Full well I know the belts of larch that fringe
The dark verge of the lonely moor, which seems
The limit of the world, touched with the tinge
Of dying light, and burned with day’s last beams.

VIII

And oft, as now, I pressed the purple bloom—
The heather-plumaged breast of this high moor;
And heard, as now I hear, the wandering boom
Of these winged gleaners of the honeyed store.

IX

O well loved vale! For I am bound to thee
By subtle threads of thought that memory weaves;
Yea, sitting in thy shadow, Liberty,
Like dawn first knew I, opening life’s leaves;

X

E’en then, when first I tasted of the tree,
And dayspring of new knowledge touched mine eyes,
That erst were sealed—as other books to me,
Until upon thy hills new light should rise:

XI

Until my soul, new born, within this vale
Should learn of Nature in her age-worn book,
And strive, beyond the starry void, to scale
The dim unknown, or in truth’s glass to look

XII

On life, and life’s dark mystery which broods
And clings, a shadow, to the sad-eyed world;
Born in the horror of primæval woods,
And in death’s cloud impenetrable furled.

XIII

Beyond the gathering years since first I knew
Thee, happy vale, my yearning spirit reads,
Beyond night’s mist on thy horizon blue,
Where glow day’s embers, ere the night succeeds—

XIV

The Legends rich of unforgotten time—
Azure, and white, and gray enfolded days,
That long have passed away, unto the chime
Of brief on lingering hours, their restful ways:

XV

And, even now, clear imaged on my brain
Their semblance comes again—I see them move
In long procession slow, with joy or pain
Enrobed, with faces hid, and eyes of doubt or love:

XVI

Until the day which died with yestern sun
Begins to merge in that unending line;
And soon her lingering sister will be one
For on her face the light has ceased to shine.

XVII

So pass the days, with days unborn, to die,
And gather them to years in time’s swift pace,
But we would fain forecast futurity,
Or read fate’s rune upon the sky’s calm face.

XVIII

And I could well believe that in the shade
Of this still vale the secret sign lies hid—
The secret that shall shape my life, unsaid,
As in a casket treasured with close lid;

XIX

Mid fir-woods dark, or tumbled crags, unknown,
Or in brown deeps, where swift the river flows
Among tumultuous rocks, whence I have heard
Vague murmurings, ofttimes, beneath the boughs.

XX

But silence with her finger locks the lips,
When stand we watching at Futura’s gate;
Though eager thought would climb, and climbing slips;
While, all unwatched, each hour doth carve our fate.

THE·UNKNOWN·SHORE·

THE·UNKNOWN·SHORE

I

THERE is no voice, there is no voice,
Or answer from the UNKNOWN shore:
Turn! turn again—there is no choice
But Life or Death—we know no more.

II

Yet Thought in Art and Song awakes;
Still Hope doth speak, and Reason brings
New light to men, and Wisdom takes
Sweet comfort from most lowly things.

III

Have loveliness or glory fled?
Hath Love or Beauty passed away?
Is poesy or fancy dead,
When light returns with every day?

IV

Sweet Hope and Beauty cannot die,
Enshrined as one in heaven’s blue;
And still eternal as the sky
Is good, and knowledge ever new.

V

And evermore rolls on the fight
Of good and evil by the sea;
But on the waters falls a light
From golden ages yet to be.

VI

Hear how they cry from every side,
The voices from the deepening strife!
The fields are white, the world is wide;
Arise! take heart! take hope! take Life!

THE·WEST·WIND

THE·WEST·WIND
WILD Wind! Thy tameless spirit lifts my mind—
Thou, all night long the troubled earth hast torn,
And tossed the stormy trees until the morn,
Which struggles now unto its noon, half blind
With those wild locks which ye have cast across
The face of heaven, scarcely showing through
Her eyes between are still of stedfast blue,
And still look calm above the woods ye toss;
As they were wrathful waves of that green main
From whence ye come, beyond the sunset’s grave,
To freshen on the sunburnt hills, and lave
The summer-thirsty fields with gracious rain.
Hark! in the wood thy voice, a lion, roars!
Beneath thy breath upon the parchèd hill,
Shudders the wasted grass, and shrieketh shrill,
As though it feared thee: but thy spirit soars
To lash the fossil waves of hill and dale
Ye may not move, yet melted make appear
Their solid sides, enrobed in rains ye bear
Across the valley like a falling veil.
But, night or day, thy ceaseless song to me
Makes melody, and music wild and free,
And I rejoice to drink thy breath for ye
Do bring the sound and savour of the sea.
decoration: shell

·THE·NEW·LIGHT·

THE·NEW·LIGHT
AWAKE, O world! From thy long sleep arise!
For a new light breaks in reddening skies:
Shake off your rust-eaten fetters, ye slaves!
And claim the Freedom of winds and of waves:
Unwind! O unwind all the swathing clothes
Of bondage and ignorance, nations’ woes:
Break the dark might of enchantment’s spell,
Burst all thy bonds, and the chorus swell!
Kindle on every high hill a clear fire:
Plant in the cities, on tower and spire,
The banner of Freedom! Wide let it wave
Over sea and land, and over the grave
Of buried oppression, and chains decayed
Of tyrant’s power: till the ghosts shall be laid
Of fraud and violence, bloodshed and war:
And, burned in the flame of freedom’s fair star,
All wrongs shall be dust and ashes on earth—
Dead leaves from whose death shall spring a new birth
Which shall spread and grow like a fruitful tree,
And under its branches shall live the Free.

HYMN OF FREE PEOPLES

HYMN OF FREE PEOPLES

I

O KINDREDS! peoples strong!
That earth’s large arms enfold,
Against the powers that work ye wrong,
In common cause make bold.

II

From North, from East and West;
Beneath the southern star;
In bonds of slavery opprest,
In cruel arms of war.

III

From East, and South, and North;
From desert-cities shade,
From living tombs of toil, come forth,
Where rich man’s gold is made.

IV

From North, from West, and East,
O starved and meagre-fed!
Be gathered to the equal feast
The earth for all hath spread.

V

Beneath Life’s healing tree,
Truth’s fountain’s crystal flow,
Let all the Nations kindred be
The joy of life to know.

VI

And let each soul rejoice,
Who in that meat is strong;
And, hunger stayed, let heart and voice
Be filled with a new song.

VII

For Freedom like the sun
Hath risen on the world!
This hour a new age is begun—
A stainless scroll unfurled.

VIII

Old things have passed away—
The curse of gold, and gore;
The Law of Love all peoples sway,
And war shall be no more.

IX

No more to joyless toil
Shall Labour’s hands be chained;
No more shall Fraud have power to spoil
Man’s equal rights regained.

X

One hope, one joy, one light,
United all men know;
And from all lands with gathering might
The voice of truth shall go:

XI

And far and wide proclaim,
Defying tyrants’ ban,
Writ in all hearts, like tongues of flame—
The Brotherhood of Man!

·TWELVE·SONNETS·OF·LOVE

TWELVE·SONNETS·OF·LOVE

I
LOVE’S SANCTUARY

NO more I go to worship with the crowd
In Christian temples, pagan now to me,
No dim cathedral hears me pray aloud,
I sing no credo, as it used to be:
Though kneeling not beneath the roof of Rome,
Or in protesting fanes, I have a shrine—
A holiest of holies—Love’s sweet home,
On whose white altar lies life’s bread and wine.
There oft, in saddened times and weary hours,
To secret sanctuary do I flee,
Where one sweet presence soothes, like breath of flowers,
To whom their incense rises ceaselessly;
For there, though not a Roman devotee,
Sweet virgin Mary I do worship thee.

II
LOVE’S HERALDRY

I GAVE to thee at parting, dear, a rose,
Encrimsoned with the hue of Love’s warm lips,
But yet it faded when compared to those
Wherefrom my soul unfailing honey sips.
And thou didst plant it in the snowy lawn
Which veiled the purer treasures of thy breast,
As when we see o’er earth, by winter drawn
The white sky-covering in spotless rest.
Warm gules on argent, like a blazoned field,
The hues of life and death in red and white—
A fair device for any knightly shield,
Nor needing motto to proclaim its might.
Henceforth I bear it on my battle crest,
Till in thine arms from life’s alarms I rest.

III
THE SOLACE OF LOVE

IN my heart’s chamber cold in day’s white glare,
Sate Love disconsolate with tatter’d wings,
And brooding on the memory of lost things
That erst made glad those walls, so wan and bare.
Came Hope then unto him and bade him look
Upon the brightness of the cloudless hours,
And on the buds of yet unopened flowers;
But Love, being blind, all blank was nature’s book.
Sleep came to him, and would have brought him peace,
But dreams awoke Desire whose torturing flame
Made worse his case and left him agony:
Till one, with wreathèd brows, for his release,
Unto his fingers gave a stringèd frame,
And then Love wept, and sang his pain to thee.

IV
PASSION MUSIC

THE air grows faint within the shrine of Love,
And from his altar rose-leaves fall away,
As smoke of incense dims the dying day
That crimsons on the golden roof above:
But, slowly stealing, soon the organ plains,
With quiring voices in a tender song,
Which shakes my soul as with a tempest strong,
Still as the music rolleth on refrains.
Now lifted light upon melodious wave,
My spirit rises on each beating wing,
That near unto the gates of bliss me bring;
Full soon cast down, and bowed by thunder-tones,
He falls upon the ground, and weeps and moans—
Such madness doth Love’s votaries enslave.

V
LOVE’S ANCHORITE

LOVE’S anchorite, within my lonely cell,
His breviary I learn you every day,
And Aves to my sainted Mary say,
As all my rosary I careful tell:
While on thy picture sweet my fond eyes dwell,
Or rapt upon thy treasured story pore,
Which, ending, leaves me yet to hunger more,
And still athirst to seek again the well.
Yet all Love’s calendar I follow through,
And each fair day, where memory shows thy sign,
Keep holy unto thee in prayer and song;
So every season brings to thee its due;
But, while thy table’s set with corn and wine,
Fasting I keep Love’s Lenten-tide so long.

VI
LOVE’S GARDEN

IN my heart’s garden, winter dark and bare,
Love sought for flowers to make a wreath for thee,
Which, since the sun was gone, he scarce might see
In all the waste, and Time was gardener there,
Who yet a little bloom will hardly spare,
But with remorseless hand still prunes away,
And still his scythe he sharpeneth every day;
So Love was left with empty hands to fare.
Till Hope had led him to a little well
That in this desert kept a joyful spot,
Made sapphire with the eyes of flowers Love knew,
As though from heavenly seed their harvest grew,
That soon into his reaping fingers fell
Which bring you these—sweet, sweet FORGET-ME-NOT.

VII
LOVE’S SOLITUDE

FILLED with the breath of Love, my soul knows change
Throughout its troubled region, day by day,
Still as the breaking fire upclimbs its way
From scarlet dawn, through fervent noon to range;
Until the fainting eve, grown wan and pale,
Swoons in the arms of close embracing night
That putteth forth her spells of dreamful might,
And sweet enchantments, till the starry veil
Is cloven by the gleaming shafts of morn,
Ascending new with all his glittering train
To bring me peace, or strange tempestuous pain;
Or soft winds singing in the sacred grove
That keeps thy shrine, and where I talk with Love,
Watching the far-off sea whence hope is born.

VIII
LOVE’S HOPE

JOY, like the flashes of a fitful sun,
Falls on my storm-worn heart, and kindling, dies
In wandering gleams about the changeful skies,
Cloud-built with tempest towers, and wind-undone:
For winds make desolate the day begun
Wild on my path that climbs a bleak green hill,
Among the writhen thorns, oft traversed, chill
With the breath of March, until the ridge is won:
Wherefrom I think to gain some hopeful sign,
As range mine eyes the saddened landscape round,
That keeps my soul’s white house, whence I return,
With thoughts that may not utterly repine,
But hearing even in the strong wind’s sound
The shout of coming spring which makes me burn.

IX
LOVE’S DOUBT

DOUBT, Hope, and Fear, all day within my breast
Have clanged in cruel war where none prevail,
Though their fierce cries have rent the sacred veil,
When in Love’s sanctuary I sought to rest.
Since brazen morn awoke this wild alarm
So have they striven long with clashing swords
Of two edged thought—since fell the words
Upon my soul from herald lips of harm;
Whose message strange a fiery hand imprest
In charact’ry that burns my mazèd sight:
Yet loud with iron hands they tear and smite,
But through the cloud of strife I see Hope’s crest
Rise loftier, and his voice above the rest
Grows calm and clearer with the falling night.

X
LOVE’S GARLAND

YOUNG Love with rosy wings came through a mead,
Whereon before the feet of spring had gone,
Along a slender brook that wound and shone
By stems made bright with blooms of fruitful deed.
He gathered as he went of such fair seed
As Spring upon her grassy ways had sown,
And in his fingers wove a garland crown
That faded not, or drooped or died for need.
Full soon the stream had brought him to a space
Of orchard green, where maidens sweet were met
With Time’s frail gifts around his dial stone;
And, these among, thou sat’st in such sweet grace,
That, seeing thee, Love on thy dear head set
His magic wreath and crowned thee on my throne.

XI
LOVE’S ARROWS

I SAW young Love make trial of his bow,
In May’s green garden where he shot his dart,
Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art,
But other eyes did mark him as I know;
For my sweet lady sate anear his throw,
And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart,
So that we might not feel the bitter smart
Love leaveth there when time doth force us go.
We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass,
Or watched them quiver in the targe below;
Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass
Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came,
Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim,
That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.

XII
LOVE’S HARVEST

I STAND to gaze across the years’ long fields
That have the tinge of Autumn, and their gold
Gathered by careful hours on lea and wold;
Rich spoils of time that he to Love upyields
Who yet amid fair corn his sickle wields,
Though harvest’s done, and summer groweth old:
Well-storèd barns, and orchards he doth hold
Whose wealth against the steely winter shields.
Unto my feet the days, like full-eared sheaves,
Have fallen, one by one, time-bound and borne
To be the bread of Love through barren days;
E’en such dear heritage the sweet year leaves,
And life to live again Love’s night and morn
Whose light thou art, whose glory is their praise.

·PART·II·LATER·POEMS·

Part II Later Poems

·A·HERALD·OF·SPRING

A·HERALD·OF·SPRING
SWEET bird, what makes thee glad?
Beneath this sky so wan and sad,
And leafless poplars, thin and grey,
Bowed down before the wintry sway.
What tuneful thought of days gone by
Doth make thee sing? Or knowest thou why
Thy soul is lifted up, sweet bird?
Or dost thou hear Spring’s voice, unheard
Of earth that sleeps, nor, dreaming, minds
The herald blast of trumpet winds
That make old Winter’s fortress quail,
And force him cast his coat of mail.
What secret bower thy shape doth keep?
Close hidden by the buds that sleep;
Thy voice—the firstling bloom that blows—
Breaks joyful through the wintry boughs,
That bear thy song of promise, meet
For happy hours when lovers greet,
When every leaf-lorn tree shall bear
Flower, fruit, and song upon the air,
And summer’s choir is full, and gay
The soft winds on the sun’s feast-day.
Sweet bird, as thou dost sing, my soul
Doth partly catch the speechless whole
Of joyful pain that lifts the wings
Of thy sequestered music—things
Remembered half, and half forgot,
Of sight, or sound, or sense begot,
Confused in love’s ambrosial streams,
And hidden in the house of dreams;
As frail sweet scent of flowers that hold
Past time and days in some book’s fold,
Which, when the leaves are turned again,
Doth warm, like wine, the wintry brain.
O bird, thy heart doth sing in me,
I hear what thou dost hear—I see
Upon a high green land, untrod
Of men, upon the flower-wrought sod
The feet of Spring, and her bright throng
Break from the woods with shout and song;
Soft piping winds with pleasant cheer
Before her go, her path to clear,
Sweet maids come with her, and behind,
Light-footed as the lifting wind:
Some bear her canopy on high,
And warm gleams gild it from the sky;
Some strew with flowers the flower-strewn ground,
Some bind them garlands, some are bound,
And still, with all the happy rout,
Fleet little loves wind in and out;
Some hide in maiden’s fluttering weed,
And ply their pretty arts, nor heed,
While wilful gusts make sport, like them,
With mantle’s fold, and garment’s hem;
Or some, more bold, soft vengeance wreak
On lifting hair, and glowing cheek.
But, scarce the wood hath set them free,
Some forceful sprite in winter’s fee
To snatch Spring’s garland would make bold,
Whom shrill the shrinking maids do scold,
Until the sun, their champion bright,
Doth drive aback the wintry knight,
Whose wild assault being overthrown,
Far in the woodland makes he moan,
And gentle Spring with all her train
Doth hold high court on earth again.

·THOUGHTS·IN·A·HAMMOCK

·THOUGHTS·IN·A·HAMMOCK
ROCKED as in some fairy boat,
By swift fancy set afloat,
’Twixt the oceans, blue and green,
Of grass beneath, and sky serene,
Where the streams of dusk and day
Meet and mingle, far away,
On the universal tide,
Still with time and life to glide.
Boat, that, pendent ’mid the trees,
Swingeth moored, yet sails the seas,
Stem and stern from east to west,
Bound upon an unknown quest,
Past the marge of night and day,
Blanched or strewn with starry spray;
By the oar-strokes of the blood,
Glides the shallop of my mood,
On the windings of the flood,
Shadowed by the summer wood,
Dusk with dreams yon leaves that play
With the falling blooms of May.
Like the web the Fates do spin
Helpless man to cradle in—
Hung, with life, upon a thread,
Here I swing, and, o’er my head,
Maze of apples, boughs and leaves,
Meshed wherein, my thought enweaves
Tapestry, phantasmic, strange,
Shot with shifting dyes of change:
So my shallow bark and frail
Spreads a rich emblazoned sail,
Filled, as now the summer breeze
Fans my brain and stirs the trees,
Where, a hidden heart of fire,
Strives the moon in her desire
Still to pierce the leafy fret
Her celestial seat to get.
Cynthia’s self that silver shape,
Boskage dark, she doth escape,
Long her gleaming body hid
Forth from its embraces slid,
Doth naked, glorious, emerge
Upon the lucent starry verge.
Let me linger in the wood,
Hear the sound of pipings rude,
Watch the shapes of nymph and fawn,
Centaurs fleet across the lawn,
Satyrs brown, in rhythmic dance,
By the stream great Pan, perchance,
Hidden in the vocal reed—
All the happy antique breed.
I would turn again the book,
Yet again to steal a look,
Back to where Time’s firstling ran—
Arboreal ancestral man:
Wooing shy his dusky mate,
Wild-eyed, half articulate:
In his rude canoe, askance,
See him poise his flint-tipped lance,
Flashing in the ardent noon
O’er the sedgy broad lagoon,
When Thames reeds the river-horse
Crushed in his unconscious force.
Swinging on the pendent bough
Had he sweet content enow?
Basking in the primal sun
Recked he how his race should run?
How, for forest night of trees,
Cities spreading, dense as these,
Where the shade of gilded pride,
Starved and savage men, should hide
Human vampires, hawks and flies,
Gliding snakes and lustrous eyes,
Dainty beauty, plumaged fair,
Hollow masks for smiling care,
Hopeless toil that smileth not,
Misery, untold, forgot—
Where the throng of fashion flaunts,
Where, in dark unwholesome haunts,
Lurks a darker race, to prowl
Desert streets when night doth scowl,
Desert stoney streets, and bare,
’Neath a strange electric glare,
Fiery eyed to track them down,
Homeless on the heartless town.
Ah! could early man, or late,
Set his ways, or Nature’s, straight,
Who life’s stream doth careless pour,
Lets the cup brim o’er and o’er,
Who will drink, or, drinking, dream,
With the chosen skim the cream,
Struggle with the ravening swine,
For residue, or helpless whine,
Lazarus at Dives’ gate,
Dives at his feast of state,
Rising with a hungry heart,
As, one by one, life’s guests depart.
Could we chain those monsters up
That on human lives do sup—
Shameless lust of rule and gold,
Lawless greed grown overbold,
Vice and drink with palsied hand
Riding down the joyless land—
Then, if humanity could be
From these, and other tyrants, free
To win its bread—to win, I wot,
Vine, and fig, and breathing plot,
Joy in work, and joy in leisure,
Love and art to fill life’s measure,
Force and fraud might vainly rage
To see, new born, the golden age.
Sailing thus, as thought doth steer,
With the moon through cloud and clear,
Fancy flutt’ring at the prow,
Sirens singing soft and low,
From the opal shores and streams,
Where they dye the cloth of dreams—
From the present and the past
Have I touched the land at last!
Voyaging the world around
Yet anchored still to English ground.