 | City Poems |  |
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HORTON.
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Watching my dying fire: it mouldered out.
I listened to the strange nocturnal cries:
A ballad-singer 'neath my window stood,
And sang hoarse songs; she went away, and then
An oyster-man came crying through the streets;
And straight, as if I stood on dusky shores,
I saw the tremulous silver of the sea
Set to some coast beneath the mighty moon.
He passed into the silence. Wafts of song
From arm-linked youths, as they meandered home,
Came to my ears; the town grew still; and then,
4
Alarm of “Fire!” ran through the startled street,
And windows were thrown up as it went past.
A hasty engine tore along, and trailed
A lengthening crowd behind. “Ah, ha,” I thought,
“That maniac, Fire, is loose; who was so tame,
When little children looked into his face,
He laughed and blinked within his prison-grate.
His fit is on; the merry winking elf
Has rushed into a hungry crimson fiend:
Now he will seize a house, crush in the roof,
And leap and dance above his prey, and throw
His roaring flickering arms across the sky—
May he be bound again!” The tumult scared
Soft-plumaged Silence, and, when it was gone,
She settled down again with outspread wings
Upon the place she left. That angel Sleep,
Who blunts the edge of pain, who brings from Heaven
The dead ones to us, took my hand in his,
And led me down unto the under-world.
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Which ever through a land of twilight stole
Unrippled, smooth as oil. It slipped 'tween cliffs
Gloomy with pines that ne'er were vexed with wind.
The cliffs stood deep in dream. The stream slid on,
Nor murmured in its sleep. There was no noise;
The winds were folded o'er that drowsy place;
The poppies hung unstirred. I asked its name.
Sleep murmured “Lethe.” “Drink of it,” I thought,
“And all my past shall be washed out at once.”
I knelt, and lifted pale beseeching hands—
“I have drunk poison, and can sleep no more;
Give me this water, for I would forget.”
But Sleep stood silent, and his eyes were closed.
“Give me this water, for I would forget;
Give me this precious water, that I may
Bear to my brothers in the upper-world,
And they shall call me ‘happy,’ ‘Sent of God,’
And Earth shall rest.” Sleep answered, “Every night
When I am sitting 'neath the lonely stars,
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Like a sick child; something afflicts it sore,
I cannot give it rest.” Upon these words
I hid my face awhile, then cried aloud,
“No one can give forgetfulness; not one.
No one can tell me who can give it me.
I asked of Joy, as he went laughing past,
Crushing a bunch of grapes against his lips,
And suddenly the light forsook his face,
His orbs were blind with tears—he could not tell.
I asked of Grief, as with red eyes he came
From a sweet infant's bier; and at the sound
He started, shook his head, with quick hand drew
His mantle o'er his face, and turned away
'Mong the blue twilight-mists.” Sleep did not raise
His heavy lids, but in a drowsy voice,
Like murmur of a leafy sycamore
When bees are swarming in the glimmering leaves,
Said, “I've a younger brother, very wise,
Silent and still, who ever dwells alone—
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I cried, “O angel, is there no one else?”
But Sleep stood silent, and his eyes were closed.
Methought, when I awoke, “We have two lives;
The soul of man is like the rolling world,
One half in day, the other dipt in night;
The one has music and the flying cloud,
The other, silence and the wakeful stars.”
I drew my window-curtains, and instead
Of the used yesterday, there laughing stood
A new-born morning from the Infinite
Before my very face; my heart leaped up.
Inexorable Labour called me forth;
And as I hurried through the busy streets,
There was a sense of envy in my heart
Of lazy lengths of rivers in the sun,
Larks soaring up the ever-soaring sky,
And mild kine couched in fields of uncrushed dew.
The soul of man is like the rolling world,
One half in day, the other dipt in night;
The one has music and the flying cloud,
The other, silence and the wakeful stars.”
I drew my window-curtains, and instead
Of the used yesterday, there laughing stood
A new-born morning from the Infinite
Before my very face; my heart leaped up.
Inexorable Labour called me forth;
And as I hurried through the busy streets,
There was a sense of envy in my heart
Of lazy lengths of rivers in the sun,
Larks soaring up the ever-soaring sky,
And mild kine couched in fields of uncrushed dew.
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Some ten or twelve sat with me in the room.
He at my right hand ever dwelt alone:
A moat of dulness fenced him from the world.
My left hand neighbour was all flame and air
A restless spirit veering like the wind:
And what a lover! what an amorous heart!
In the pure fire and fervency of love,
Leander, like the image of a star
Within the thrilling sea, was scarce his match.
His love for each new Hero of a week,
No Hellespont could cool. Among the rest,
Sat one with visage red with sun and wind
As the last hip upon the frosted brier
When the blithe huntsman snuffs the hoary morn.
He poached at night in every stream for miles;
Knew nests in every wood. Much did he love
To gather fragments of the broken past;
Swords from old fields; carvings from hollow towers
The wind inhabits; heath from martyrs' graves
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And one rude splinter did he cherish much,
Struck from the stone that with unwearied hand
Held up the exulting banner of the Bruce,
Which all that proud day laughed with glorious scorn
Upon its baffled foes. And there was one
Who strove most valiantly to be a man,
Who smoked and still got sick, drank hard and woke
Each morn with headache; his poor timorous voice
Trembled beneath the burden of the oaths
His bold heart made it bear. He sneered at love,
Was not so weak as to believe the sex
Cumbered with virtue. O he knew! he knew!
He had himself adventured in that sea,
Could tell, Sir, if he would—yet never dared
Speak to a lady in his life without
Blushing hot to the ears. 'Mong these I sat.
The clouds flew from the east unto the west;
St. Stephen, from his airy coronet,
In music told the quarters and the hours.
We talked of all this tangled dance of Deaths,
Wild-haired and naked Pleasures, Satyrs, Drolls,
Which men call Life; of early Love, which makes
A dusty street a sunbeam, daily meals
Enchanted tables spread by angel hands,
And rough serge glistering gold; of the strange light,
The incredible bliss, summed in the word “beloved,”
When the poor heart, bewildered with its joy,
Half fears that it is fooled; this Pantomime,
In which the speckled Clown wins every trick;
Astonished Pantaloon, the kicks and jeers;
Rich Harlequin, the glittering Columbine,
Brave dress, enjoyment, universal power;
A single slap of his enchanted sword,
Grim caverns open into trees of gold—
At which, mayhap, an angel audience sits,
Mingling strange comment with its wildness. Then
We talked about the painter, him who dwelt
Within the white house on the moor, alone,
No wife to love or hate, no human bud
To burst in flower beneath his loving eye.
An empire's fall was less in his regard
Than sunshine pouring from the rifted clouds
On an old roof-tree furred with emerald moss;
A wide grey windy sea bespecked with foam,
A ship beneath bare poles against the rain;
Or thunder steeping all the sunny waste
In ominous light. One keen clear autumn day
The place was filled with silent sabled men
Standing in whispering knots. Within an hour
The empty house was left to whistling winds
In which the curlew sailed with wavering cry,
And flying sunny gleams—a dark red mound
Six paces on the moor. Nature he loved,
Death was the priest that wed them; he is hers
Henceforward now for ever. Then I heard
How Charles stood 'mid the roses in the porch;
Within, his Cousin watched the earliest star,
With white hands fluttering o'er the keys,—fair hands
By lingering music kissed! A step—she turned,
Their eyes met, and that swift flash made them one
For ever—in all worlds. A voice then told
How on a certain night, Wat, James, and John
Saw in the moonlight park three giddy girls
Mingling with their own shadows in the dance:
John gave a cry, each darted like a bird,
Leaving a wake of laughter as she flew.
Flushed with the chase, 'mid laughter-smothered shrieks,
Wat robbed a ruffled struggler of a kiss.
Poor Wat—once proud as Chanticleer that struts
Among his dames; faint challenged, claps his wings
And crows defiance to the distant farms—
Now meekly sits beneath a shrewish voice,
With children round his knee. We spoke of him
Who drew sweet Mary Hawthorne into shame:
We could remember that for many years,
With her blithe smile and gleam of golden hair,
She like a candle lit her father's hearth,
Making the old man glad.—Now long rank grass
Hides a neglected grave. Then all at once
Discourse burst from its melancholy weeds,
As brilliant as a spangled dancing-girl:
Each pelted each with quip and raillery;
And when from laughing lips a jest broke loose,
The pack of wits opened in loud pursuit,
And ran it to the death. Uprose my Dream
From its dim lair—for somehow, in my mind,
As the deserted East with mournful eyes
Stands far back, gazing on the glowing West,
Death ever looks on joy. “Ere long,” I thought,
“Great Death will hallow all these flippant lips,
And make each poor face awful. Truest tears
Will not seem wasted when they fall on them.
O Father, what is Death? We sport at eve,
A playmate's lips grow pale, the game stands still,
He goes away in silence; as we gaze,
A trembling sigh is loosened from our lips,
Like to the long vibration in the air
After a spire has struck the hour of one.
We sit together at a rich man's feast,
When, as if beckoned by an unseen hand,
The man whose laugh is loudest in his cups,
Rises with a wild face, and goes away
From mirth into a shroud without a word.
With what pale faces, and how still they go!
What visions see they, and what voices hear?
We only know this buried root of life
Holds still, it knows not why, within its heart
A vague tradition of an upper light,
To which it strives, and, dying, spent and foiled,
It feebly feels it should have borne a flower
'Neath some propitious heaven. Fools, we dwell
Within bleak walls of death, and when we hide
Them with this wretched tapestry of life,
We dream that they are not.” A hand was laid
Upon my shoulder; Harry's laughing face,
Filled with his mischievous and merry eyes,
Was thrust in mine. He slapped me, “Rouse thee, man!
The hour is striking, and your dinner waits.
What is the precious subject of your thoughts?”
“My thoughts?—the charitable snow which cools
A hot volcano's lips; the nurse that takes
Alike the crying and the crowing babe,
And stills them with a kiss.” We all arose;
The emptying warehouses had filled the street
With a broad stream; from passage, lane, and court
Gushed tributary rills. We struggled out,
And soon were lost and mingled in the tide:
Within an hour the streets again were brimmed
With the returning flow.
St. Stephen, from his airy coronet,
10
We talked of all this tangled dance of Deaths,
Wild-haired and naked Pleasures, Satyrs, Drolls,
Which men call Life; of early Love, which makes
A dusty street a sunbeam, daily meals
Enchanted tables spread by angel hands,
And rough serge glistering gold; of the strange light,
The incredible bliss, summed in the word “beloved,”
When the poor heart, bewildered with its joy,
Half fears that it is fooled; this Pantomime,
In which the speckled Clown wins every trick;
Astonished Pantaloon, the kicks and jeers;
Rich Harlequin, the glittering Columbine,
Brave dress, enjoyment, universal power;
A single slap of his enchanted sword,
Grim caverns open into trees of gold—
At which, mayhap, an angel audience sits,
Mingling strange comment with its wildness. Then
We talked about the painter, him who dwelt
Within the white house on the moor, alone,
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To burst in flower beneath his loving eye.
An empire's fall was less in his regard
Than sunshine pouring from the rifted clouds
On an old roof-tree furred with emerald moss;
A wide grey windy sea bespecked with foam,
A ship beneath bare poles against the rain;
Or thunder steeping all the sunny waste
In ominous light. One keen clear autumn day
The place was filled with silent sabled men
Standing in whispering knots. Within an hour
The empty house was left to whistling winds
In which the curlew sailed with wavering cry,
And flying sunny gleams—a dark red mound
Six paces on the moor. Nature he loved,
Death was the priest that wed them; he is hers
Henceforward now for ever. Then I heard
How Charles stood 'mid the roses in the porch;
Within, his Cousin watched the earliest star,
With white hands fluttering o'er the keys,—fair hands
12
Their eyes met, and that swift flash made them one
For ever—in all worlds. A voice then told
How on a certain night, Wat, James, and John
Saw in the moonlight park three giddy girls
Mingling with their own shadows in the dance:
John gave a cry, each darted like a bird,
Leaving a wake of laughter as she flew.
Flushed with the chase, 'mid laughter-smothered shrieks,
Wat robbed a ruffled struggler of a kiss.
Poor Wat—once proud as Chanticleer that struts
Among his dames; faint challenged, claps his wings
And crows defiance to the distant farms—
Now meekly sits beneath a shrewish voice,
With children round his knee. We spoke of him
Who drew sweet Mary Hawthorne into shame:
We could remember that for many years,
With her blithe smile and gleam of golden hair,
She like a candle lit her father's hearth,
Making the old man glad.—Now long rank grass
13
Discourse burst from its melancholy weeds,
As brilliant as a spangled dancing-girl:
Each pelted each with quip and raillery;
And when from laughing lips a jest broke loose,
The pack of wits opened in loud pursuit,
And ran it to the death. Uprose my Dream
From its dim lair—for somehow, in my mind,
As the deserted East with mournful eyes
Stands far back, gazing on the glowing West,
Death ever looks on joy. “Ere long,” I thought,
“Great Death will hallow all these flippant lips,
And make each poor face awful. Truest tears
Will not seem wasted when they fall on them.
O Father, what is Death? We sport at eve,
A playmate's lips grow pale, the game stands still,
He goes away in silence; as we gaze,
A trembling sigh is loosened from our lips,
Like to the long vibration in the air
After a spire has struck the hour of one.
14
When, as if beckoned by an unseen hand,
The man whose laugh is loudest in his cups,
Rises with a wild face, and goes away
From mirth into a shroud without a word.
With what pale faces, and how still they go!
What visions see they, and what voices hear?
We only know this buried root of life
Holds still, it knows not why, within its heart
A vague tradition of an upper light,
To which it strives, and, dying, spent and foiled,
It feebly feels it should have borne a flower
'Neath some propitious heaven. Fools, we dwell
Within bleak walls of death, and when we hide
Them with this wretched tapestry of life,
We dream that they are not.” A hand was laid
Upon my shoulder; Harry's laughing face,
Filled with his mischievous and merry eyes,
Was thrust in mine. He slapped me, “Rouse thee, man!
15
What is the precious subject of your thoughts?”
“My thoughts?—the charitable snow which cools
A hot volcano's lips; the nurse that takes
Alike the crying and the crowing babe,
And stills them with a kiss.” We all arose;
The emptying warehouses had filled the street
With a broad stream; from passage, lane, and court
Gushed tributary rills. We struggled out,
And soon were lost and mingled in the tide:
Within an hour the streets again were brimmed
With the returning flow.
Again we sat,
When bright-eyed Harry cried, “How Time doth fly!
March blustered yesterday, to-day the winds
Are ruffling July's roses, ere the morn
October smites the forests into gold.
Yet there is something good in every time:
Winter with breath like incense, glittering beard
Of icicles, enwrapt in sheet of snow,
Is warm at heart, as in the harvest-fields
Bare Autumn, red with sun.”
CHARLES.When bright-eyed Harry cried, “How Time doth fly!
March blustered yesterday, to-day the winds
Are ruffling July's roses, ere the morn
October smites the forests into gold.
Yet there is something good in every time:
Winter with breath like incense, glittering beard
Of icicles, enwrapt in sheet of snow,
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Bare Autumn, red with sun.”
And kindlier too:
Hear his great fires, see how his bleak old face
Glows ruddy through the steam of fragrant punch.
Can pensive Spring, a snow-drop in his hand,
A solitary lark above his head,
Laugh like the jovial sinner in his cups?
I vote for Winter! Why, you know the “Crown,”
The rows of pewter winking in the light,
The mighty egg-flip at the sanded bar,
The nine-pins, skittles, silent dominoes,
The bellied landlord with his purple head,
Like a red cabbage on December morn
Crusted with snow. His buxom daughter, Bess—
A dahlia, not a rosebud—she who bears
The foaming porter to the guests, and laughs
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Build you a nest like that?
JAMES.
Oft at night,
Weary with beating the black Calder streams,
I dropped into your cozy paradise.
Last week poor Horton died, who sat therein
As constant as a saint within his niche.
I saw him often, heard his glorious talk,
But ere the midnight grew into the morn,
He seemed a mighty angel sent from God
Standing before us—drunk; a sinful song
Staining his radiant lips. I often sat
At those wild drinking bouts, which seemed divine
In a great flash of wit—and rose next morn,
Throat like the parched Sahara, and each ear
Loud as a cotton mill. The o'er-spurred jade
Fell 'neath the rider, and, like all the world,
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Honey in which the bees have left their stings.
MAX.
Ah! he was brightest at the noon of night.
His mind by day was like a common dell,
Through which the clown goes whistling with his cart;
You looked around, but could see nothing more,
Than in a thousand places that you knew:
But with the night, there stole from every leaf,
Where they lay coiled in sleep, dim troops of sylphs,
Fays, and all frolic shapes, and 'neath the moon
Stood Queen Titania and her fairy court.
It is the proudest memory of my youth,
That I was his familiar, and beloved,
And knew his stream of life from fount to sea.
Hope flew before him like a setting sun;
And as he smiled on realms of rosy gold,
From out the heaven there fell a desolate night,
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With wind and spray in his unsheltered hair.
I kept the key of his locked heart for years—
Could ope it when I chose. He loved not Song
With that most pure and undivided love
Which only wins her. Song fled on before;
He followed. Pleasure, naked to the waist,
With high-flushed cheeks and loose dishevelled hair,
Flung herself 'cross his path; she clasped his knees;
He saw her beauty, and he was undone—
His strong heart melted. It was never his,
That terriblest of virtues, Truthfulness;
That pure, high Constancy which flies right on,
As swerveless as a bullet to its mark;
Patience, that with a weary smile can bear
A load that crushes weak complaint to earth—
Patience, that eats the ripened ears, while Haste
Battens upon the green. Yet worth he had,
And strove as far as in him lay, to turn
This smoke of life to clear poetic flame;
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Round the familiar face of every-day.
He plunged from off this crumbling shoal of Time,
Struck for the coast of Fame—with stiffened limbs
Went down in sight of land.
JOHN.
I saw him once,
And, by my faith, he talked us all asleep.
The only things that struck me were his eyes,
That with their brightness held you from his face;
The thought stood in them ere 'twas spoken; Wit
Laughed on you from the windows ere she danced
Out on you from the door.
HARRY.
I've heard men speak
Of Horton with such pity in their tones,
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By fortune in his youth.
MAX.
As I have said,
I knew him as myself, and loved him more,
And so my knowledge is more intimate
Than yours, or yours, or any's in the world.
Love will dwell daily with Indifference,
Sleep in one room and at one table sit,
And never speak. Love is but known to Love.
For years his heart was darkened like a grave
By a sepulchral yew. While yet a child,
He had a playmate in his sunny sports;
Inseparable they were as sun and shade.
From childhood's tender sheath there burst at once
A lily-woman—sweetly grave with thoughts
Till now unknown; made silent by a heart
So full and strange, that at a passing tone,
The noiseless falling of an autumn leaf,
It trembled into tears. I often thought,
In the prophetic sorrow of her face,
Her wan pathetic smiles, more sad than tears,
I gazed upon the countenance which awed
The herdsman on the dark Judæan hills
When Jephtha's daughter passed. And so she walked
Vestured in silence; wheresoe'er she went
Loud voices drooped, her beauty carried peace
Into rude discord's heart—and had she bent
Above a soldier from the bloody trench,
The fleeting spirit would have left a smile
Behind it, on the face.
I knew him as myself, and loved him more,
And so my knowledge is more intimate
Than yours, or yours, or any's in the world.
Love will dwell daily with Indifference,
Sleep in one room and at one table sit,
And never speak. Love is but known to Love.
For years his heart was darkened like a grave
By a sepulchral yew. While yet a child,
He had a playmate in his sunny sports;
Inseparable they were as sun and shade.
From childhood's tender sheath there burst at once
A lily-woman—sweetly grave with thoughts
Till now unknown; made silent by a heart
So full and strange, that at a passing tone,
22
It trembled into tears. I often thought,
In the prophetic sorrow of her face,
Her wan pathetic smiles, more sad than tears,
I gazed upon the countenance which awed
The herdsman on the dark Judæan hills
When Jephtha's daughter passed. And so she walked
Vestured in silence; wheresoe'er she went
Loud voices drooped, her beauty carried peace
Into rude discord's heart—and had she bent
Above a soldier from the bloody trench,
The fleeting spirit would have left a smile
Behind it, on the face.
One summer day
He lay upon a tower in leafy Kent
Watching a lazy river; glorious leagues
Of woods yet gleaming with a falling shower,
O'er which a rainbow strode; a red-tiled town
Set in a tender film of azure smoke,
And here and there upon the little heights
A windmill turning its preposterous arms
Within the silent noon; the line of sea
That closed the whole. Upon the wall he lay,
Without a wish or trouble in the world.
Her presence filled the universe like light,
And, like an indolent emperor, he lolled
Upon a couch of happiness and love.
So when the sun sank flaming in the west,
He wrote, with a fond smile upon his lips,
(His marriage-day was laughing in his face,)
“The third night hence I start,—that summer night
When you are wakened by an ache of bliss
To some great happiness, and know not what
Until the truth leaps up, think, dearest, think
That I am flying to you through the night
At sixty miles an hour—and that my heart
Outflies the flying train.”
He lay upon a tower in leafy Kent
Watching a lazy river; glorious leagues
Of woods yet gleaming with a falling shower,
O'er which a rainbow strode; a red-tiled town
Set in a tender film of azure smoke,
And here and there upon the little heights
23
Within the silent noon; the line of sea
That closed the whole. Upon the wall he lay,
Without a wish or trouble in the world.
Her presence filled the universe like light,
And, like an indolent emperor, he lolled
Upon a couch of happiness and love.
So when the sun sank flaming in the west,
He wrote, with a fond smile upon his lips,
(His marriage-day was laughing in his face,)
“The third night hence I start,—that summer night
When you are wakened by an ache of bliss
To some great happiness, and know not what
Until the truth leaps up, think, dearest, think
That I am flying to you through the night
At sixty miles an hour—and that my heart
Outflies the flying train.”
The fatal sun
Sucked vapours from the marsh. From morn till eve
The streets were huddled in a yellow fog,
Through which the lamps burned beamlessly and dim.
'Mid household duties sat she hour by hour
With eyes that fed on something far away;
A half smile hovering round her happy lips
Like a bright butterfly around a flower,
Touching, yet settling not. The hour drew near—
Her bliss disturbed her as she sat alone—
She sought relief in friends, and rose at last
With fond and hurried heart. They went with her.
“Don't take the river, Cousin, 'tis so dark.”
“It is the shortest way—good night, good night.”
They plead, she broke from them, they called to her,
She tossed a laughing answer from the dark.
The girls returned through thick mist-blinded streets,
And sat 'mid music in delighted rooms,
While she groped weeping in night's foggy heart.
Sucked vapours from the marsh. From morn till eve
The streets were huddled in a yellow fog,
24
'Mid household duties sat she hour by hour
With eyes that fed on something far away;
A half smile hovering round her happy lips
Like a bright butterfly around a flower,
Touching, yet settling not. The hour drew near—
Her bliss disturbed her as she sat alone—
She sought relief in friends, and rose at last
With fond and hurried heart. They went with her.
“Don't take the river, Cousin, 'tis so dark.”
“It is the shortest way—good night, good night.”
They plead, she broke from them, they called to her,
She tossed a laughing answer from the dark.
The girls returned through thick mist-blinded streets,
And sat 'mid music in delighted rooms,
While she groped weeping in night's foggy heart.
Her father, mother, and the new-arrived
Sat in a happy knot. His coming stirred
The constant fire of love within their hearts,
Which crackled and blazed higher. Much he talked
Of London, of its streets, its bridges, crowds;
St. Paul's, the broad moon sailing o'er the dome;
The rich-carved Abbey with its thousand frets
And pinnacles, religious with the dead;
Of the brave spirits who go up to woo
That terrible City whose neglect is death,
Whose smile is fame; the prosperous one who sits
Sole in the summer sun, the crowd who die
Unmentioned, as a wave which forms and breaks
On undiscovered shores. Hour passed on hour,
And gradual each apprehensive lip
Grew silent with concern; then, as they sat,
Like fern-leaves troubled by a sudden wind,
Their hearts were shaken by a speechless fear;
Each read the terror in the other's face.
They searched with lights, they madly called her name—
Night heard, and, conscience-stricken, held its breath,
And listened wild. At last in the bleared morn,
They saw a something white within the stream—
He raised his drowned bride in distracted arms.
Sat in a happy knot. His coming stirred
The constant fire of love within their hearts,
25
Of London, of its streets, its bridges, crowds;
St. Paul's, the broad moon sailing o'er the dome;
The rich-carved Abbey with its thousand frets
And pinnacles, religious with the dead;
Of the brave spirits who go up to woo
That terrible City whose neglect is death,
Whose smile is fame; the prosperous one who sits
Sole in the summer sun, the crowd who die
Unmentioned, as a wave which forms and breaks
On undiscovered shores. Hour passed on hour,
And gradual each apprehensive lip
Grew silent with concern; then, as they sat,
Like fern-leaves troubled by a sudden wind,
Their hearts were shaken by a speechless fear;
Each read the terror in the other's face.
They searched with lights, they madly called her name—
Night heard, and, conscience-stricken, held its breath,
And listened wild. At last in the bleared morn,
26
He raised his drowned bride in distracted arms.
A boat with a sweet freight of singing girls,
At rosy eve, when oars are still, will pause,
Then float down with the stream. His merriest talk
Flagged oft, and unpropelled, would ever turn
Into the current of his soul which set,
Constant toward his grief. One afternoon
We wandered forth toward the Raven's Hill,
Whence we might watch the sunset fill the vale.
A silent sea of plenty laved its feet;
We climbed with laughter up its pleasant sides;
But when we reached its lone and heathy head,
We found it haunted by a querulous bird,
Aye wheeling round and round.
Gloom, like a curtain, dropped from brow to chin.
We saw the tawny valley, here and there
Sheaf-dotted fields; a silent string of carts
Creeping along the whitened country road;
Contented cottage smoke; a shot, and lo!
Into the sunset the disturbèd rooks
Arose in noisy clouds from trees that kept
A great man's house a secret. He did not speak;
I felt that something hung upon his heart.
When the great sunset burned itself away,
There lay within the sleepy evening sky
Dark purple slips of cloud, and shallow pools
Of drowsy and most melancholy light.
We sauntered homeward by the clacking mill:
Back from the road we saw the ragged wall,
The broken windows in the haunted house,
And the old rooks' nests in the ruined elms:
Silence grew pain. Sudden, the harvest moon
Stood at our backs, and threw long spears of light
Before us 'mong the shades; at that he drew
The sluice of silence and his life rushed forth—
Its grief, despair, anguish, and clinging hope.
His heart was not, as men conceived, a fair
Of clowns and jugglers, gongs and blaring brass,
But a lone place of tombs and cypresses,
Asleep in silence 'neath the moon of death.
He was a broken and time-crumbled tower,
With sere grass sighing in the evening wind,
Round which a pale ghost flits.
At rosy eve, when oars are still, will pause,
Then float down with the stream. His merriest talk
Flagged oft, and unpropelled, would ever turn
Into the current of his soul which set,
Constant toward his grief. One afternoon
We wandered forth toward the Raven's Hill,
Whence we might watch the sunset fill the vale.
A silent sea of plenty laved its feet;
We climbed with laughter up its pleasant sides;
But when we reached its lone and heathy head,
We found it haunted by a querulous bird,
Aye wheeling round and round.
Gloom, like a curtain, dropped from brow to chin.
We saw the tawny valley, here and there
Sheaf-dotted fields; a silent string of carts
Creeping along the whitened country road;
27
Into the sunset the disturbèd rooks
Arose in noisy clouds from trees that kept
A great man's house a secret. He did not speak;
I felt that something hung upon his heart.
When the great sunset burned itself away,
There lay within the sleepy evening sky
Dark purple slips of cloud, and shallow pools
Of drowsy and most melancholy light.
We sauntered homeward by the clacking mill:
Back from the road we saw the ragged wall,
The broken windows in the haunted house,
And the old rooks' nests in the ruined elms:
Silence grew pain. Sudden, the harvest moon
Stood at our backs, and threw long spears of light
Before us 'mong the shades; at that he drew
The sluice of silence and his life rushed forth—
Its grief, despair, anguish, and clinging hope.
His heart was not, as men conceived, a fair
Of clowns and jugglers, gongs and blaring brass,
28
Asleep in silence 'neath the moon of death.
He was a broken and time-crumbled tower,
With sere grass sighing in the evening wind,
Round which a pale ghost flits.
JAMES.
And then his song—
You used to like it, Harry: give it now.
HARRY.
On the Sabbath-day,
Through the churchyard old and grey,
Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way;
And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms,
'Mid the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms,
'Mid the upward streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,
I stood careless, Barbara.
Through the churchyard old and grey,
Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way;
And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms,
'Mid the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms,
29
I stood careless, Barbara.
My heart was otherwhere
While the organ shook the air,
And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer;
But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine
Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine—
Gleamed and vanished in a moment—O that face was surely thine
Out of heaven, Barbara!
While the organ shook the air,
And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer;
But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine
Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine—
Gleamed and vanished in a moment—O that face was surely thine
Out of heaven, Barbara!
O pallid, pallid face!
O earnest eyes of grace!
When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place.
You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist:
The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist—
A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed.
That wild morning, Barbara.
O earnest eyes of grace!
When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place.
30
The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist—
A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed.
That wild morning, Barbara.
I searched, in my despair,
Sunny noon and midnight air;
I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.
O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone,
My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone—
Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone,
You were sleeping, Barbara.
Sunny noon and midnight air;
I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.
O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone,
My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone—
Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone,
You were sleeping, Barbara.
'Mong angels, do you think
Of the precious golden link
I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?
Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars,
Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through latticed bars,
The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars,
Till the day broke, Barbara?
Of the precious golden link
31
Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars,
Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through latticed bars,
The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars,
Till the day broke, Barbara?
In the years I've changed;
Wild and far my heart hath ranged,
And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged;
But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked:
I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact—
Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract—
Still I love you, Barbara.
Wild and far my heart hath ranged,
And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged;
But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked:
I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact—
Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract—
Still I love you, Barbara.
32
Yet, love, I am unblest;
With many doubts opprest,
I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest.
Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore,
The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more
Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore
You could teach me, Barbara.
With many doubts opprest,
I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest.
Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore,
The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more
Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore
You could teach me, Barbara.
In vain, in vain, in vain,
You will never come again.
There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain;
The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree,
Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea,
There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee,
Barbara!
You will never come again.
There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain;
The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree,
Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea,
33
Barbara!
MAX.
I thank you for your silence—for his sake.
CHARLES.
Why, he has told his story in his song!
MAX.
Better than I can. Through that window look
Into the ruined house.
CHARLES.
I picture Art
As some great captive in a gloomy cell,
Who strives in vain to satisfy himself,
34
With images of former state, and shapes
That haunt him with their beauty; and, unsought,
There starts beneath his chisel—saddening all,
Freezing the lovely groups of singing girls,
Bursting through every bunch of leaf and flower—
Strange images of grief.
JAMES.
Love, hope, and joy,
Familiar things enough to you and me,
Take a strange glory from the poet's mind:
The white and common daylight, streaming through
A rich cathedral window dim with saints,
Falls on the clasped hands of a stony knight
In palpitating crimson; and the gust
That rudely smites the Æolian harp departs
In melancholy music. Life is the soil,
And song the flower which—
35
Stop, for Heaven's sake,—
All that has been said a hundred thousand times,
And will be said as often when you're dead.
Now, when we cannot do a noble deed,
Let us be silent. In larger-hearted times
Men stood with Nature face to face, and wrought—
Such love and passion in each fervid stroke—
Their glory, our despair. To us are left
But empty wonder, admiration vain.
Eternal Nature in her pomp goes past;
These giants stand up in the very front
And hide her from us; we but guess the sight
From their adoring murmurs. We live on them,
Feed on their thoughts; each of us strives to speak
The finest words about them. Poor fungi of a day
On trunks of greatness! To our graves we walk
In the thick footprints of departed men.
36
To cheer a cottage or to fright a realm—
Goes out in worthless ashes at the last.
O! villanous Custom makes the muse's song
Stale as the common highway; steals the gold
From Julia's tresses, which once lit the world;
Makes dear friends smiling in each other's face,
Deem each a tiresome fool; the preacher crying
Of death and judgment,—from which we are divided
But by this thin partition of a breath,—
A pleasant buzzing in a drowsy ear
In a soft-cushion'd pew.
HARRY.
I'll prophesy—
Who'll say me nay?—that in the next Review,
As far off from his subject as he can,
Running a mile that he may leap a yard,
Your critic starts off thus:—“'Tis not to sing
37
From the pure snowdrop peeping from the mould
Yet wet with wintry rains, to tiger-lilies
Fierce in their beauty, and tall hollyhocks
On fire through all their length, the poet comes.
They say that song is laid in Byron's grave!
As long as lightning glimmers on the hills,
Song shall be heard; as long as fields are green,
And skies are blue, and woman's face is fair.”
Now there is nothing very new in this;
As well remind a man with cheek and nose
Blue with the east wind, that the day is cold.
But lo! he rises to a higher mood:—
“Life is enriched and multiplied by song:
Song re-creates the people of the past,
For one immortal moment we are they,
And one blood beats in all. How dear to man
Is aught of man! Old Time, who frets to dust
The princely circumstance and cloth of gold,
Can never filch the blush from Juliet's cheek,
38
We touch her lips with him. The workman toils
At his rude craft, goes to his low-roofed home,
Sits at his evening meal; the poet enters
Clothed in the strange sweet light which is his gift—
The poor man starts; he has lived all his days
With beauty, and with grandeur, and with power,
Unrecognised till now.” Bald talk like this
(Though, I confess it, not so neatly said)
Besets us everywhere; if well for once—
Repeated, 'tis as if we supped with Jones,
Next eve with Brown, and found the self-same roast
Gracing both tables,—which it sometimes does,
Hired from the butcher in the other street.
CHARLES.
With what a will these fellows cuff, maltreat,
And pound the innocent air!
39
Is it not strange,
That Horton, filled with purifying sorrow,
Should err so far?
JOHN.
Most wondrous—in a world
Where every sleek and purple-visaged priest
Declaims 'gainst luxury, and dexterous men
Change but their vices and are virtuous!
He—'tis the common fashion of his kind—
Put what he had of goodness in his verse,
And left none for his life. He knew his game:—
Stuff your shop-window thickly with your goods;
The world ne'er marks the empty shelves behind.
Grief proudlier dwells in sounding lines, than in
A faithful heart. What beauty would not choose
40
Full in the seeing of the public eye,
Rather than in a hut?
MAX.
You do him wrong:
His errors rose from no ill-biassed soul,
Nor appetite depraved. The finer nerve,
The mournful wisdom gather'd by an eye
That saw the wither'd autumn in the fruit
Glowing upon the bough, were more to blame.
Death look'd upon him through the eyes of Love;
No mercy veil'd for him those dreadful orbs;
And often, to escape their silent gaze,
He hid in Riot's arms. We often see
Powers left unused, or in their uses lost.
The ponderous axe leans 'gainst the idle wall
Till rust consumes it; and the invisible edge,
That could divide the weightless gossamer
41
Must hew the rock. Whene'er Apollo draws
The arrow thirsting for the Python's blood
Home to the quivering head, his flashing limbs
Are palsied by a touch. The heavens seem
To mar as wilfully their creature man,
As one who limns a face, on which the world
Could stand at gaze cheated of pain and time;
Then lets, before the smiling hues are dry,
His careless sleeve slur all as off he goes.
Nature, who makes the perfect rose and bird,
Has never made the full and perfect man.
In every worthiness there is a flaw,
That, like a crack across a mirror's face,
Impairs its value: cunningly, she lets
Nothing have knowledge of its own defect:
To keep us living she must cozen us:
The dun toad panting in the cool of eve,
The eagle bathing in the bursting dawn,
Are each content alike. Without these toys—
42
Which fill our eyes, and hide us from ourselves—
Like lonely children we should die with fright
At utter nothingness. His muse had breath,
And loved so well this old familiar earth,
She ne'er desired to walk in other stars,
Nor dwell 'neath ampler seasons; and his verse,
Like a rich marriage with its minstrelsy,
Or Neptune with a sound of weltering waves,
Had still a lordly march. Had he but lived—
Yet, very vain and fruitless is the wish!
Death holds up in his hand the lamp by which
We note the prostrate strength, and guess what all
At strain could reach. He stood so high, there seemed
Between his footing and the immortal mount
A single step: however slight the space,
It was to him a gulf impassable,
And wide as death. Yet 'tis a loving thought,—
Had Fate not so untimely reap'd the field,
43
In heavy ears of wheat.
ARTHUR.
A friend of mine,
At whose rich table Horton often sat,
When fond men dream'd they saw around his head
The apparition of the future light,
Told me, he was in spirit hot and quick;
Weak as a flower that sways with ev'ry wind:
That, like the sensitive leaf, his vanity
Shrank from the slightest touch; and that he turn'd
From those who loved him, and reproved him, too,
And found his heaven in a tavern's laugh.
MAX.
With their own cotton may your friends be choked!
O, 'tis the crowning baseness of the fiend
To taunt the fallen Eve! They gave him wine;
They pampered, flattered him; they struck the light
In that combustible and tinder house,
And, when 'twas sheeted in devouring flame,
They, in the fashion of our dearest friends,
Cried, “Fire!” to all the world. You have a friend:
Touch your friend's heart with a poor orphan's cry,
He sips his wine unmoved; touch now his purse—
Look, how he winces! He is vital there.
O, rare to hear this Cotton-bag, with soul
Scarce saucer-deep, rate Horton for his faults!
Had he his heart one hour, within his life
'Twere like the famous tear that Xerxes shed—
The one thing worth remembering. So they judge
This larger spirit, fresh from Nature's heart
As a volcano; compound perilous
Of hell and heaven, wrath and woman's tears!
He sank beneath them in his passionate sins;
His goodness sang a skylark o'er their heads,
And Heaven stood to hear.
O, 'tis the crowning baseness of the fiend
44
They pampered, flattered him; they struck the light
In that combustible and tinder house,
And, when 'twas sheeted in devouring flame,
They, in the fashion of our dearest friends,
Cried, “Fire!” to all the world. You have a friend:
Touch your friend's heart with a poor orphan's cry,
He sips his wine unmoved; touch now his purse—
Look, how he winces! He is vital there.
O, rare to hear this Cotton-bag, with soul
Scarce saucer-deep, rate Horton for his faults!
Had he his heart one hour, within his life
'Twere like the famous tear that Xerxes shed—
The one thing worth remembering. So they judge
This larger spirit, fresh from Nature's heart
As a volcano; compound perilous
Of hell and heaven, wrath and woman's tears!
He sank beneath them in his passionate sins;
His goodness sang a skylark o'er their heads,
And Heaven stood to hear.
45
His silent grave
Rebukes these words. But let us ne'er forget
His errors darkened in the very blaze
And sunlight of his virtues. A slur of mire
Sits more conspicuous on the captain's steel,
Than on the battle-worn and dinted mail
Of the rude man-at-arms. His sin of sins
Was ne'er to be the master of himself.
His heart, which should have constant been to song—
True, as the monsoon breathing day and night
To China and the Isles—was drawn aside
By pomps and pleasures dancing upon graves
To Vanity's soft pipe. When erring man
Strays from his duty, Heaven ever strives
To bring him back. 'Tis writ, when Moses fled,
And drowned remembrance of the groaning tribes
In the sweet bleating of the Midian flocks—
The hand which should break Egypt, sound asleep
'Mid Zipporah's long tresses—God appear'd
Within the burning bush. Alas! for him
Who cannot hear the voice; he turns from Hope,
And gives his hand to Ruin. The Muse disdains
A lukewarm lover. He who could not sit
And sing contented in a desert isle,
His audience, the mute trees and wandering winds,
His joy, the grace and beauty of his song,
Should never lift his voice 'mong mortal men.
The noble artist finds enough reward,
While the pure nymph is growing from the stone,
In the sweet smile with which she blesses him
For loveliness and immortality.
He coveted the Muse's smile—but more,
Earth's praise; for Fame's consummate fruit, which ne'er
Has cool'd the fever of a living lip,
Which ripens slowly through laborious years,
Then, heavy with its sweetness and its bloom,
Falls on a grave, he could not wait; so pluck'd
Crude Reputation's green and bastard crab,
Which set his teeth on edge. This error soured
His native goodness. Slow he fell from light,
And year by year the heavens seemed farther off,
And human faces less divine. He died
With a wild jest; 'twas the last flash of flame
Upon the blackened brand. Was this ship stored,
And sent forth glorious only to enrich
The wasteful waves? O, surely to advance
The far result which Heaven shapes from out
The multitudinous clash and roar of things,
This man might have been used—not thrown aside,
As in a loud and clanging tournament,
A splintered lance. But Heaven darkly works;
A pale man bears about a martyr's heart,
And never finds his fire; while one burns high
With a recanting soul. The patriot's head
Wastes on a pole above a gate of slaves
In sun and rain, while he who only sought
The awful glitter of the diadem,
Stands crowned, with acclamations of the free
Rising like incense round him. On the sands
Jove lolls, and listens to the sleepy surge,
His right arm boltless, and that brow, whose frown
Could shake Olympus, naked as the peak
That fronts the sunset; while a baby-hand
Clutches the thunder. Yet through all we know
This tangled skein is in the hands of One
Who sees the end from the beginning—He
Shall yet unravel all.
Rebukes these words. But let us ne'er forget
His errors darkened in the very blaze
And sunlight of his virtues. A slur of mire
Sits more conspicuous on the captain's steel,
Than on the battle-worn and dinted mail
Of the rude man-at-arms. His sin of sins
Was ne'er to be the master of himself.
His heart, which should have constant been to song—
True, as the monsoon breathing day and night
To China and the Isles—was drawn aside
By pomps and pleasures dancing upon graves
To Vanity's soft pipe. When erring man
Strays from his duty, Heaven ever strives
To bring him back. 'Tis writ, when Moses fled,
And drowned remembrance of the groaning tribes
In the sweet bleating of the Midian flocks—
The hand which should break Egypt, sound asleep
'Mid Zipporah's long tresses—God appear'd
Within the burning bush. Alas! for him
46
And gives his hand to Ruin. The Muse disdains
A lukewarm lover. He who could not sit
And sing contented in a desert isle,
His audience, the mute trees and wandering winds,
His joy, the grace and beauty of his song,
Should never lift his voice 'mong mortal men.
The noble artist finds enough reward,
While the pure nymph is growing from the stone,
In the sweet smile with which she blesses him
For loveliness and immortality.
He coveted the Muse's smile—but more,
Earth's praise; for Fame's consummate fruit, which ne'er
Has cool'd the fever of a living lip,
Which ripens slowly through laborious years,
Then, heavy with its sweetness and its bloom,
Falls on a grave, he could not wait; so pluck'd
Crude Reputation's green and bastard crab,
Which set his teeth on edge. This error soured
47
And year by year the heavens seemed farther off,
And human faces less divine. He died
With a wild jest; 'twas the last flash of flame
Upon the blackened brand. Was this ship stored,
And sent forth glorious only to enrich
The wasteful waves? O, surely to advance
The far result which Heaven shapes from out
The multitudinous clash and roar of things,
This man might have been used—not thrown aside,
As in a loud and clanging tournament,
A splintered lance. But Heaven darkly works;
A pale man bears about a martyr's heart,
And never finds his fire; while one burns high
With a recanting soul. The patriot's head
Wastes on a pole above a gate of slaves
In sun and rain, while he who only sought
The awful glitter of the diadem,
Stands crowned, with acclamations of the free
Rising like incense round him. On the sands
48
His right arm boltless, and that brow, whose frown
Could shake Olympus, naked as the peak
That fronts the sunset; while a baby-hand
Clutches the thunder. Yet through all we know
This tangled skein is in the hands of One
Who sees the end from the beginning—He
Shall yet unravel all.
Our stream of talk
Here split in petty rills which ran to waste,
And sank in silence. When that swallows' haunt,
St. Stephen's, with its showers of silvery chimes,
Stood black against the red dilated sun,
Labour laid down his tools and went away.
The park was loud with games: clear laughter, shrieks,
Came from the rings of girls amid the trees;
The cricketers were eager at their play;
The stream was dotted with the swimmers' heads;
Gay boats flashed up and down. The level sun
Poured o'er the sward a farewell gush of light,
And Sport transfigured stood! I hurried on,
Through all the mirth, to where the river ran,
In the grey evening, 'tween the hanging woods,
With a soul-soothing murmur. Seated there,
The darkness closing round me, I could see
A lonely angler like a heron stand,
And hear the blackbird piping to the eve,
And smell the wild-rose on the dewy air.
I reached the park hours later,—what a change!
The full-moon filled the universal night;
The stream ran white with lustre; walks and trees
Threw their long shadows; a few kine lay dark
In lanes and squares of moonlight; far away
The pallid rim of night was touched with fires;
Stillness was deep as death. “The noisy day
Wheels into silence; and this wave of life,
Crowned with its fretting foam, subsides at last
On shores without a sound. And this our Time—
With thrones tyrannic girt by seas of steel;
Wild nations starting up from sleep to chase
A dream of liberty through blood and fire;
White faces down in dungeons cursing kings;
Battle, and wintry siege, and frozen hosts—
Will sink and lose itself in utter peace
Like water spilt on sand. And History,
A mournful follower in the track of man,
Whose path is over ruin and the grave,
May linger for a moment in this place
Beside a worn inscription and be sad.”
Here split in petty rills which ran to waste,
And sank in silence. When that swallows' haunt,
St. Stephen's, with its showers of silvery chimes,
Stood black against the red dilated sun,
Labour laid down his tools and went away.
The park was loud with games: clear laughter, shrieks,
Came from the rings of girls amid the trees;
The cricketers were eager at their play;
The stream was dotted with the swimmers' heads;
Gay boats flashed up and down. The level sun
49
And Sport transfigured stood! I hurried on,
Through all the mirth, to where the river ran,
In the grey evening, 'tween the hanging woods,
With a soul-soothing murmur. Seated there,
The darkness closing round me, I could see
A lonely angler like a heron stand,
And hear the blackbird piping to the eve,
And smell the wild-rose on the dewy air.
I reached the park hours later,—what a change!
The full-moon filled the universal night;
The stream ran white with lustre; walks and trees
Threw their long shadows; a few kine lay dark
In lanes and squares of moonlight; far away
The pallid rim of night was touched with fires;
Stillness was deep as death. “The noisy day
Wheels into silence; and this wave of life,
Crowned with its fretting foam, subsides at last
On shores without a sound. And this our Time—
With thrones tyrannic girt by seas of steel;
50
A dream of liberty through blood and fire;
White faces down in dungeons cursing kings;
Battle, and wintry siege, and frozen hosts—
Will sink and lose itself in utter peace
Like water spilt on sand. And History,
A mournful follower in the track of man,
Whose path is over ruin and the grave,
May linger for a moment in this place
Beside a worn inscription and be sad.”
Across the moonlight spaces and the shades
I walked in silence, through pale silver streets,
Athwart a desolate and moon-bleached square,
Over a white and solitary bridge,
Until I reached my home. I oped the door,
And ere it closed, I heard a distant spire
Start in its sleep, and murmur of an hour.
I walked in silence, through pale silver streets,
Athwart a desolate and moon-bleached square,
Over a white and solitary bridge,
Until I reached my home. I oped the door,
And ere it closed, I heard a distant spire
Start in its sleep, and murmur of an hour.
| City Poems | |