Willow Pollen

How should I touch your years with mine,
Yours flushed with dawn, a flight
For all ecstacy of light, of rose, of flame,
Mine shadowed even now by night!
Yet, child, blown by the dawn-wind of your name,
Tossed by the sunlight in your eyes,
Sped by the glow upon your lips, you came,
Seeking my shadow and my rest.

II

Tell me what made you run to me?
Was it the long, unsheltered way from dawn to dusk,
The hot, unclouded, copper day of truth,
Was it some legend of men’s tears and strife,
Some tale of cowards prospering in the sun,
Some sin red-flung across the lilies that men love?
Or terror which the old forget, fears
Following as you fled, some shame
Of fact too awful for your youth to bear?

III

Back to your sun-path now you run
And on with wing of bird and flight of sun.
Your youth upon its golden way
Forgets it ever asked for rest,
Forgets my desolated day.
To me you left your tears,
Your fears a-tremble,
And hunger in mine eyes for you.
And I? I leave you free.

RAVELLO

A Recollection of the Garden in which Wagner composed “Parzival”

Words glimmering like candles in the dusk
You tell your golden tale of Italy,—
Ravello and its starlit, tranquil sea
Among massed trees sleep-hung with jewelled fruit;
Antiquity against a shadowed sky,
And everywhere old gardens where men loved
So long ago, and the moon rose on vows
And thirsty human lips aching to meet;
And the moon set on darkling ivory-petalled rows
Of lilies and on hands dim with loneliness:—
Below, Amalfi’s campanile plays
Its even-song, full chant and antiphon,
A wish, a hope, a call from star to star.

O, Compassionate One, night-long with you I hark
The travelling of that music lost in space,
The echoing of those faithful feet of men,
And touch the blurred chalcedony of tears,
And breathe those candle-lighted thoughts, faint musk
Of old days vanished in silence now!
Night-long I dream your face pressed close to mine
Is lily of Ravello in its sleep,
Touched with some ancient sorrow gardens keep,—
An ivory-petalled dream whose ghostly passions shine
Like fingers in the dark struggling with fears:—
O, set your love for me, my Own, my Sweet,
The whiteness of your breast and brow aglow
With God, like candleshine before my feet!

CHESTER-ON-THE DEE

Sleep, little town, your moonlit walls
Are hushed with long-ago!
Night, like your river, brings to you
Forgetfulness of woe.

Peace, little town! Grave sleep is this
That aches in love and tears,
With singing stream, with shining dream,
With sense of other years.

THE RIVER SEIONT

At Carnarvon in North Wales

Where the salt sea winds her sleeping path
Up the River Seiont in summer time,
And daisies flush the aftermath
Of stubble corn; and heavy cows
Wait by the water’s edge,
While cloud-capped Snowdon hills grow dim,
And fading Anglesey a crystal rim,—
Then
Your spirit comes,
A tidal sea,
Winding,
Up the River Seiont,
Past the purple hill;
Winding,
Past the Castle wall,
Winding;—
Then
Your spirit comes,
Winding,
Up the River Seiont
To me.

GOLD AND IVORY

They lie beside me all the night,
They crowd up close to me;
And when I turn, they turn;
And when I sigh, they cry.
Says one: “I am the love you sought
Now wrinkled to an afterthought.”
The other whispers in my ear:
“You coveted:
Behold, I lie here dead!”
These are the gifts sleep brings to me,—
My dreams of gold and ivory!

STEPS

I

There is a stair to climb
That—Christ you keep!—
Men stumble there
It is so steep.

II

Its steps give scarce foothold,
Yet, pilgrim-shod,
Hungry, athirst,
Men climb to God.

BESIDE THE WAY

WAIT AWHILE

I

If you would know my mother-heart,
Then wait awhile, be still;
Watch for the settling dusky light,
The silence, on the hill;
And wait awhile, be still.

II

Love, heed the clap of little hands,
Of leaves upon my trees;
And hear the travelling of the wind,
The moving of the seas;
Then wait awhile, be still.

III

If you would know my mother-heart,
But watch the wasting day!
The wind steps softly in the corn,
The light slips to the hill;
Love, wait awhile, be still.

INDIAN SUMMER

Blossoms shaken from their star forms
Back to earth,
Flying seedlings warm and waiting
Drift in sunlight with the going
Of the birds towards the south!

Birds are going!
They will sing before they go,
Fill the orchard with their mirth:
Song of harvest, song of summer, song of springtime,—
They remember it was April long ago!

We are parting,
You are going towards the south!
Love was birth.
Is this dying,—
Death my harvest, grief my summer, tears my springtime?...
Well, kiss me kindly,
Song is warmest on the mouth!
Give me love before you go!

A THOUSAND YEARS

A thousand years from now
No one will know that you and I
Lifted our arms to touch the sky
And clasped an empty vow,—
No one will know,
We loved so long ago!

A thousand years from now
We shall not hear the cry of hope
Linger, remember, echo, grope,
While mornings glow
And evenings come and go!

A thousand years from now
No one will know that we have slept
Breast to each other’s breast and wept,—
No one will know
We loved so long ago!

A thousand years from now
We shall not see love welcome death,
Dreams harden into frosted breath,
Spring burn the apple bough
While mornings glow
And evenings come and go!

THE BROKEN DOOR

This is the place! I know
The broken door, the ragged bed of bloom
Where poppies grow,
Row after row.

This is the place.
A year ago, her footprint
Marked the garden path
With tender hollow.

But now?
Time’s step is slow to follow.

ONLY YOUR NAME

Sometimes I wake from sleep
Only your name drawing across my lips
In creeping wind from unlit space,
No star sparks flickering on that wind,
No signal tree top touched with racing light,
No lantern-memory hung to show the way;
Only a pathless name,
Dark, terrible, meaningless because most near!
And yet I never knew you,—
Only your name and pain!

REPETENDS

In the still woods I find your eyes,
I hear your voice once more
And the far-singing hermit thrush
Beyond our northern door.

In the still woods pale repetends
I find of death and grief
In fallen nest and perished bee
And sepulchre of leaf.

TOO LATE

It is too long, too long!
My heart grows old with grieving
For the touch of you.

It is too far, too far!
My eyes are dazed
With searching emptiness,—
The dark, the blurred horizon
With its dust of other feet.

It is too late, too late!
Gray thoughts stalk round me
With their death.
I strike my tent,
I go.
Not even dreams can bring you now,—
Too long, too far, too late!

THE TIDE

I shall find you when the tide comes in,—
A shell, a sound, a flash of light
To live with me by day,
To dream with me by night.

You come and go
As waters flow;
You lap me round
You pour me full;
A shell at rest
You touch my breast.
I feel your will,
And I am bound
By light, by sound;
To love you still.

I shall find you when the tide comes in,—
A shell, a sound, a flash of light.
Men say you died.
They knew not what to say,—
I hear the tide,
I hear the tide!

DUST AND DREAMS

At peace with every sweet remembered thing
You lie; with woodland song that died long years
Ago; with pebbles washed ashore and fears
Released and feathers broken from the wing
That beat its westward flight towards the sun
And some far nest beside some unknown sea:
I would not answer when you called to me,
And now my thought of you is never done.

This starlit road with its dark towering pines,
Its dust of misty pollen blown in cloud
From field to field, its silences, its shroud
Of clinging dark and all its trailing vines
White with moonshine and the priestly dew,
We shared. Tonight I travel it alone,—
Alone I go towards that glistening stone
Which marks your rest, my thought a prayer for you.

Singing the water rushes past your quiet grave
Beneath this little town whose ancient name
Suggests the fair collegiate dream and fame
Of Oxford and her clustered towers. With wave
The river winds a garland for your rest—
The woven sound of grieving without end.
To you I bring the memory of a friend
And lay these words on your remembered breast.

THE NEST

I

Oh, is there room at your feet, dear one?
And is there room at your side?
And can you hear the sound of my breath
And sorrow that cries like a tide?

II

Oh, may I take your hand, dear one,
As the nest enfolds the bird,
Lie close to your heart and breast to breast
And never a spoken word?

III

What then if the stars be gone, dear one,
What then if the wind be still,
And words that we spoke long years ago
Drift pale and faint and chill?

IV

Our dust shall be warmed by the sun, dear one,
Our grief shall fade with the snow;
And mingled in spring by sun and rain
Our love to a flower blow.

V

Oh, is there room at your feet, dear one?
And is there room at your side?
And can you hear the sound of my breath
And sorrow that cries like a tide?

LOST LOVE

You have her mouth of grief,—
Your parted lips half-shape a moan;
You have her brow branded with memory;
You have her downcast eyes
Brooding like doves above the body’s need;
You have her heart of love
Where music flows
And sorrows nurse.

O Voice of all lost love and agony,
Cecilia, Saint,
We beg the healing of your breast,
Music at our lips
And sleep!

“WHEN SPRING”

A BALLAD OF LOVE

I

When spring was in her heart beat,
Her lover came from sea;
She gave him passion’s lily cup,
He gave her thistles three.

II

When spring was in her heart beat,
He filled their lily cup
With bitter dew and star dust
And frozen spray to sup.

III

When spring was in her heart beat,
He snared the only star
Still racing on her dream path:
Now other thistles are!

IV

He said a little tinsel
Would serve her last journee,
And nailed a glittering handful
Upon a willow tree.

V

Now death drags at her heart beat
She sees gray branches weep;
They drip but ashen starlight,
Singing, “Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!”

TWO CANDLES

TO MY MOTHER AT FLEUR DE LYS

I

Two candles place I at her feet,
Two candles at her head;
These are the gifts that I would bring
To my Belovèd Dead.

II

I sought the violet of her eyes,
Her eyes were closed in sleep;
My love was trembling like a child
And could not even weep.

III

I clad her in a purple shroud,
Some said it should be white;
I said, “The passion of her eyes
Found peace in candlelight!”

IV

Sometimes I see her ash-gold hair
Shimmer within the night;
Sometimes I feel her violet eyes
Searching for candlelight.

V

Sometimes I hear her drifting feet
That seek from door to door,
Guided by star and blowing wind,
Dream-shod forevermore.

VI

When will she come again to me
Led by the wind and star?
She need not even call my name,
I could not wander far.

VII

Two candles place I at her feet,
Two candles at her head:
Remembrance and Oblivion
Enfold my lonely dead.

ROSY MILLER

I do not ever remember having seen Rosy Miller;
I never met her;
Yet lose her I never can.
One night at dusk she came down a hill with me,
And the stars glowed
And all the college buildings were laced with window lights,
And beyond them were the dark hills.

It was the speech of a friend that made her live for me—
She was living then—,
Rosy Miller, who gave and gave,
Who, a child still, had learned the whole meaning of life,
Who asked nothing,
Who never held a hand out mendicant to others.

That was three years ago, that hour at dusk,
And now they say she is dead.
But that is a mistake:
Even for me who never knew her she still lives.

HIS NAME

He loved men with a great soul’s deepest love;
He saw in them truth, hope, the very flame
Of constancy. And then alone
He died. Men have forgot his name.

MIST

I

I climb them step by step,—
The vanished years.
Stumbling I pause to look below,
Down wells of time, so black, so deep
Their waters keep
No sound,
Nor show a star,
Nor hold a memory.

II

Sometimes I kneel and look above
That dark stairway
At years to come;
My fingers clasp my fears,
Where my hopes go.
Up there, beyond that last, gray step,
Afar,
Within that roof of mist,
What is that shape in flight
Dim, strong and slow?

III

“A wing,” some say;
Some answer, “Love”;
And some say, “Night
And Sleep.”
But I?
I do not know.

LAST DAWN

When that last dawn comes, what will it be?—
A plume of fire on a cloud of gray;
A shrouded ship in a cocoon sea;
A mountain peak with its one gold star;
A bird’s nest swung by a silver wind;
Or the curve of an arm with its cradled child?
What will that last dawn be?

And God, what will God be?
The plume of fire or the mist-spun ship,
The mountain peak with its signal star,
The nest blown wide for the coming day,
Or the child in the human passionate arms?...
I wonder what God will be
And who shall see!

EVEN AS HERE

This is the end to which I come,—
I who have loved beauty all my days:
This grief of tortured flowers,
This prison box devised by men,
These nails and hasps and graven plates,
This narrow room, these curious eyes,
This tolling bell,
These mumbled words miscalled of God,
This brutal stone!

O, rather, Love,
Lay me on sweet-burning cedar,
Free, fragrant with beaded pitch where the clean axe cut,
With flame that leaps from singing heart of wood to mine!
Then cast me as ash upon the quilted colors of the autumn hills,
And I shall be pale lace of wind
To kiss your lips, your eyes once more!

Or strew me on water
Till I know again its slipping hands of dream,
And see its golden deep of sand shadowed with memories,
And feel its cradling touch soft as your moving breast
In closeness beyond the reach of words!

Or toss me as a feather
To some little shepherd moon and flock of stars
Where, in the slow-rolling of prodigious hours
Round the blown crust of other worlds,
Space beyond space,
I shall find you,—even as here!