The Spring's in the air—
Here, there,
Everywhere!
Though there's scarce a green tip to a bud,
Spring laughs over hill and plain,
As the sunlight turns the lane's mud
To a splendour of copper one way, of silver the other;
And longings one cannot smother,
And delight that sings through the brain,
Turn all one's life into glory—
'Tis the old new ravishing story—
The Spring's here again!
When the leaves grew red
And dead,
We said:
"See how much more fair
Than the green leaves shimmering
In the dainty dreamings that lighted the gray November,
Did our hearts not remember
The green woods—and linnets that sing?
Ah, we knew Spring was lost, and pretended
'Twas Autumn we loved. Lies are ended;
Thank God for the Spring!
APRIL.
Who calls the Autumn season drear?
It was in Autumn that we met,
When under foot dead leaves lay wet
In the black London gardens, dear.
The fog was yellow everywhere,
And very thick in Finsbury Square,
Where in those days we used to meet.
I used to buy you violets sweet
From flower-girls down by Moorgate Street.
'Twas Autumn then—can we forget?—
When first we met.
Who says that Spring is dear and fair?
It is in Spring-time that we part,
And weary heart from weary heart
Turns, as the birds begin to pair.
The sun shines on the golden dome,
With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer
The town with dreams of the crownèd year.
We're both polite and insincere:
Though neither says it, yet—at heart—
We mean to part.
JUNE.
Oh, I'm weary of the town,
Where life's too hard for smiling—and the dreary houses frown,
And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats
Upon the miles of dusty roofs—the dreary squares and streets;
This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's—the golden cross and dome,
Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home?
Our little church is gray,
It stands upon a hill-side—you can see it miles away,
The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.
I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door,
When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze,—
Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays.
There are elm trees all around
Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound,
And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar,
And you hear the low of cattle—where the red farm buildings are;
Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune,
And forget the cruel city—on this first blue day of June!
The grass is high—I know;
And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow;
But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day—
It would only be to count my dead—whom God has taken away.
That graveyard where the daisies grow—not yet my heart can bear
To pass that way—but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!
JULY.
The night hardly covers the face of the sky,
But the darkness is drawn
Like a veil o'er the heaven these nights in July,
A veil rent at dawn,
When with exquisite tremors the poplar leaves quiver,
And a breeze like a kiss wakes the slumbering river,
And the light in the east keener grows—clearer grows,
Till the edge of the clouds turn from pearl into rose,
And o'er the hill's shoulder—the night wholly past—
The sun peeps at last!
Come out! there's a freshness that thrills like a song,
That soothes like a sleep;
And the scent of wild thyme on the air borne along,
Where the downs slope up steep.
There's such dew on the earth and such lights in the heaven,
And the old earth looks new—and our hearts seem new-born,
And stripped of the cere-clothes which long they have worn—
And hope and brave purpose awaken anew
'Mid the sunshine and dew.
NOVEMBER.
Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by
Across the gold sun and blue sky,
Which still are there eternally.
Above the sodden garden-bed
Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead,
Where the tall lily bent its head
Over carnations white and red.
The leafless poplars, straight and tall,
Stand by the gray-green garden wall,
From which such rare fruit used to fall.
In the verandah, where of old
Sweet August spent the roses' gold,
Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold
Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.
ROCHESTER CASTLE.
Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud;
Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowd
Of wheeling, whirling, fluttering things—
Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings.
Thousands of pigeons all the year
Fly in and out of the arches here.
What prisoned hands have torn at the stone
Where your soft hand lies—oh my heart!—alone?
What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tears
To see what we see after all these years—
The free, broad river go smoothly by
And the free, blithe birds 'neath the free, blue sky?
And now—O Time, how you work your will!
—The pitiless walls are standing still,
But the wall-flowers blossom on every ledge,
And the wild rose garlands the walls' sheer edge,
And where once the imprisoned heart beat low,
The beautiful pigeons fly to and fro!
In the sad, stern arches they build and pair,
As happy as dreams and as free as air,
And sorrow and longing and life-long pain
Man brings not into these walls again;
And yet—O my love, with the face of flowers—
What do we bring in these hearts of ours?
RUCKINGE CHURCH.
"And we said how dreary and desolate and forlorn the church was, and how long it was since any music but that of the moth-eaten harmonium and the heartless mixed choir had sounded there. And we said: 'Poor old church! it will never hear any true music any more'. Then she turned to us from the door of the Lady Chapel, which was plastered and whitewashed, and had a stove and the Evangelical Almanac in it, and her eyes were full of tears. And, standing there, she sang 'Ave Maria'—it was Gounod's music, I think—with her voice and her face like an angel's. And while she sang a stranger came to the church door and stood listening, but he did not see us. Only we saw that he loved her singing. And he went away as soon as the hymn was ended, we also soon following, and the church was left lonely as before."—Extract from our Diary.
The boat crept slowly through the water-weeds
That greenly cover all the waterways,
Between high banks where ranks of sedge and reeds
Sigh one sad secret all their quiet days,
Through grasses, water-mint and rushes green
And flags and strange wet blossoms, only seen
Where man so seldom comes, so briefly stays.
From the high bank the sheep looked calmly down,
Unscared to see my boat and me go by;
The elm trees showed their dress of golden brown
To winds that should disrobe them presently;
And a marsh sunset flamed across the wold,
And the still water caught the lavished gold,
The primrose and the purple of the sky.
The boat pressed ever through the weeds and sedge
Which, rustling, clung her steadfast prow around;
The iris nodded at the water's edge,
Bats in the elm trees made a ghostly sound;
With whirring wings a wild duck sprang to sight
And flew, black-winged, towards the crimson light,
Leaving my solitude the more profound.
We moved towards the church, my boat and I—
The church that at the marsh edge stands alone;
It caught the reflex of the sunset sky
On golden-lichened roof and gray-green stone.
Through snow and shower and sunshine it had stood
In the thronged graveyard's infinite solitude,
While many a year had come, and flowered, and gone.
From the marsh-meadow to the field of graves
But just a step, across a lichened wall.
Thick o'er the happy dead the marsh grass waves,
And cloudy wreaths of marsh mist gather and fall,
And the marsh sunsets shed their gold and red
Over still hearts that once in torment fed
At Life's intolerable festival.
The plaster of the porch has fallen away
From the lean stones, that now are all awry,
And through the chinks a shooting ivy spray
Creeps in—sad emblem of fidelity—
And wreathes with life the pillars and the beams
Hewn long ago—with, ah! what faith and dreams!—
By men whose faith and dreams have long gone by.
The rusty key, the heavy rotten door,
The dead, unhappy air, the pillars green
With mould and damp, the desecrated floor
With bricks and boards where tombstones
should have been
should have been
And were once; all the musty, dreary chill—
They strike a shudder through my being still
When memory lights again that lightless scene.
And where the altar stood, and where the Christ
Reached out His arms to all the world, there stood
Law-tables, as if love had not sufficed
To all the world has ever known of good!
Our Lady's chapel was a lightless shrine;
There was no human heart and no divine,
No odour of prayer, no altar, and no rood.
There was no scent of incense in the air,
No sense of all the past breathed through the aisle,
The white glass windows turned to mocking glare
The lovely sunset's gracious rosy smile.
A vault, a tomb wherein was laid to sleep
All that a man might give his life to keep
If only for an instant's breathing while!
Cold with my rage against the men who held
At such cheap rate the labours of the dead,
My heart within me sank, while o'er it swelled
A sadness that would not be comforted;
An awe came on me, and I seemed to face
The invisible spirit of the dreary place,
To hear the unheard voice of it, which said:—
"Is love, then, dead upon earth?
Ah! who shall tell or be told
What my walls were once worth
When men worked for love, not for gold?
Each stone was made to hold
A heartful of love and faith;
Now love and faith are dead,
Dead are the prayers that are said,
Nothing is living but Death!
"Oh for the old glad days,
Incense thick in the air,
Passion of thanks and of praise,
Passion of trust and of prayer!
Ah! the old days were fair,
Love on the earth was then,
Strong were men's souls, and brave:
Those men lie in the grave,
They will live not again!
"Then all my arches rang
With music glorious and sweet,
Men's souls burned as they sang,
Tears fell down at their feet,
Hands in men's hands held fast;
Union and brotherhood were!
Ah! the old days were fair,
Therefore the old days passed.
"Then, when later there came
Hatred, anger and strife,
The sword blood-red and the flame
And the stake and contempt of life,
Husband severed from wife,
Hearts with the Christ-heart bled:
Through the worst of the fight
Still the old fire burned bright,
Still the old faith was not dead.
"Though they tore my Christ from the cross,
And mocked at the Mother of Grace,
And broke my windows across,
Defiling the holy place—
Children of death and disgrace!
They spat on the altar stone,
They tore down and trampled the rood,
Stained my pillars with blood,
Left me lifeless, alone—
"Yet, when my walls were left
Robbed of all beauty and bare,
Still God cancelled the theft,
The soul of the thing was there.
In my damp, unwindowed air
Fugitives stopped to pray,
And their prayers were splendid to hear,
Like the sound of a storm that is near—
And love was not dead that day.
"Then the birds of the air built nests
In these empty shadows of mine,
And the warmth of their brooding breasts
Still warmed the untended shrine.
His creatures are all divine;
He is praised by the woodland throng,
And my old walls echoed and heard
The passionate praising word,
And love still lived in their song.
"Then came the Protestant crew
And made me the thing you have known—
Whitewashed and plastered me new,
Covered my marble and stone—
Vain was the cry, for they trod
Over my tombs, and I saw
Books and the Tables of Law
Set in the place of my God.
"And love is dead, so it seems!
Shall I never hear again
The music of heaven and of dreams,
Songs of ideals of men?
Great dreams and songs we had then,
Now I but hear from the wood
Cry of a bat or a bird.
Oh for love's passionate word
Sent from men's hearts to the Good!
"Sometimes men come, and they sing,
But I know not their song nor their voice;
They have no hearts they can bring,
They have no souls to rejoice,
Theirs is but folly and noise.
Oh for a voice that could sing
Songs to the Queen of the blest,
Hymns to the Dearest and Best,
Songs to our Master, her King!"
The church was full of silence. I shut in
Its loss and loneliness, and went my way.
Its sadness was not less its walls within
Because I wore it in my heart that day,
And many a day since, when I see again
Marsh sunsets, and across the golden plain
The church's golden roof and arches gray.
Along wet roads, all shining with late rain,
And through wet woods, all dripping, brown and sere,
I came one day towards the church again.
It was the spring-time of the day and year;
The sky was light and bright and flecked with cloud
That, wind-swept, changeful, through bright rents allowed
Sun and blue sky to smile and disappear.
The sky behind the old gray church was gray—
Gray as my memories, and gray as I;
The forlorn graves each side the grassy way
Called to me "Brother!" as I passed them by.
The door was open. "I shall feel again,"
I thought, "that inextinguishable pain
Of longing loss and hopeless memory."
When—O electric flash of ecstasy!
No spirit's moan of pain fell on my ear—
A human voice, an angel's melody,
God let me in that perfect moment hear.
Oh, the sweet rush of gladness and delight,
Of human striving to the heavenly light,
Of great ideals, permanent and dear!
All the old dreams linked with the newer faith,
All the old faith with higher dreams enwound,
Surged through the very heart of loss and death
In passionate waves of pure and perfect sound.
The past came back: the Christ, the Mother-maid,
The incense of the hearts that praised and prayed,
The past's peace, and the future's faith profound.
"Ave Maria,
Gratiâ plena,
Dominus tecum:
Benedicta tu
In mulieribus,
Et benedictus fructus ventris tui Jesus.
Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,
Ora pro nobis peccatoribus
Nunc et in horâ mortis nostræ. Amen."
And all the soul of all the past was here—
A human heart that loved the great and good,
A heart to which the great ideals were dear,
One that had heard and that had understood,
As I had done, the church's desolate moan,
And answered it as I had never done,
And never willed to do and never could.
I left the church, glad to the soul and strong,
And passed along by fresh earth-scented ways;
Safe in my heart the echo of that song
Lived, as it will live with me all my days.
The church will never lose that echo, nor
Be quite as lonely ever any more;
Nor will my soul, where too that echo stays.
RYE.
A little town that stands upon a hill,
Against whose base the white waves once leaped high;
Now spreading round it, even, green and still,
The placid pastures of the marshes lie.
The red-roofed houses and the gray church tower
Bear half asleep the sunshine and the rain;
They wait, so long have waited, for the hour
When the wild, welcome sea shall come again.
The lovely lights across the marshes pass,
The dykes grow fair with blossom, reed and sedge;
The patient beasts crop the long, cool, green grass,
The willows shiver at the water's edge;
But the town sleeps, it will not wake for these.
The sea some day again will round it break,
Will surge across these leagues of pastoral peace,
And then the little town will laugh, and wake.
THE BALLAD OF THE TWO SPELLS.
"Why dost thou weep?" the mass priest said;
"Fair dame, why dost thou weep?"
"I weep because my lord is laid
In an enchanted sleep.
"It was upon our bridal day
The bitter thing befel,
My love and lord was lured away
By an ill witch's spell.
"She lured him to her hidden bower
Among the cypress trees,
And there she holdeth manhood's flower
Asleep across her knees."
"Pray to our Father for His aid,
God knows ye need it sore."
"O God of Heaven, have I not prayed?
But I will pray no more.
"God will not listen to my prayer,
And never a Saint will hear,
Else should I stand beside him there,
Or he be with me here.
"But there he sleeps—and I wake here
And wet my bread with tears—
And still they say that God can hear,
And still God never hears.
"If I could learn a mighty spell,
Would get my love awake,
I'd sell my soul alive to hell,
And learn it for his sake.
"So say thy mass, and go thy way,
And let my grief alone—
Teach thou the happy how to pray
And leave the devil his own."
Within the witch's secret bower
Through changeful day and night,
Hour after priceless golden hour,
Lay the enchanted knight.
The witch's arms about him lay,
His face slept in her hair;
The devil taught her the spell to say
Because she was so fair.
And all about the bower were flowers
And gems and golden gear,
And still she watched the slow-foot hours
Because he was so dear.
Watched in her tower among the trees
For his long sleep to break;
And still he lay across her knees
And still he did not wake.
What whisper stirs the curtain's fold?
What foot comes up the stair?
What hand draws back the cloth of gold
And leaves the portal bare?
The night wind sweeps through all the room,
The tapers fleer and flare,
And from the portal's outer gloom
His true love enters there.
"Give place, thou wicked witch, give place,
For his true wife is here,
Who for his sake has lost heaven's grace
Because he was so dear.
"My soul is lost and his is won;
Thy spells his sleep did make,
But I know thy spell, the only one
Can get my lord awake."
The witch looked up, her shining eyes
Gleamed through her yellow hair—
(She was cast out of Paradise
Because she was so fair).
"Speak out the spell, thou loving wife,
And what it beareth, bide,
Go—bring thy lover back to life
And give thy lord a bride."
The wife's soul burned in every word
As low she spoke the spell,
Weeping in heaven, her angel heard,
One, hearing, laughed in hell.
And when the spell was spoken through,
Sudden the knight awoke
And turned his eyes upon the two—
And neither of them spoke.
He did not see his pale-faced wife
Whom sorrow had made wise,
He only saw the light of life
Burn in the witch's eyes.
He only saw her bosom sweet,
Her golden fleece of hair,
And he fell down before her feet
Because she was so fair.
She stooped and raised him from the floor
And held him in her arms;
She said: "He would have waked no more
For any of my charms.
"You only could pronounce the spell
Would set his spirit free;
And you have sold your soul to hell
And wakened him—for me!
"I hold him now by my blue eyes
And by my yellow hair,
He never will miss Paradise,
Because I am so fair."
The wife looked back, looked back to see
The golden-curtained place,
Her lord's head on the witch's knee,
Her gold hair on his face.
"I would my soul once more were mine,
Then God my prayer would hear
And slay my soul in place of thine
Because thou art so dear!"
IN MEMORIAM
Philip Bourke Marston.
When you were tired and went away,
I said, amid my new heart-ache:
"When I catch breath from pain some day,
I will teach grief a worthier way,
And make a great song for his sake!"
Yet there is silence. O my friend,
You gave me love such years ago—
A child who could not comprehend
Its worth, yet kept it to the end—
How can I sing when you lie low?
Not always silence. O my dear,
Not when the empty heart and hand
Reach out for you, who are not near.
If you could see, if you could hear,
I think that you would understand.
The grief that can get leave to run
In channels smooth of tender song
Wins solace mine has never won.
I have left all my work undone,
And only dragged my grief along.
Many who loved you many years
(Not more than I shall always do),
Will breathe their songs in your dead ears;
God help them if they weep such tears
As I, who have no song for you.
You would forgive me, if you knew!
Silence is all I have to bring
(Where tears are many, words are few);
I have but tears to bring to you,
For, since you died, I cannot sing!
RONDEAU.
To Austin Dobson.
Your dainty Muse her form arrays
In soft brocades of bygone days.
She walks old gardens where the dews
Gem sundials and trim-cut yews
And tremble on the tulip's blaze.
The magic scent her charm conveys
Which lives on when the rose decays.
She had her portrait done by Greuze—
Your dainty Muse!
Mine's hardier—walks life's muddy ways
Barefooted; preaches, sometimes prays,
Is modern, is advanced, has views;
Goes in for lectures, reads the news,
And sends her homespun verse to praise
Your dainty Muse!
RONDEAU.
To W. E. Henley.
Dream and delight had passed away,
Their springs dried by the dusty day,
And sordid fetters bound me tight,
Forged for poor song by money-might;
I writhed, and could not get away.
There might have been no flowering may
In all the world—life looked so gray
With dust of railways, choking quite
Dream and delight.
When, lo! your white book came my way,
With scent of honey-buds and hay,
Starshine and day-dawns pure and bright,
The rose blood-red, the may moon-white.
I owe you—would I could repay—
Dream and delight.
TO WALTER SICKERT.
(In return for a sight of his picture "Red Clover".)
There is a country far away from here—
A world of dreams—a fair enchanted land—
Where woods bewitched and fairy forests stand,
And all the seasons rhyme through all the year.
The greenest meadows, deepest skies, are there;
There grows the rose of dreams, that never dies;
And there men's heads and hands and hearts and eyes
Are never, as here, too tired to find them fair.
Thither, when life becomes too hard to bear,
The poet and the painter steal away
To watch those glories of the night and day
Which here the days and nights so seldom wear.
In that brave land I, too, have part and lot.
Dim woods, lush meadows, little red-roofed towns,
Walled flowery gardens, wide gray moors and downs;
Sedge, meadow-sweet, and wet forget-me-not;
The Norman church, with whispering elm trees round;
A certain wood where earliest violets grow;
One wide still marsh where hidden waters flow;
The cottage porch with honey-buds enwound—
These are my portion of enchanted ground,
To these the years add somewhat in their flight;
Some wood or field, deep-dyed in heart's delight,
Becomes my own—treasure to her who found.
To my dream fields your art adds one field more,
A field of red, red clover, blossoming,
Where the sun shines, and where more skylarks sing
Than ever in any field of mine before.
OLD AGE.
Between the midnight and the morn
When wake the weary heart and head,
Troops of gray ghosts from lands forlorn
Keep tryst about my sleepless bed.
I hear their cold, thin voices say:
"Your youth is dying; by-and-by
All that makes up your life to-day,
Withered by age, will shrink and die!"
Will it be so? Will age slay all
The dreams of love and hope and faith—
Put out the sun beyond recall,
And lap us in a living death?
Will hearts grown old forget their youth?
And hands grown old give up the strife?
Shall we accept as ordered truth
The dismal anarchy of life?
Better die now—at once be free
Of hope and fear—renounce the whole:
For of what worth would living be
Should one—grown old—outlive one's soul?
Yet see: through curtains closely drawn
Creeps in the exorcising light;
The sacred fingers of the dawn
Put all my troop of ghosts to flight.
And then I hear the brave Sun's voice,
Though still the skies are gray and dim:
"Old age comes never—Oh, rejoice—
Except to those who beckon him.
"All that youth's dreams are nourished by,
By that shall dreams in age be fed—
Thy noble dreams can never die
Until thyself shall wish them dead!"
INDEX.
| PAGE | |
| Apollo and the Men of Cymé, | 98 |
| April, | 123 |
| Baby Song, | 49 |
| Ballad of Canterbury, | 58 |
| Ballad of Sir Hugh, | 114 |
| Ballad of Two Spells, | 145 |
| Betrothal, The, | 80 |
| Bridal Ballad, | 1 |
| Change, | 92 |
| Death-Bed, A, | 12 |
| Devil's Due, The, | 20 |
| Dirge in Gray, A, | 106 |
| East-End Tragedy, An, | 53 |
| February, | 121 |
| Garden, The, | 33 |
| Ghost, The, | 5 |
| Great Industrial Centre, A, | 38 |
| Here and There, | 55 |
| In Memoriam Philip Bourke Marston, | 151 |
| June, | 125 |
| July, | 127 |
| Last Thought, The, | 97 |
| Lighthouse, The, | 110 |
| London's Voices, | 40 |
| Lost Soul and the Saved, The, | 14 |
| Love:— | > |
| The Desire of the Moth for the Star, | 84 |
| Worship, | 85 |
| Splendide Mendax, | 87 |
| Love in June, | 30 |
| Love Song, | 89 |
| Lullaby, | 51 |
| Mésalliance, A, | 96 |
| Mill, The, | 93 |
| Modern Judas, The, | 7 |
| Morning, | 67 |
| Mother, | 57 |
| November, | 129 |
| Old Age, | 157 |
| On the Medway, | 73 |
| Prayer, The, | 68 |
| Prayer under Gray Skies, | 36 |
| Prison Gate, At the, | 18 |
| Private View, At the, | 103 |
| Quarrel, The, | 90 |
| River Maidens, The, | 70 |
| Rochester Castle, | 131 |
| Rondeau, A, | 95 |
| Rondeau. To Austin Dobson, | 153 |
| Rondeau. To W. E. Henley, | 154 |
| Ruckinge Church, | 133 |
| Rye, | 144 |
| Soul to the Ideal, The, | 10 |
| Sick Journalist, The, | 42 |
| Temptation, The, | 112 |
| To Walter Sickert, | 155 |
| To a Young Poet, | 111 |
| Tragedy, A, | 81 |
| Two Lullabies, | 45 |
| Woman's World, The, | 108 |