The Earth remembers many, many things,
Kept of her pride, a rich and ancient lore,—
The fading footprints of her transient Springs,
Her nameless cities, and the stones they wore.
Anointed shrines that men had perished for,
And women who were music for their times,
These, and the world's long iliads of war,
Will haunt her heart like dear, remembered rhymes.
Kept of her pride, a rich and ancient lore,—
The fading footprints of her transient Springs,
Her nameless cities, and the stones they wore.
Anointed shrines that men had perished for,
And women who were music for their times,
These, and the world's long iliads of war,
Will haunt her heart like dear, remembered rhymes.
I have imagined how it might be so,
When Earth takes home this wandering dust again,
There may be stories I shall come to know,
Of tragic queens and towns and valiant men,—
Old honoured tales that Earth may tell to me,
As mothers do, for children at the knee.
When Earth takes home this wandering dust again,
There may be stories I shall come to know,
Of tragic queens and towns and valiant men,—
Old honoured tales that Earth may tell to me,
As mothers do, for children at the knee.
AFFINITIES
Young girls love a slender birch,
Tall and blowing in the wind,
Silvered in the sun and rain,
And beautifully thinned.
Tall and blowing in the wind,
Silvered in the sun and rain,
And beautifully thinned.
Old men love an apple-tree
Twisted and gnarled as they;
But when new blossoms line the bough,
The old men look away.
Twisted and gnarled as they;
But when new blossoms line the bough,
The old men look away.
TRANSFIGURATION
What old historic dust gives back the rose!
What crumbled empires yield the creeping vine!
And purple grapes have sucked a pleasant wine
From ramparts that had bowed to sudden blows.
Where now the unregarded river flows,
Old dissolute cities, their debauches done,
Lift up a slender blossom to the sun,
Steeped in the thoughtful silence where it grows.
What crumbled empires yield the creeping vine!
And purple grapes have sucked a pleasant wine
From ramparts that had bowed to sudden blows.
Where now the unregarded river flows,
Old dissolute cities, their debauches done,
Lift up a slender blossom to the sun,
Steeped in the thoughtful silence where it grows.
Where Splendour was, no Splendour is today:
Ruin has wrought upon the crowns of kings,
Their throne-rooms all are green and tender things ...
And wonder dies,—save in the patient way
Of these slow transmutations in the dust:
Beauty from power, lilies out of lust.
Ruin has wrought upon the crowns of kings,
Their throne-rooms all are green and tender things ...
And wonder dies,—save in the patient way
Of these slow transmutations in the dust:
Beauty from power, lilies out of lust.
ONE WAY OF SPRING
The Spring came to this street with spinning tops,
And marbles rolling where the yards were bare,
With parti-coloured bonnets in the shops,
And young girls' laughter on the sterile air.
Through open windows and from stair to stair,
Went women's voices, calling each to each,
And in the cramped and crowded little square,
The ancient hush of soft and tender speech.
And marbles rolling where the yards were bare,
With parti-coloured bonnets in the shops,
And young girls' laughter on the sterile air.
Through open windows and from stair to stair,
Went women's voices, calling each to each,
And in the cramped and crowded little square,
The ancient hush of soft and tender speech.
For all the lack of green things coming in,
That magic that was marbles in the street,
That swept the stairs, and moved the tops to spin,
Was wine and music, potent still and sweet,
As when it swayed those graceful girls of Troy,
And set to dreaming many a Trojan boy.
That magic that was marbles in the street,
That swept the stairs, and moved the tops to spin,
Was wine and music, potent still and sweet,
As when it swayed those graceful girls of Troy,
And set to dreaming many a Trojan boy.
FOR A SEQUESTERED LADY
Roses, roses at her door,
Roses bringing something more
Than one Summer to her door,—
Beauty, beauty evermore.
Roses bringing something more
Than one Summer to her door,—
Beauty, beauty evermore.
Roses that were Guinivere
In a far-off golden year,
Hair that blinded like the sun,
Hands that never would have done
With the white spells that they wrought,
Till a city came to naught,—
Hands and hair and hearts, at last,
Dust! Till now, their slumbers past,
Roses bloom about her door,
Beauty, beauty evermore....
Trojan maidens who had been
Still, white faces through the din
Of those chariots gone by,
Stars above a troubled sky—
Beauty passing to re-pass,
Pearl-white feet across the grass,
Crowns of beauty that they wore
Given to the dust for more
Roses, roses at her door....
All old tales of beauty dead,
Hands and hair and lifted head,
Gone from cities long forgot:
Rimini and Camelot,
Lovers who had been like light,
Summertime and dream ... and Night ...
Now, their night of sleeping gone,
Roses rise above the lawn.
In a far-off golden year,
Hair that blinded like the sun,
Hands that never would have done
With the white spells that they wrought,
Till a city came to naught,—
Hands and hair and hearts, at last,
Dust! Till now, their slumbers past,
Roses bloom about her door,
Beauty, beauty evermore....
Trojan maidens who had been
Still, white faces through the din
Of those chariots gone by,
Stars above a troubled sky—
Beauty passing to re-pass,
Pearl-white feet across the grass,
Crowns of beauty that they wore
Given to the dust for more
Roses, roses at her door....
All old tales of beauty dead,
Hands and hair and lifted head,
Gone from cities long forgot:
Rimini and Camelot,
Lovers who had been like light,
Summertime and dream ... and Night ...
Now, their night of sleeping gone,
Roses rise above the lawn.
Roses, roses at her door,
Roses bringing something more
Than one Summer to her door ...
Beauty, beauty evermore.
Roses bringing something more
Than one Summer to her door ...
Beauty, beauty evermore.
HERITAGE
All purged, at last, are glories in the dust,—
Those temples that were worship for a day.
The gallant banners of a people's trust,
And hands and lips—and Aprils brief as they.
Beyond their lighted moment in the sun,
They bore away their splendours and their stains;
Now they are dust, the cleansing ritual done,
And only their dim holiness remains.
Those temples that were worship for a day.
The gallant banners of a people's trust,
And hands and lips—and Aprils brief as they.
Beyond their lighted moment in the sun,
They bore away their splendours and their stains;
Now they are dust, the cleansing ritual done,
And only their dim holiness remains.
Since I am somehow fashioned out of these,
The quickened dust of city, saint and grass,
Of holy altars and old mysteries,—
Let me be mindful of them where I pass,
Dishonouring not this garment among men,
Lest I be shamed when I am dust again.
The quickened dust of city, saint and grass,
Of holy altars and old mysteries,—
Let me be mindful of them where I pass,
Dishonouring not this garment among men,
Lest I be shamed when I am dust again.
"SHIPPING NEWS"
(A Maritime Paper)
Here is the record of their splendid days:
The curving prow, the tall and stately mast,
And all the width and wonder of their ways,
Reduced to little printed words, at last;
The Helen Dover docks, the Mary Ann
Departs for Ceylon and the Eastern trade;
Arrived: The Queen, with cargoes from Japan,
And Richard Kidd, a tramp, and Silver Maid.
The curving prow, the tall and stately mast,
And all the width and wonder of their ways,
Reduced to little printed words, at last;
The Helen Dover docks, the Mary Ann
Departs for Ceylon and the Eastern trade;
Arrived: The Queen, with cargoes from Japan,
And Richard Kidd, a tramp, and Silver Maid.
The narrow print is wide enough for these:
But here: "Reported missing" ... the type fails,
The column breaks for white and angry seas,
The jagged spars thrust through, and flapping sails
Flagging farewells to wind and sky and shore,
Arrive at silent ports, and leave no more.
But here: "Reported missing" ... the type fails,
The column breaks for white and angry seas,
The jagged spars thrust through, and flapping sails
Flagging farewells to wind and sky and shore,
Arrive at silent ports, and leave no more.
ARTICULATION
With what bright symbols have we learned, at last,
To write the epic of the tender Springs!—
We, who were dumb so many centuries past,
Who found no word for frail and lovely things.
In tongue-tied wonder at the blossoming earth,
We watched the trailing seasons loiter by,
Too inarticulate of their transient worth,
Beyond the saddened utterance of a sigh.
To write the epic of the tender Springs!—
We, who were dumb so many centuries past,
Who found no word for frail and lovely things.
In tongue-tied wonder at the blossoming earth,
We watched the trailing seasons loiter by,
Too inarticulate of their transient worth,
Beyond the saddened utterance of a sigh.
What Aprils taught us, children at the knee,
Word by slow word, the language April knows!
What Summers broke that brooding reverie,
Through patient iterations of the rose!—
Ah, dearest tutors of our lisping-time,
Today we bring you of our brightest rhyme.
Word by slow word, the language April knows!
What Summers broke that brooding reverie,
Through patient iterations of the rose!—
Ah, dearest tutors of our lisping-time,
Today we bring you of our brightest rhyme.
MOONFLOWERS
These frail, white blooms have lit the Summer night
Like ghosts of beauty that had gone too soon,—
With something less than any glimmering light
That sways and faints and trembles in the moon.
I think the Earth, grown half-regretful, now,
Of faces that were lovely of old time,
Lifts here again dim hands and hair and brow,
In loveliness more fragile than a rhyme.
Like ghosts of beauty that had gone too soon,—
With something less than any glimmering light
That sways and faints and trembles in the moon.
I think the Earth, grown half-regretful, now,
Of faces that were lovely of old time,
Lifts here again dim hands and hair and brow,
In loveliness more fragile than a rhyme.
So that the listening night has somehow learned
A way of prescient waiting through the dark,
For half-forgotten loveliness returned,—
Too frail and dim for eyes like ours to mark
More than a ghostly glimmer on the air,
That once was lighted brows and hands and hair.
A way of prescient waiting through the dark,
For half-forgotten loveliness returned,—
Too frail and dim for eyes like ours to mark
More than a ghostly glimmer on the air,
That once was lighted brows and hands and hair.
CHALLENGE
The Spring has crowned the startled grass with light,
And lit each apple-tree with blooms of May,
Her footprints flowering through the silent night,
Show where she went her hurried, careless way ...
A magic that awakens and goes by,
Too care-free to be bound, too fickle-fleet,
Leaves helpless legions staring at the sky,
Confronted with a later, sure defeat.
And lit each apple-tree with blooms of May,
Her footprints flowering through the silent night,
Show where she went her hurried, careless way ...
A magic that awakens and goes by,
Too care-free to be bound, too fickle-fleet,
Leaves helpless legions staring at the sky,
Confronted with a later, sure defeat.
A bird, half-hid among the apple boughs,
Sings and sings on above the blossoming earth,
A high, clear music of eternal vows
To transient joy ... and joy's eternal worth ...
Above the certain wreck, this dauntless thing,
Caught up and hurled from ruined Spring to Spring.
Sings and sings on above the blossoming earth,
A high, clear music of eternal vows
To transient joy ... and joy's eternal worth ...
Above the certain wreck, this dauntless thing,
Caught up and hurled from ruined Spring to Spring.
BEFORE SPRING
Who knows what endless practices are held,
Before bright pencils mark the April earth——
Where grasses learn how gaiety is spelled,
And jonquils trace the golden writs of mirth;
Some slow, imperfect patterns must be wrought
Some, cast aside in dark, abandoned crypts,
Before the swift, impulsive hands are taught
To shape the Spring's illuminated scripts.
Before bright pencils mark the April earth——
Where grasses learn how gaiety is spelled,
And jonquils trace the golden writs of mirth;
Some slow, imperfect patterns must be wrought
Some, cast aside in dark, abandoned crypts,
Before the swift, impulsive hands are taught
To shape the Spring's illuminated scripts.
What gifted fingers are so quick to mould
And form aright the thin Aprilian line,
The frail, fair lettering in green and gold!—
What art has taught that intricate design,
From which those later scriveners compose
Such final, crowning rubrics as the rose!
And form aright the thin Aprilian line,
The frail, fair lettering in green and gold!—
What art has taught that intricate design,
From which those later scriveners compose
Such final, crowning rubrics as the rose!
MOONS KNOW NO TIME
Moonlight is memory ... though the sun forget,
And moonlight lingers by a crumbling wall,
And grass-grown walks where flagging-stones are set
For feet that pass that way no more at all.
Summers gone by, and laughter that is still,
And hair whose gold is hidden from the sun,—
Moonlight remembering on a lonesome hill
Might half return them, one by ghostly one.
And moonlight lingers by a crumbling wall,
And grass-grown walks where flagging-stones are set
For feet that pass that way no more at all.
Summers gone by, and laughter that is still,
And hair whose gold is hidden from the sun,—
Moonlight remembering on a lonesome hill
Might half return them, one by ghostly one.
Suns mark the days ... but moonlight knows no time,
Finding old springs in every lighted face,
Old musics in a whisper hushed like rhyme:
And Summers that have gone and left no trace,
Are one with each new Summer come to flower,
Moving in moonlight through a haunted hour.
Finding old springs in every lighted face,
Old musics in a whisper hushed like rhyme:
And Summers that have gone and left no trace,
Are one with each new Summer come to flower,
Moving in moonlight through a haunted hour.
MY NEIGHBOUR
He never could grow old, for gay Romance
Walks with him daily through our crowded ways,
Illumining each common circumstance,
And rearing splendid dreams about his days.
Whether he walks or rides, it is the same,
He is the grey-haired knight, his cane for lance,
On some adventure for a lady's name,
With fancied kings and queens for confidants.
Walks with him daily through our crowded ways,
Illumining each common circumstance,
And rearing splendid dreams about his days.
Whether he walks or rides, it is the same,
He is the grey-haired knight, his cane for lance,
On some adventure for a lady's name,
With fancied kings and queens for confidants.
Folk that he meets—woman or man or boy—
All play a rôle in some forgotten place:
His carriage is a chariot at Troy,
And somewhere, at the end, is Helen's face ...
I like to wonder, when he looks at me,
What glorious thing, that instant, I may be.
All play a rôle in some forgotten place:
His carriage is a chariot at Troy,
And somewhere, at the end, is Helen's face ...
I like to wonder, when he looks at me,
What glorious thing, that instant, I may be.
AT THE NEXT TABLE
O, Lady like a tea-cup,
A flower, or a fan,
What dear, archaic fancy
Devised you as it ran
Through gone Arcadian summers
Of sweet and gentle airs,
Of roses at the casement,
And slippers on the stairs?
O, Lady like a poem
Out of the olden time,
Be now the fading pattern
Of this archaic rhyme.
A flower, or a fan,
What dear, archaic fancy
Devised you as it ran
Through gone Arcadian summers
Of sweet and gentle airs,
Of roses at the casement,
And slippers on the stairs?
O, Lady like a poem
Out of the olden time,
Be now the fading pattern
Of this archaic rhyme.
SALVAGE
Since we have learned how beauty comes and goes:
A phantom fading from the hills like light,
Summer and slow disaster in the rose,
An April face that wanders toward the night,—
It is not strange that we who linger here,
Are haunted by the colours of the sky,
The ghost of beauty in the stricken year,
The thought of beauty gone too swiftly by.
A phantom fading from the hills like light,
Summer and slow disaster in the rose,
An April face that wanders toward the night,—
It is not strange that we who linger here,
Are haunted by the colours of the sky,
The ghost of beauty in the stricken year,
The thought of beauty gone too swiftly by.
So that men strive with chisel, pen and brush,
To save the lifted brow, the transient spring,
Happy if they may fix the fading blush,
Or make the mood a memorable thing,
And snare one glowing hour from fleeting time,
A golden bird, caged in a golden rhyme.
To save the lifted brow, the transient spring,
Happy if they may fix the fading blush,
Or make the mood a memorable thing,
And snare one glowing hour from fleeting time,
A golden bird, caged in a golden rhyme.
IN A GIRLS' SCHOOL
These walls will not forget, through later days,
How they had bloomed with lifted, tossing heads
Of swaying girls who thronged these ordered ways
Like windy tulips blowing in their beds.
Stones may remember laughter down a hall,
And eyes more bright than blossoms in the grass,—
A dream to haunt them—after all and all—
When they are dust with dusty things that pass.
How they had bloomed with lifted, tossing heads
Of swaying girls who thronged these ordered ways
Like windy tulips blowing in their beds.
Stones may remember laughter down a hall,
And eyes more bright than blossoms in the grass,—
A dream to haunt them—after all and all—
When they are dust with dusty things that pass.
So that some wind of beauty, waking then,
Whose breath shall be new summertimes for earth,
Will stir these scattered stones to dreams, again,
Of blowing shapes, of brightening eyes and mirth,
And corridors, like windy tulip beds,
Of swaying girls and beautiful, bright heads.
Whose breath shall be new summertimes for earth,
Will stir these scattered stones to dreams, again,
Of blowing shapes, of brightening eyes and mirth,
And corridors, like windy tulip beds,
Of swaying girls and beautiful, bright heads.
AT ELSINORE
... And still, they say, when nights are nearly spent,
And watchmen take their doze, before relief,
He comes to walk upon the battlement,
And all his brow is clouded with a grief.
From end to end, from end to end he goes,
Muttering his maledictions—and a name
Of one who drowned, it seems—though no one knows,
For there's a madness in his words, they claim.
And watchmen take their doze, before relief,
He comes to walk upon the battlement,
And all his brow is clouded with a grief.
From end to end, from end to end he goes,
Muttering his maledictions—and a name
Of one who drowned, it seems—though no one knows,
For there's a madness in his words, they claim.
TO WILLIAM GRIFFITH
(He that is Pierrot)
I think your soul goes clad in dominoes,
Haunting old gardens that are always June,
To sit within the shadow of a rose,
And strum and sing your every fragile tune.
For all we meet you where the great world rides,
You have no league with anything we are:
Your life is all entangled in the tides
Of goblin moons and musics and a star.
Haunting old gardens that are always June,
To sit within the shadow of a rose,
And strum and sing your every fragile tune.
For all we meet you where the great world rides,
You have no league with anything we are:
Your life is all entangled in the tides
Of goblin moons and musics and a star.
You talk to us of what the moment brings,
Of earnest men and worlds of work-a-day,
Of stocks and stores and half a hundred things,—
And all the while, your soul is leagues away,
Troubling old ghostly gardens where it goes,
Motlied with moonlight and your dominoes.
Of earnest men and worlds of work-a-day,
Of stocks and stores and half a hundred things,—
And all the while, your soul is leagues away,
Troubling old ghostly gardens where it goes,
Motlied with moonlight and your dominoes.
REVELATION
Walking these long, late twilights of the Spring,
Where all the fret of life seems nothing worth,
And grief, itself, a half-forgotten thing,
Less keen than these cool odours of the earth,—
I sometimes think we find the secret gate
That gives on gardens of enchanted light,
Restoring glories that we lost of late,
To quiet wisdom and more certain sight.
Where all the fret of life seems nothing worth,
And grief, itself, a half-forgotten thing,
Less keen than these cool odours of the earth,—
I sometimes think we find the secret gate
That gives on gardens of enchanted light,
Restoring glories that we lost of late,
To quiet wisdom and more certain sight.
A holier mood will haunt our stubborn will,
Till we shall see revealments through the grass,
And stop, abashed, before a daffodil,
A shining weed, a stone on ways we pass,
Stand with bared head before the evening star,
And know these holy things for what they are.
Till we shall see revealments through the grass,
And stop, abashed, before a daffodil,
A shining weed, a stone on ways we pass,
Stand with bared head before the evening star,
And know these holy things for what they are.
DISCOVERY
I shall discover ... after all and all ...
From what alembic issues forth the Spring,
What cryptic finger, moving by a wall,
Leaves tulip writs in tulip colouring;
I shall have knowledge of the tug and grip
Of tender roots where they are thrust and curled,
And what frail doors are opened to let slip
The hidden spear into the lighted world.
From what alembic issues forth the Spring,
What cryptic finger, moving by a wall,
Leaves tulip writs in tulip colouring;
I shall have knowledge of the tug and grip
Of tender roots where they are thrust and curled,
And what frail doors are opened to let slip
The hidden spear into the lighted world.
So I shall know the mint of daffodils,
In darkened rooms where colour comes to birth,
The mouldy chamber where the rose distils
A sweetness that is Summer for the earth ...
And all the strange, alchemic, secret spell,
I shall discover, ... but I shall not tell.
In darkened rooms where colour comes to birth,
The mouldy chamber where the rose distils
A sweetness that is Summer for the earth ...
And all the strange, alchemic, secret spell,
I shall discover, ... but I shall not tell.
FOR BOB: A DOG
(In Memoriam)
You, who would never leave us to our sleeping,
But ever nosed us out of bed to play,
How can we ever think of you as keeping
So strangely still, as stirless as the clay?
We cannot think you dead to games and laughter;
Surely in some bright place beyond the sun,
Girls race and play, and you go racing after,
And lie across their feet when games are done.
But ever nosed us out of bed to play,
How can we ever think of you as keeping
So strangely still, as stirless as the clay?
We cannot think you dead to games and laughter;
Surely in some bright place beyond the sun,
Girls race and play, and you go racing after,
And lie across their feet when games are done.
Who knows, but in our separate times and places
When we have slept the last, last sleep away,
You yet may come, your nose against our faces,
And wake us to our bright, immortal play...
And if you startle us with rude surprise,
You'll beg—and win—forgiveness with those eyes.
When we have slept the last, last sleep away,
You yet may come, your nose against our faces,
And wake us to our bright, immortal play...
And if you startle us with rude surprise,
You'll beg—and win—forgiveness with those eyes.
IN SUMMER
I think these stars that draw so strangely near,
That lean and listen for the turning earth,
Are never wholly careless when they hear
The murmur of her hushed and quiet mirth,—
But looking out upon a world in bloom,
They half-remember, and they heed and hark:
An old, old sweetness in the scented gloom,
An old, old music in the singing dark.
That lean and listen for the turning earth,
Are never wholly careless when they hear
The murmur of her hushed and quiet mirth,—
But looking out upon a world in bloom,
They half-remember, and they heed and hark:
An old, old sweetness in the scented gloom,
An old, old music in the singing dark.
Their own full Summers gone, such æons past,
Bird-song and bloom and swallow from the sky,
These dead, desireless worlds find here, at last,
Something remembered when the earth turns by,
Sweet with these blowing odours they had known,
This happy music that was once their own.
Bird-song and bloom and swallow from the sky,
These dead, desireless worlds find here, at last,
Something remembered when the earth turns by,
Sweet with these blowing odours they had known,
This happy music that was once their own.
SURVIVAL
Men building ships, and women cooking meals,
The mothering girl-child with her doll in arms,
The ploughman trudging at his horse's heels,
The fires we lay, our chill at war's alarms:—
These epic, ancient gestures of the race
Have still the greatness of those great who wrought
In other days than ours, who keep their place
Along our shadowy borderlands of thought.
The mothering girl-child with her doll in arms,
The ploughman trudging at his horse's heels,
The fires we lay, our chill at war's alarms:—
These epic, ancient gestures of the race
Have still the greatness of those great who wrought
In other days than ours, who keep their place
Along our shadowy borderlands of thought.
A word evokes them,—aye, a lifted hand
Stirs slumbrous queens whose sceptres were upraised
For life or death in what forgotten land!—
Where cowherds pass, old Grecian kine are grazed,
And many a rocking-horse and laughing boy
Lead back the tragic chariots of Troy.
Stirs slumbrous queens whose sceptres were upraised
For life or death in what forgotten land!—
Where cowherds pass, old Grecian kine are grazed,
And many a rocking-horse and laughing boy
Lead back the tragic chariots of Troy.
NOMENCLATURE
There is a magic in the shining name,
A legacy that beauty yields to speech,
Something more quick and subtle than her fame,—
Who else had blown beyond our stunted reach.
By what occult divining does the will
Fashion the cryptic word whose sound and sense
Evoke the trembling image, lovely still,
Of something lost but for this recompense?
A legacy that beauty yields to speech,
Something more quick and subtle than her fame,—
Who else had blown beyond our stunted reach.
By what occult divining does the will
Fashion the cryptic word whose sound and sense
Evoke the trembling image, lovely still,
Of something lost but for this recompense?
There have been ships whose names were music's own;
But speak them—and the lifted prows go by!
Women who stir as from the sculptor's stone,
For syllables still tender as a sigh ...
And banished Aprils that we saw and heard,
Return their lights and colours ... in a word.
But speak them—and the lifted prows go by!
Women who stir as from the sculptor's stone,
For syllables still tender as a sigh ...
And banished Aprils that we saw and heard,
Return their lights and colours ... in a word.
TO ONE RETURNED FROM A JOURNEY
You have come home with old seas in your speech,
And glimmering sea-roads meeting in your mind:
The curve of creeping silver up the beach,
And mornings whose white splendours daze and blind.
You have brought word of ships and where they go,
Their names like music, and the flags they fly:
Steamer ... and barque ... and churning tug and tow,
And a lone sail at sunset blowing by.
And glimmering sea-roads meeting in your mind:
The curve of creeping silver up the beach,
And mornings whose white splendours daze and blind.
You have brought word of ships and where they go,
Their names like music, and the flags they fly:
Steamer ... and barque ... and churning tug and tow,
And a lone sail at sunset blowing by.
Shoreline and mist have still their ancient way:
Through all your speech the sea's long rise and fall
Sound their slow musics in the words you say:—
And I who sit and listen to it all,
Am like an absent lover who would hear
News of one loved, incalculably dear.
Through all your speech the sea's long rise and fall
Sound their slow musics in the words you say:—
And I who sit and listen to it all,
Am like an absent lover who would hear
News of one loved, incalculably dear.
ATTENDANTS
The mild-eyed Oxen and the gentle Ass,
By manger or in pastures that they graze,
Lift their slow heads to watch us where we pass,
A reminiscent wonder in their gaze.
Their low humility is like a crown,
A grave distinction they have come to wear,—
Their look gone past us—to a little Town,
And a white miracle that happened there.
By manger or in pastures that they graze,
Lift their slow heads to watch us where we pass,
A reminiscent wonder in their gaze.
Their low humility is like a crown,
A grave distinction they have come to wear,—
Their look gone past us—to a little Town,
And a white miracle that happened there.
An old, old vision haunts those quiet eyes,
Where proud remembrance drifts to them again,
Of Something that has made them humbly wise,
—These burden-bearers for the race of men—
And lightens every load they lift or pull,
Something that chanced because the Inn was full.
Where proud remembrance drifts to them again,
Of Something that has made them humbly wise,
—These burden-bearers for the race of men—
And lightens every load they lift or pull,
Something that chanced because the Inn was full.
RENDEZVOUS
... So she came back to you and me,
She who had been the lovely third ...
A little, blue ghost in time for tea;
She who had been the lovely third ...
A little, blue ghost in time for tea;
Smiling and grave and with no word
Of how things fare with such as she,
But suddenly lonely when she heard,
Of how things fare with such as she,
But suddenly lonely when she heard,
In that still place, the fragile clink
Of tea cups, and her own dear name,
'Twas like her to be touched, I think,
Of tea cups, and her own dear name,
'Twas like her to be touched, I think,
With smiling pity for you and me;—
So, in a breathless haste, she came,
A little, blue ghost in time for tea.
So, in a breathless haste, she came,
A little, blue ghost in time for tea.
SONNETS FROM A HOSPITAL
I
SPRING
Remembering sunlight on the steepled square,
Remembering April's way with little streets,
And pouter pigeons coasting down the air,
Spilling a beauty, like white-crested fleets,—
I have imagined, in these pain-racked days,
The look of grasses thrusting through the earth,
Of tender shoots along green-bordered ways,
Of hedges, and their first, frail blossoming mirth.
Remembering April's way with little streets,
And pouter pigeons coasting down the air,
Spilling a beauty, like white-crested fleets,—
I have imagined, in these pain-racked days,
The look of grasses thrusting through the earth,
Of tender shoots along green-bordered ways,
Of hedges, and their first, frail blossoming mirth.
I have imagined, too, in some such wise
Death may allow, within her darkened room,
Some subtle intimation of wide skies,
Of startled grasses, and the hedge in bloom,—
And we may know when some far spring comes down,
Wearing her magic slippers through the town.
Death may allow, within her darkened room,
Some subtle intimation of wide skies,
Of startled grasses, and the hedge in bloom,—
And we may know when some far spring comes down,
Wearing her magic slippers through the town.
II
FEVER
The cool, sweet earth is cool and sweet indeed,
To flesh that fever makes a cinder of,—
An angel with cool hands to cup his need,
In ministrations, kinder yet than love.
There, a cool cheek to lay against his own,
And rest for that hot blood's too restless will,
His hands to curve on root or clod or stone;—
And deep-dug earth is very, very still.
To flesh that fever makes a cinder of,—
An angel with cool hands to cup his need,
In ministrations, kinder yet than love.
There, a cool cheek to lay against his own,
And rest for that hot blood's too restless will,
His hands to curve on root or clod or stone;—
And deep-dug earth is very, very still.
Yet some, remembering happiness he had
Of living things, of leaf and sun and air,
Could pity him his prison, and be sad,—
Not knowing how he is companioned there,
Nor how, for such as he and his great need,
The cool, sweet earth is cool and sweet indeed.
Of living things, of leaf and sun and air,
Could pity him his prison, and be sad,—
Not knowing how he is companioned there,
Nor how, for such as he and his great need,
The cool, sweet earth is cool and sweet indeed.
III
RUINS
The spring comes in to me like spring in Rome,—
As year by year those ruins, dead to mirth,
Sense a strange quickening in the sweetened loam,
Where new, returning Aprils take the earth;
Something they lost, so many centuries gone,
Something too swift and subtle for a word,
Is half-remembered—in a shattered faun,
A stained and broken bird-bath, and its bird.
As year by year those ruins, dead to mirth,
Sense a strange quickening in the sweetened loam,
Where new, returning Aprils take the earth;
Something they lost, so many centuries gone,
Something too swift and subtle for a word,
Is half-remembered—in a shattered faun,
A stained and broken bird-bath, and its bird.
But otherwise, all alien comes the Spring,
Touching but not transforming what they are:
Flowers in the cranny but a foolish thing,
Grass in the pavements, foreign as a star ...
Each reminiscent, half-insensate stone
Mocked with new life it cannot call its own.
Touching but not transforming what they are:
Flowers in the cranny but a foolish thing,
Grass in the pavements, foreign as a star ...
Each reminiscent, half-insensate stone
Mocked with new life it cannot call its own.
IV
VISITATION
All through my fevered nights, their grey ghosts came,
The great, cool sailing ships blown softly by,
More fair than any beauty that we name,
Girdled of water, chrismed of the sky.
I cannot tell what hidden bales of prize,
What mystic spell may haunt the wraiths of ships,
But these were secret healing on my eyes,
And these were cooling water at my lips.
The great, cool sailing ships blown softly by,
More fair than any beauty that we name,
Girdled of water, chrismed of the sky.
I cannot tell what hidden bales of prize,
What mystic spell may haunt the wraiths of ships,
But these were secret healing on my eyes,
And these were cooling water at my lips.
THIS LANE IN MAY
A fragrance lingers, though the rains be done;
And apple-trees have shaken from their hair
The thin and shining blossoms, one by one,
Starring the roadway like a silver stair.
And something softer than the rain comes by,
Older and dearer than these bright, new days:
An odour ... or a trick of lights that lie
Familiar on these grass-grown, rutted ways.
And apple-trees have shaken from their hair
The thin and shining blossoms, one by one,
Starring the roadway like a silver stair.
And something softer than the rain comes by,
Older and dearer than these bright, new days:
An odour ... or a trick of lights that lie
Familiar on these grass-grown, rutted ways.
This lane in May is such a haunted thing,
For all the newness of the rain-wet trees:
An old, old May, remembered of the Spring,
Returning ghostwise on such days as these,
Moves in the blowing odours where they pass,
Trailing these scattered blossoms in the grass.
For all the newness of the rain-wet trees:
An old, old May, remembered of the Spring,
Returning ghostwise on such days as these,
Moves in the blowing odours where they pass,
Trailing these scattered blossoms in the grass.
FUGITIVE
Behind these falling curtains of the rain,
Beauty goes by, a phantom on the hill,
A timid fugitive beyond the lane,
In rainy silver,—and so shy and still
That only peering eyes of some hid bird,
Or furry ears that listened by a stone,
Could guess at Something neither seen nor heard,
Finding escape, and faring by, alone.
Beauty goes by, a phantom on the hill,
A timid fugitive beyond the lane,
In rainy silver,—and so shy and still
That only peering eyes of some hid bird,
Or furry ears that listened by a stone,
Could guess at Something neither seen nor heard,
Finding escape, and faring by, alone.
For eyes like ours, too faint a thing and fleet,
Too lightly running for such ears to hear
The stealthy going of those weightless feet;
No thrilling sight or sound of her comes near,
Only the shining grasses where they lie,
Give hint of silver slippers hasting by.
Too lightly running for such ears to hear
The stealthy going of those weightless feet;
No thrilling sight or sound of her comes near,
Only the shining grasses where they lie,
Give hint of silver slippers hasting by.
AN OLD GARDENER
He has always a wise and knowing air:
For him there is no mystery in the mould,
Where seeds put on the shimmering things they wear,
And come to birth in yellow, green, and gold.
His quizzical, grey eyes can somehow mark
The silver shaft of sunlight where it goes,
Still radiant and undarkened in the dark,
To find the seed room of the hidden rose.
For him there is no mystery in the mould,
Where seeds put on the shimmering things they wear,
And come to birth in yellow, green, and gold.
His quizzical, grey eyes can somehow mark
The silver shaft of sunlight where it goes,
Still radiant and undarkened in the dark,
To find the seed room of the hidden rose.
For him the secret alchemies are plain;
He tells most surely how these things befall,
In words grown intimate with roots and rain;
And yet, he is so tender of it all,
So wise and kind in ways of leaf and sod,
Sometimes I think him very like to God.
He tells most surely how these things befall,
In words grown intimate with roots and rain;
And yet, he is so tender of it all,
So wise and kind in ways of leaf and sod,
Sometimes I think him very like to God.
THE VEIL
Here where the snow comes whitely down,
All worldiness is done;
The saintly, silent little Town
Is like a nun;
All worldiness is done;
The saintly, silent little Town
Is like a nun;
Most holy in her street and spire,
Most perfectly at rest,—
Ah, God, who knows what hid desire
Is in her breast,
Most perfectly at rest,—
Ah, God, who knows what hid desire
Is in her breast,
Where peony or daffodil
Or wayward rose begins,
Burning her drifted bosom, still,
Like secret sins.
Or wayward rose begins,
Burning her drifted bosom, still,
Like secret sins.
THE YEAR IS OLD
Day fades with fading colours from the sky,
And blue smoke blowing where the hills are gold,
Is all a tale of loveliness gone by:
Summer is ended, and the year is old,
Beauty and bloom are wet leaves in the grass,
And music is a lone wind on the hill,
Crying that all things beautiful must pass,
Crying that beauty is remembered still.
And blue smoke blowing where the hills are gold,
Is all a tale of loveliness gone by:
Summer is ended, and the year is old,
Beauty and bloom are wet leaves in the grass,
And music is a lone wind on the hill,
Crying that all things beautiful must pass,
Crying that beauty is remembered still.
There will be wood-mist moving by the gate,
There will be gathering to the fire by night,
The greying ashes falling in the grate,—
And long remembering, in the failing light,
Of ghosts returning for a wisp of fame,
Cloudy and brief along the smoke and flame.
There will be gathering to the fire by night,
The greying ashes falling in the grate,—
And long remembering, in the failing light,
Of ghosts returning for a wisp of fame,
Cloudy and brief along the smoke and flame.