother's sacred room of love and grief.
Here comfort withers like an autumn leaf,
And hope's sweet eyes are dim,
And none save she may seek to comfort him,
And none, save God, may pass and pity her,
Save God, the Giver,
Who has the lambs in charge, and having given,
Borrows, but takes not back, and in His heaven
Gives the child a long life—yea, for ever and ever!
Than foolish tears on handle of a door
Fast bolted, that drop down like bitter myrrh.
My hand is on the latch I dare not move:
I stand outside the room of death and love—
The mother's sacred room of love and grief.
Here comfort withers like an autumn leaf,
And hope's sweet eyes are dim,
And none save she may seek to comfort him,
And none, save God, may pass and pity her,
Save God, the Giver,
Who has the lambs in charge, and having given,
Borrows, but takes not back, and in His heaven
Gives the child a long life—yea, for ever and ever!
xxxv
HUGH OF THE HILL
He comes from the mountains green
To the yellow shore:
A thousand years he's seen,
And a thousand more.
His hair is dark as the night,
And gray as the sea
Are the wonderful eyes whose light
Grows soft for me.
To the yellow shore:
A thousand years he's seen,
And a thousand more.
His hair is dark as the night,
And gray as the sea
Are the wonderful eyes whose light
Grows soft for me.
Hugh of the Hill has seen
Colleens galore,
Barefooted on the green
Edge of the shore.
Now they are laid away
Under the earth,
Grow neither sad nor gay
For a fairy's mirth.
Colleens galore,
Barefooted on the green
Edge of the shore.
Now they are laid away
Under the earth,
Grow neither sad nor gay
For a fairy's mirth.
Hugh of the Hill has made
Some sore hearts glad;
He has bidden the strong be afraid
And the merry sad.
He has given fairy gold
To the miser's store:
He has kissed the warm mouth cold
And the light heart sore.
Some sore hearts glad;
He has bidden the strong be afraid
And the merry sad.
He has given fairy gold
To the miser's store:
He has kissed the warm mouth cold
And the light heart sore.
xxxvi
Hugh of the Hill, I know,
Loves me to-day.
It is not he will go,
Grown tired, away.
But I shall go from the hearth
That 's mine no more
To the quiet bosom of Earth
That is cradle and door.
Loves me to-day.
It is not he will go,
Grown tired, away.
But I shall go from the hearth
That 's mine no more
To the quiet bosom of Earth
That is cradle and door.
Hugh of the Hill, to-night
Is mine alone.
Kiss me, and hold me tight,
Lest I be gone
Into a chamber dark,
Where you cannot come,
Where you shall call and hark,
And I lie dumb.
Is mine alone.
Kiss me, and hold me tight,
Lest I be gone
Into a chamber dark,
Where you cannot come,
Where you shall call and hark,
And I lie dumb.
Now I can hold you close
And answer and hear,
And kiss as a woman knows
When her heart holds fear.
So short is my time to flower,
So long you will
Seek love, and be glad but an hour,
Hugh of the Hill!
And answer and hear,
And kiss as a woman knows
When her heart holds fear.
So short is my time to flower,
So long you will
Seek love, and be glad but an hour,
Hugh of the Hill!
xxxvii
THE INN-KEEPER
“My door stands always open—
You weary souls, come in!
For you that tire of music,
Here silence doth begin.
You shall not rise for dancing,
Or follow wandering loves.
Here in my yew-boughs whispers
Only the voice of doves.
You weary souls, come in!
For you that tire of music,
Here silence doth begin.
You shall not rise for dancing,
Or follow wandering loves.
Here in my yew-boughs whispers
Only the voice of doves.
“I 'll quench your thirst with water,
Well-water, clear and sweet;
I 'll bind about with linen
Your weary hands and feet.
Lie down upon my couches
That are of marble hewn;
You shall not lift your eyelids
For sun or star or moon.
Well-water, clear and sweet;
I 'll bind about with linen
Your weary hands and feet.
Lie down upon my couches
That are of marble hewn;
You shall not lift your eyelids
For sun or star or moon.
“The wind, howe'er it whistles,
Shall pierce no sleeper's ear,
The rain, that wails and whimpers
Can never enter here.
You shall not hear men groaning
For things that were divine,
Flung to the outer darkness
Or trampled down of swine.
Shall pierce no sleeper's ear,
The rain, that wails and whimpers
Can never enter here.
You shall not hear men groaning
For things that were divine,
Flung to the outer darkness
Or trampled down of swine.
xxxviii
“Your peace no ghost shall trouble,
And cry of beast or foe
Shall sound with such a silence
As sounds the falling snow.
Darkness shall be your dwelling,
With all your dreams therein.
“Come in,” cries Death, the landlord,
“You 'll find no better inn.”
And cry of beast or foe
Shall sound with such a silence
As sounds the falling snow.
Darkness shall be your dwelling,
With all your dreams therein.
“Come in,” cries Death, the landlord,
“You 'll find no better inn.”
xxxix
JACINTH
(DEAF AND DUMB)
Jacinth, Jacinth, where do you go
With your eyes like spring and your step like snow?
Who wrought, my Jacinth, your yellow hair
In the self-same colour that daffodils wear
When they open first to the kiss of spring
And have heard no whisper of withering?
Who gave you, Jacinth, your violet eyes
Where sorrow close beside laughter lies?
Who made your face like a soft white rose
And your mouth like a blossom that no bee knows?
Who made you timid and sweet and fair
As a snowdrop first in the wintry air?
With your eyes like spring and your step like snow?
Who wrought, my Jacinth, your yellow hair
In the self-same colour that daffodils wear
When they open first to the kiss of spring
And have heard no whisper of withering?
Who gave you, Jacinth, your violet eyes
Where sorrow close beside laughter lies?
Who made your face like a soft white rose
And your mouth like a blossom that no bee knows?
Who made you timid and sweet and fair
As a snowdrop first in the wintry air?
Jacinth, turn to us, speak and say
Are you fire or air, or sweet human clay?
O little dumb mouth, will you never part
Your twin red leaves though I break my heart?
O small deaf ears, will you open not
To any whisper of love begot?
My fingers plead, and your fingers say
Half in earnest, and half in play,
“I 'm half a fairy, and no one knows
The way to hold when a fairy goes.”
And are you going, and must you pass,
Little sweet Jacinth? Then, alas!
Are you fire or air, or sweet human clay?
O little dumb mouth, will you never part
Your twin red leaves though I break my heart?
O small deaf ears, will you open not
To any whisper of love begot?
My fingers plead, and your fingers say
Half in earnest, and half in play,
“I 'm half a fairy, and no one knows
The way to hold when a fairy goes.”
Little sweet Jacinth? Then, alas!
I said, alas! that the child must go
To the light above from the dusk below;
I prayed wild prayers, but at last it fell
That Jacinth went, and I said “'Tis well.”
She never will hearken a cruel word
That other women will hear and have heard;
She never will say a word less sweet
Than the small red mouth that utters it;
She never will change from gold to clay.
Jacinth, sweet, you are well away!
To the light above from the dusk below;
I prayed wild prayers, but at last it fell
That Jacinth went, and I said “'Tis well.”
She never will hearken a cruel word
That other women will hear and have heard;
She never will say a word less sweet
Than the small red mouth that utters it;
She never will change from gold to clay.
Jacinth, sweet, you are well away!
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