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1.093_-_Morning_Light

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1.093_-_Morning_Light

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chapter

SIMILAR TITLES

TERMS STARTING WITH


TERMS ANYWHERE

KEYS (10k)

   2 Kobayashi Issa
   1 Ogawa

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   10 Rabindranath Tagore
   6 Percy Bysshe Shelley
   5 Rhonda Byrne
   5 Donna Tartt
   4 Haruki Murakami
   3 Mary Oliver
   3 John Green
   3 Ella Wheeler Wilcox
   3 Banjo Paterson
   2 William Butler Yeats
   2 Viola Shipman
   2 Thomas Hardy
   2 Susan Ee
   2 Sherwood Smith
   2 Rick Yancey
   2 Richelle Mead
   2 Ralph Waldo Emerson
   2 Hallgr mur Helgason
   2 Friedrich Nietzsche
   2 Dorothy Parker

1:a bonfire in a frosty field morning light ~ Ogawa, @BashoSociety

2:a willow in morning light is a wonder ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

3:giving a fellow voyager my place at the fire first morning light ~ Kobayashi Issa, @BashoSociety

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living. ~ f-scott-fitzgerald, @wisdomtrove

2:The town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly and distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain before sleepers’ eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the shadows of the night. ~ charles-dickens, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:I want to live in the calmness of the morning light. ~ Benjamin Alire S enz,

2:When in the morning light I wake, teach me the path of love to take. ~ Rick Yancey,

3:I will vanish in the morning light; I was only an invention of darkness. ~ Angela Carter,

4:It's beautiful here, but morning light can make the most vulgar things tolerable. ~ Donna Tartt,

5:It’s beautiful here, but morning light can make the most vulgar things tolerable. ~ Donna Tartt,

6:I'm a very early riser, and I don't like to miss that beautiful early morning light. ~ David Hockney,

7:Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight. ~ Roberto Bolano,

8:Join me in the darkness, walk through my dreams, and hold my hand in the morning light. ~ Mimi Strong,

9:Maybe it's just the morning light, but he looks pretty cool standing there with his sword. ~ Rumiko Takahashi,

10:Side by Side: We sat side by side in the morning light & looked out at the future together. ~ Brian Andreas,

11:I did not want windows, only skylights. I chose my painting wall as it has the best morning light. ~ Ellsworth Kelly,

12:In the morning light the land and trees and the surface of the river were the color of fresh blood. ~ Joe R Lansdale,

13:When I woke the morning light was just slipping in front of the stars and I was covered with blossoms. ~ Mary Oliver,

14:They say night's beauties fade at dawn, and the children of wine are oft disowned in the morning light. ~ George R R Martin,

15:So, in the morning light, where they flapped in the drying wind, the bear and the star defied the Saxons. ~ Bernard Cornwell,

16:This early morning light had not ended the long, dark night. No. For us, the dark night had only begun. ~ Jennifer A Nielsen,

17:Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand. His green eyes danced in the bright morning light. “Let’s show you off.”   ~ Kandi Steiner,

18:Ribbons of early morning light filter in through the thick foliage of trees and I realize that night is long behind me. ~ Unknown,

19:To be lectured because the lecturer saw her in the cold morning light of open-shuttered disillusion was exasperating. ~ Thomas Hardy,

20:It is at night when sleep like the outgoing sea leaves you dry and cold and the morning light arrives like a small punishment. ~ Chloe Thurlow,

21:Thanks to the morning light, Thanks to the foaming sea, To the uplands of New Hampshire, To the green-haired forest free. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

22:Are you always up this early?" "Almost always. It's beautiful here, but morning light can make the most vulgar things tolerable. ~ Donna Tartt,

23:Betty had her crocheting out again. The morning light winked off her needles and Olivia recognized that she was making a baby blanket. ~ Ellery Adams,

24:I am from Appalachia. The Tennessee mountains with the early evenings and that great morning light made storytellers out of all of us. ~ Nikki Giovanni,

25:It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,

26:To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light,The night is good; because, my love,They never say good-night. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

27:To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

28:There's an old adage about everything looking better in the morning light. I'm guessing that whoever thought of that had never been punched in the face. ~ Tammy Blackwell,

29:morning light through his windshield was pale and tired; the city had the desultory, cluttered look of a living room after a drunken party; Martin ~ Richard North Patterson,

30:I've been aware of the time passing by they say in the end it's the wink of an eye and when the morning light comes streaming in you'll get up and do it again ~ Jackson Browne,

31:All you have to do is choose the right day, the right weather, and you come upon a hidden place in the morning light where time stopped long before you were born ~ John Burnside,

32:Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.’” He joins in on the next line. “‘When in the morning light I wake, teach me the path of love to take. ~ Rick Yancey,

33:The morning light pours down through the tall trees onto the open space in front of the cabin, sunbeams everywhere and mist floating like freshly minted souls. ~ Haruki Murakami,

34:A truly great book should be read in youth, again in maturity and once more in old age, as a fine building should be seen by morning light, at noon and by moonlight. ~ Robertson Davies,

35:Are you always up this early?' I asked him. 'Almost always,' he said without looking up. 'It's beautiful here, but morning light can make the most vulgar things tolerable. ~ Donna Tartt,

36:And Melissa would giggle and turn away as we walked to watch the minarets glisten like pearls upon the morning light and the bright children’s kites take the harbour wind. ~ Lawrence Durrell,

37:It occurred to me, as the heavy curtains were opened and the morning light flooded the small dining area, that without a doubt we sometimes eclipse our own dreams with reality. ~ Patti Smith,

38:Memories I had locked away have begun to break free, like shards of ice fracturing off an arctic shelf. In sleep, these broken floes drift toward the morning light of remembrance. ~ Tan Twan Eng,

39:Give thanks for the morning light, for your life and strength. Give thanks for your food and the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies with yourself. ~ Rhonda Byrne,

40:The search party became zombie silhouettes in shafts of early-morning light, yawning, despondent, and halfway home when a boy’s scream pierced the fog—“OVER HERE!”—and everybody ran. ~ Jake Vander Ark,

41:Tomorrow's a red flush in the western sky Tomorrow's a black hush in the middle night Tomorrow swears the truth of now, now, and now In the trembling blue gasp of the morning light ~ Shannon Hale,

42:The morning light played up his hazel eyes and for a moment I was caught in his allure. The dark brows, the dark hair, the tan skin. A weaker woman would have thrown herself at him a long time ago. ~ R S Grey,

43:He lifted me up and held me close against him, my head on his shoulder. At that moment I loved him. In the morning light he was as golden, as soft, as gentle as myself, and he would protect me. ~ Fran oise Sagan,

44:The room had lost its morning light, the glow of expectation and potential. The daylight was now gray, and the new day was already used, a little soiled by mistaken thoughts and makeshift undertakings. ~ Tove Jansson,

45:Emblazoned across the chest is a dream catcher, and in the center of the dream catcher, a wolf’s head, fur limned in purples and grays, eyes shining in the morning light. “What is this shit?” I ask. ~ Rebecca Roanhorse,

46:Paul stepped past her, lifting his binoculars. He adjusted their internal pressure with a quick twist, focused the oil lenses on the other cliff, lifting golden tan in morning light across open sand. Jessica ~ Frank Herbert,

47:In the morning light, I remembered how much I loved the sound of wind through the trees. I laid back and closed my eyes, and I was comforted by the sound of a million tiny leaves dancing on a summer morning. ~ Patrick Carman,

48:He hadn’t been so well worked over since Galveston. Judging by the muted morning light outside, they had just enough time to do it again before the real world intruded, if only he could find his wayward bedmate. ~ Layla Reyne,

49:To unlock the heavy outer door and to walk into the hushed interior, with the morning light spilling from the high windows on to the waiting books, gave her such pleasure that she would have worked for nothing. ~ Sue Townsend,

50:When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the morning light, for your life and strength. Give thanks for your food and the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies with yourself. ~ Rhonda Byrne,

51:I need a hero. I'm holding out for a hero, in fact, until the morning light. And she's gotta be sure, and it's gotta be soon - because I have been kidnapped by evil faeries - and she's gotta be larger than life ~ Cassandra Clare,

52:Around them the other residents of Quebec City were waking up. Coming out into the tender morning light to shovel, to scrape the snow from their cars, to walk to the boulangerie for their morning baguette and café. ~ Louise Penny,

53:It looked like an old painting, but real - everything achingly idyllic in the morning light - and I thought about how wonderfully strange it would be to live in a place where almost everything had been built by the dead. ~ John Green,

54:His eyes opened, and he stared at me. The morning light was streaming through the window,and my hair rolled in waves over either shoulder. “God has smiled upon me. I have the most beautiful wife in all the land. ~ Lisa Tawn Bergren,

55:When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the morning light, for your life and strength. Give thanks for your food and the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies with yourself.” Tecumseh (1768–1813) ~ Rhonda Byrne,

56:When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the morning light, for your life and strength. Give thanks for your food, and the joy of living. Tecumseh Appreciation is a wonderful thing; it makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well. ~ Voltaire,

57:The morning light shimmered through the trees and gave the lake an otherworldly hue. Everything in summer Michigan seemed to have a soft shimmer to it, as though God had hung gauze over the sky and softly scattered glitter on all His creations. ~ Viola Shipman,

58:March. Rain lingers, promising flowers on the other side of the storm. Clocks move forward and daylight visits us longer, stays through evening, keeping us company. The morning light whispers to me, calling me out of bed. I am awake, alive. ~ Ren e Watson,

59:We’ll do our business in the East Room. It’s my favorite at this time of day. If you and I didn’t know God is a profitable and self-sustaining construct of the worlds’ churches, the morning light would be almost enough to make us believers again. ~ Stephen King,

60:It looked nothing like America. It looked like an old painting, but real - everything achingly idyllic in the morning light - and I thought about how wonderfully strange it would be to live in a place where almost everything had been built by the dead. ~ John Green,

61:His lovely wife tends her zinnias in the mild morning light and his find young man comes fondly mishandling that perpetually lost sheep of a cat, Soapy, once more back from perdition for the time being, to what would have been general rejoicing. ~ Marilynne Robinson,

62:When she found his body in the weak winter morning light, Morrigan crouched down beside him in the dirt, a frown creasing her forehead. She stroked his black pelt from the top of his head to the tip of his bushy tail. ‘Sorry, kitchen cat,’ she murmured. ~ Jessica Townsend,

63:Beyond the slumpstone wall lay a backyard, a swimming pool. Dappled with morning light and tree shadows, the water glimmered in shades of blue from sapphire to turquoise, as might a trove of jewels left by long-dead pirates who had sailed a sea since vanished. ~ Dean Koontz,

64:Unimpeded by other schemes, this hint of things to come takes time to expand in the new morning light, and we attempt to watch it unobtrusively, with deep concentration. The night has begun to open up at last. There will be time until the next darkness arrives. ~ Haruki Murakami,

65:You could look at the work of any Dutch master for an idea of the morning light we cycle through. There is a white cleanness to it, a rinsed quality. It’s a sober light, without, for example, any of the orange particulate glow you get from the Mediterranean sun. ~ Russell Shorto,

66:When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the morning light, for your life and strength. Give thanks for your food and the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies with yourself.” Tecumseh (1768–1813) SHAWNEE NATIVE AMERICAN LEADER ~ Rhonda Byrne,

67:When you arise in the morning, give thanks for the morning light, for your life and strength. Give thanks for your food and the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies with yourself.” Tecumseh (1768–1813) SHAWNEE NATIVE AMERICAN LEADER ~ Rhonda Byrne,

68:This is marriage; to be the stronger, when the other is weak. And so, a beautiful tug and pull; a dance in the wilderness, two lovers leaning hard into each other in black air, leaning on all that is good and faithful, and seeking the light—the morning light—in each other’s eyes. ~ Emily T Wierenga,

69:He paid scant attention to the conversation. He could smell his own sent on Anna's body, and it satisfied him in a primal way ... She gasped as he buried his nose in her maiden hair and inhaled. His scent was strongest here, in her gilded curls so soft and pretty in the morning light. ~ Elizabeth Hoyt,

70:The town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly and distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain before sleepers’ eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the shadows of the night. ~ Charles Dickens,

71:I need a hero, I'm holding out for at hero 'till the end of the night He's gotta be strong and he's gotta be fast And he's gotta be fresh from the fight I need a hero, I'm holding out for a hero 'till the morning light He's gotta be sure and it's gotta be soon And he's gotta be larger than life, larger than life ~ Bonnie Tyler,

72:In the morning light the seagulls perched on the roof of city hall look like they've been coated in thick white paint; as they light up against the pale blue sky I think I've never seen anything so sharp and clear and pretty in my life. Rainstorms are incredible: falling shards of glass, the air full of diamonds. ~ Lauren Oliver,

73:My body was prickly with fear sweat as I lay in the gathering morning light and listened to the slender spindles of malice whining away in the distance. i thought how that shudder was under the skin of everybody in the world, not in the mind, deep under the skin. It's not the jets so much as what their purpose is. ~ John Steinbeck,

74:What is precious is never to forget, The delight of the blood drawn from ancient springs, Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth; Never to deny its pleasure in the simple morning light, Nor its grave evening demand for love; Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother, With noise and fog the flowering of the spirit. ~ Stephen Spender,

75:the impetuosity of passion unrequited is bearable, even if it stings and anathematizes—there is a triumph in the humiliation, and a tenderness in the strife. This was what she had been expecting, and what she had not got. To be lectured because the lecturer saw her in the cold morning light of open-shuttered disillusion was exasperating. ~ Thomas Hardy,

76:We drove over a canal and from atop the bridge I could see dozens of houseboats moored along the water. It looked nothing like America. It looked like an old painting, but real—everything achingly idyllic in the morning light—and I thought about how wonderfully strange it would be to live in a place where almost everything had been built by the dead. ~ John Green,

77:Looking around the tight confines of her first home on Mars, it suddenly seemed to her that the walls were moving--beating very lightly--a kind of standing wave of double vision, as if she were standing in the low morning light looking through a temporal stereopticon, which revealed all four dimensions at once with a pulsating, hallucinatory light. ~ Kim Stanley Robinson,

78:Unless we're very intentional about meditating on these truths [that show God's love], they slip from our thoughts like misty dreams that evaporate in the morning light. That's why Luther said we must take heed then, to embrace...the love and kindness of God...[and to] daily excercise [our] faith therein, entertain no doubt of God's love and kindness. ~ Elyse Fitzpatrick,

79:I watched the early morning light pass over and through the windows of colored glass, leaving streaks of red and green and yellow on the stone floor. When I was little, I used to try and capture the colored light. I thought I could hold it in my hand and carry it home. Now I know it is like happiness-- it is there or it is not, you cannot hold it or keep it. ~ Karen Cushman,

80:The sleeve covered its appendages well until it reached outward to Grady. Instead of a hand, several dark green and black-splotched tentacles spilled out of the sleeve. They snaked through the air toward Grady’s face. They glistened in the early morning light and long strands of a mucous-like substance dripped from them and clung like shiny webs to its robe. ~ Brian Barnett,

81:Her hands pressed warm against the glass as her gaze swept the scene below: cream and pink roses, petals shining as if they'd been buffed; precious peaches clinging to the sheltered garden wall; the long silver lake gleaming in the mid-morning light. The whole estate had already been preened and primped to a state of impossible perfection, and yet there was still bustle everywhere. ~ Kate Morton,

82:The Captain was wearing his best blousey shirt, his beard was gleaming in the early morning light and he’d polished all his gold teeth. As he strode manfully towards the shore, the only thing that could have make him look even more heroic that he already did would have been the theme to Flash Gordon playing in the background, but it was a hundred and seventy years too early for that. ~ Gideon Defoe,

83:When I open my eyes, the morning light makes me wish I hadn’t. Raffe lies on his sofa, watching me with those dark blue eyes. I swallow, suddenly feeling awkward and unkempt. Great. The world has come to an end, my mother is out there with the street gangs, crazier than ever, my sister has been kidnapped by vengeful angels, and I'm concerned that my hair is greasy and my breath smells bad. ~ Susan Ee,

84:When I open my eyes, the morning light makes me wish I hadn’t. Raffe lies on his sofa, watching me with those dark blue eyes. I swallow, suddenly feeling awkward and unkempt. Great. The world has come to an end, my mother is out there with the street gangs, crazier than ever, my sister has been kidnapped by vengeful angels, and I’m concerned that my hair is greasy and my breath smells bad. ~ Susan Ee,

85:You know I love you, right?” The urge to kiss her goodbye was so strong that I almost broke our rules. She smiled, beautiful and golden in the late morning light. “Not as much as I love you.” “Oh, man. This is my dream come true: having an ‘I love you more’ debate. Here, I’ll start. I love you more. Your turn.” Sydney laughed and opened the door. “I’ve taken debate classes. You’d lose to my logic. ~ Richelle Mead,

86:We stood for roll call in that early-morning light, our noses twitching in an effort to shake the stench of ash and the unwashed. September's heat lingered in the air. It bounced off us in waves, haloed us with dust. This roll call was the first time I saw all of Mengele's subjects gathered together: the multiples, the giants, the Lilliputs, the limbless, the Jews he's deemed curiously Aryan in appearance. ~ Affinity Konar,

87:A Night Ride His swart cheek tingled with the rain, So swift he rode that night; But all his speed no boon might gain Save to kiss, in a rapture of love and pain, Dead lips at morning light. Had he but known, what touched his cheek, Riding that midnight wild, Was her soul's kiss that might not speak, And the wail in his ear, so woeful and weak, The cry of his unborn child! ~ Arlo Bates,

88:Free me from the bonds of your sweetness, my love! Nor more of this wine of kisses.   This mist of heavy incense stifles my heart.   Open the doors, make room for the morning light.   I am lost in you, wrapped in the folds of your caresses.   Free me from your spells, and give me back the manhood to offer you my freed heart. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener XLVIII - Free Me ,

89:You know I love you, right?” The urge to kiss her goodbye was so strong that I almost broke our rules. She smiled, beautiful and golden in the late morning light. “Not as much as I love you.” “Oh, man. This is my dream come true: having an ‘I love you more’ debate. Here, I’ll start. I love you more. Your turn.” Sydney laughed and opened the door. “I’ve taken debate classes. You’d lose to my logic. ~ Richelle Mead,

90:Grace stopped in the door, dimly silhouetted by the dull gray morning light, and looked back at me, at my eyes, my mouth, my hands, in a way that made something inside me knot and unknot unbearably. I didn't think I belonged here in her world, a boy stuck between two lives, dragging the dangers of the wolves with me, but when she said my name, waiting for me to follow, I knew I'd do anything to stay with her. ~ Maggie Stiefvater,

91:All great tasks test our motivation. It's easy to court ideas over beers and change the world with napkin sketches, but like most things taken home from bars, new challenges arise the next day. It's in the morning light when work begins, and grand ideas (or barroom conquests) lose their luster. To do interesting things requires work and it's no surprise we abandon demanding passions for simpler, easier, more predictable things. ~ Scott Berkun,

92:Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, O beloved of my heart-this golden light that dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds sailing across the sky, this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead. The morning light has flooded my eyes-this is thy message to my heart. Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my heart has touched thy feet. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Passing Breeze ,

93:Light Of Love Joy stayed with me a night -Young and free and fair -And in the morning light He left me there. Then Sorrow came to stay, And lay upon my breast He walked with me in the day. And knew me best. I'll never be a bride, Nor yet celibate, So I'm living now with Pride -A cold bedmate. He must not hear nor see, Nor could he forgive That Sorrow still visits me Each day I live. ~ Dorothy Parker,

94:I walked across the snowy plain of the Tiergarten - a smashed statue here, a newly planted sapling there; the Brandenburger Tor, with its red flag flapping against the blue winter sky; and on the horizon, the great ribs of a gutted railway station, like the skeleton of a whale. In the morning light it was all as raw and frank as the voice of history which tells you not to fool yourself; this can happen to any city, to anyone, to you. ~ Christopher Isherwood,

95:Her eyes raked over his body, drinking in his tousled black hair, miles of bare skin and cut muscles, the black trail of curls that led down to his pajama bottoms, which had settled low on his hips. Dangerously low. Damn. She couldn't have built a better model if she'd tried. Even in the dim pre-morning light, his physical perfection was obvious. Movement drew her gaze back to his face and she blushed. Dark eyes blazed up at her. Totally busted. ~ Laura Kaye,

96:Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night. How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood -- Then it will be -- good night. To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley,

97:Death watched me, amusement once again lifting to his dark eyes. Unlike me with my bedraggled clothes and knotted hair, he looked good in the morning light streaming into my apartment. Okay, actually, he looked exactly the same as when I’d first seen him when I was five years old, but recently I’d come to appreciate the way his black T-shirt pulled tight over the expanse of his shoulders and his faded jeans hugged his ass. Not that I was looking, of course. I mean, he was Death. ~ Kalayna Price,

98:It is easy to forget now, how effervescent and free we all felt that summer. Everything fades: the shimmer of gold over White Cove; the laughter in the night air; the lavender early morning light on the faces of skyscrapers, which had suddenly become so heroically tall. Every dawn seemed to promise fresh miracles, among other joys that are in short supply these days. And so I will try to tell you, while I still remember, how it was then, before everything changed-that final season of the era that roared. ~ Anna Godbersen,

99:MEGAN PIERCE WAS LIVING THE ultimate soccer-mom fantasy and hating it. She closed the Sub-Zero fridge and looked at her two children through the bay windows off the breakfast nook. The windows offered up “essential morning light.” That was how the architect had put it. The newly renovated kitchen also had a Viking stove, Miele appliances, a marble island in the middle, and excellent flow to the family-cum-theater room with the big-screen TV, recliners with cup holders, and enough sound speakers to stage a Who concert. Out ~ Harlan Coben,

100:At last it came. It would be known as the Sura of the Morning, eleven tantalizingly brief verses which read in full: “By the morning light and the dark of night, your Lord has not forsaken you, Muhammad, nor does he abhor you. The end shall be better than the beginning, and you will be satisfied. Did he not find you an orphan and give you shelter? Did he not find you in error and guide you? Did he not find you poor and enrich you? Do not wrong the orphan, then, nor chide the beggar, but proclaim the goodness of your Lord. ~ Lesley Hazleton,

101:In the mid-morning light I saw a mom walking with her little son and their dog, and I wanted to lean out of the window and shout, What’s wrong with you freaks?! Why isn’t your world stopping? Why aren’t you heartbroken? Why aren’t you lying on the floor, broken and sobbing, because a totally fictional character in a totally made-up story is dead? I was furious that the world wasn’t broken by a story it had never read, and I wanted to gouge out my eyeballs so I could read it all over again with brand new eyes –that was the mark of a good fucking book. ~ Seth King,

102:I love the night passionately. I love it as I love my country, or my mistress, with an instinctive, deep, and unshakeable love. I love it with all my senses: I love to see it, I love to breathe it in, I love to open my ears to its silence, I love my whole body to be caressed by its blackness. Skylarks sing in the sunshine, the blue sky, the warm air, in the fresh morning light. The owl flies by night, a dark shadow passing through the darkness; he hoots his sinister, quivering hoot, as though he delights in the intoxicating black immensity of space. ~ Guy de Maupassant,

103:That's when she noticed that Serena, Jimena, and Vanessa each wore matching silver charms. Corrine caught what she was staring at. "They never take them off," she whispered. "Not in P.E., not for dances. Never. They had another friend, Catty, who wore the same amulet, but she's gone now. Someday when we're alone, I'll tell you what happened to her." Tianna looked at the face of the moon etched in the metal on the charms. Sparkling in the morning light, the charms didn't seem silver but more like a strange stone that reflected a rainbow of colors. ~ Lynne Ewing,

104:Why did you?” Clary asked. “Why did I what?” “Help me back there.” “You’re my sister.” She swallowed. In the morning light, Sebastian’s face had some color in it. There were faint burns along his neck where demon ichor had splashed him. “You never cared that I was your sister before.” “Didn’t I?” His black eyes flicked up and down her. “Our father’s dead,” he said. “There are no other relatives. You and I, we are the last. The last of the Morgensterns. You are the only one left whose blood runs in my veins, too. You are my last chance. ~ Cassandra Clare,

105:Yesterday you hated the sight of me. Today I am your savior. I am not sure I am comfortable with your abject adoration.” Ellowyn knew enough to know that he was trying to ease her mood, her fears, after such a terrifying ordeal.  She appreciated the attempt. “Would you rather I throw things at you?” she said helpfully. “Would that make you more comfortable?” He broke out in a smile, those straight white teeth gleaming in the weak morning light. “Perhaps not,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at his knights who were now filtering from the room and back out into the rain. ~ Kathryn Le Veque,

106:When Freedom from her mountain-height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light. Flag of the free heart's hope and home! By angel hands to valour given! Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? ~ Joseph Rodman Drake,

107:Ah, much deluded! lay aside Thy threats, and anger misapplied! Art not afraid with sounds like these To offend, where thou canst not appease? Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus?) The son of night and Erebus: Not was of fell Erynnis born On gulfs where Chaos rules forlorn. But sent from God, his presence leaves, To gather home his ripen'd sheaves, To call encumber'd souls away From fleshly bonds to boundless day, (As when the winged hours excited, And summon forth the morning light) And each to convoy to her place Before the Eternal Father's face. ~ John Milton,

108:When we reached the top of the humpbacked bridge that crossed the Little Deeping River, I paused, as I always did, to savor the view. It was a view that never failed to warm my heart. The village lay before me, its golden buildings aglow in the morning light. Dew glistened on the elongated oval of tussocky grass that formed the village green, and the worn stones in the cobbled lane gleamed as if they'd been polished. St. George's stumpy bell tower peered shyly at me through the boughs of the churchyard's towering cedars, and the river rushed below me, rendered livelier than usual by spring rains. ~ Nancy Atherton,

109:I got up to get us a drink of water and as I stood in the kitchen in the early morning light, running the water out of the tap, I looked out at the hills at the back of the town, at the trees on the hills, at the bushes in the garden, at the birds, at the brand new leaves on a branch, at a cat on a fence, at the bits of wood that made the fence, and I wondered if everything I saw, if maybe every landscape we casually glanced at, was the outcome of an ecstasy we didn't even know was happening, a love-act moving at a speed slow and steady enough for us to be deceived into thinking it was just everyday reality. ~ Ali Smith,

110:Next morning the not-yet-subsided sea rolled in long slow billows of mighty bulk, and striving in the Pequod's gurgling track, pushed her on like giants' palms outspread. The strong, unstaggering breeze abounded so, that sky and air seemed vast outbellying sails; the whole world boomed before the wind. Muffled in the full morning light, the invisible sun was only known by the spread intensity of his place; where his bayonet rays moved on in stacks. Emblazonings, as of crowned Babylonian kings and queens, reigned over everything. The sea was as a crucible of molten gold, that bubblingly leaps with light and heat. ~ Herman Melville,

111:AND BOB DYLAN TOO “Anything worth thinking about is worth singing about.” Which is why we have songs of praise, songs of love, songs of sorrow. Songs to the gods, who have so many names. Songs the shepherds sing, on the lonely mountains, while the sheep are honoring the grass, by eating it. The dance-songs of the bees, to tell where the flowers, suddenly, in the morning light, have opened. A chorus of many, shouting to heaven, or at it, or pleading. Or that greatest of love affairs, a violin and a human body. And a composer, maybe hundreds of years dead. I think of Schubert, scribbling on a café napkin. Thank you, thank you. ~ Mary Oliver,

112:I have hair that drifts like seaweed when I swim. I have eyes that shine like rock pools. My ears are like scallop shells. The ripples on my skin are like the ripples on the sand when the tide has turned back again. At night I gleam and glow like sea beneath the stars and moon. Thoughts dart and dance inside like little minnows in the shallows. They race and flash like mackerel farther out. My wonderings roll in the deep like sails. Dreams dive each night into the dark like dolphins do and break out happy and free into the morning light. These are the things I know about myself and that I see when I look in the rock pools at myself. ~ David Almond,

113:To My First Born MY beautiful! For beautiful thou art To me thy father, as the morning light Which makes all common objects fresh and bright, Yea gives them out of the dun void to start As they were newly fashion’d from the Night! For long there was a darkness round my heart, Until thy mother made her life a part Of mine, to pierce it with Love’s genial might— The Aurora she and the young Morning thou Of a new era in my worldly way! Whence it behoves me heedfully to plough The future for thy sake and for the vow That I have made, to make thee (if I may) A Man right worthy of our Australia. ~ Charles Harpur,

114:Even in the weak morning light trickling through the bakery’s window, Wylan could see how weary Colm looked. “I made some big mistakes.” Wylan drew a line on the floor with his finger. “You gave him someone to run to. No matter what he did or what went wrong. I think that’s bigger than the big mistakes.” “See now? That’s why he likes you. I know, I know—it’s none of my business, and I have no idea if he’d be good for you. Probably bring you ten kinds of headache. But I think you’d be good for him.” Wylan’s face heated. He knew how much Colm loved Jesper, had seen it in every gesture he’d made. It meant something that he thought Wylan was good enough for his son. ~ Leigh Bardugo,

115:You stand there, braced. Cloud shadows race over the buff rock stacks as a projected film, casting a queasy, mottled ground rash. The air hisses and it is no local breeze but the great harsh sweep of wind from the turning of the earth. The wild country--indigo jags of mountain, grassy plain everlasting, tumbled stones like fallen cities, the flaring roll of sky--provokes a spiritual shudder. It is like a deep note that cannot be heard but is felt, it is like a claw in the gut... ...Other cultures have camped here a while and disappeared. Only earth and sky matter. Only the endlessly repeated flood of morning light. You begin to see that God does not owe us much beyond that. ~ Annie Proulx,

116:Meditation is not words, a mantram, or self hypnosis, the drug of illusions. It must happen without your volition. It must take place in the quiet stillness of the night, when you are suddenly awake and see that the brain is quiet and there is a peculiar quality of meditation going on. It must take place as silently as a snake among the tall grass, green in the fresh morning light. It must take place in the deep recesses of the brain. Meditation is not an achievement. There is no method, system or practice. Meditation begins with the ending of comparison, the ending of the becoming or not becoming. As the bee whispers among the leaves so the whispering of meditation is action. ~ Jiddu Krishnamurti,

117:He knows that he should go to his wife –to help her, to console her –but he knows also that it will make no difference and so is putting it off. The truth? He wants just a little longer like this, looking out on the lawn. In this strange space, this addition to the house that has never really worked –always too hot or too cold, despite all the blinds and the big dust- magnet fan they had installed at ridiculous expense –he has managed somehow to drift into a state of semi- consciousness, a place in which his mind can roam beyond his body, beyond time, out into the garden where this very minute, in the early morning light, he is listening to them whispering in their den in the bushes. Anna and Jenny. ~ Teresa Driscoll,

118:Too much—too tempting—to have my hands on it and not look at it. Quickly I slid it out, and almost immediately its glow enveloped me, something almost musical, an internal sweetness that was inexplicable beyond a deep, blood-rocking harmony of rightness, the way your heart beat slow and sure when you were with a person you felt safe with and loved. A power, a shine, came off it, a freshness like the morning light in my old bedroom in New York which was serene yet exhilarating, a light that rendered everything sharp-edged and yet more tender and lovely than it actually was, and lovelier still because it was part of the past, and irretrievable: wallpaper glowing, the old Rand McNally globe in half-shadow. ~ Donna Tartt,

119:INDIGNANT at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite Of our old paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind Among the stones and thorn-trees, under morning light; Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought That on the lonely height where all are in God's eye, There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot, A single soul that lacks a sweet crystalline cry. Paudeen and Biddy are seen as a derogatory and demeaning names for Irish Catholics who in the 1880s and 1890s might have been called "the children of the Gael". Paudeen's actially meaning is little Padraig or Patrick and comes from the Larin Patrician or nobleman. JS ~ William Butler Yeats, Paudeen ,

120:Epilogue With quiet heart, I climbed the hill, from which one can see, the city, complete, hospitals, brothels, purgatory, hell, prison, where every sin flowers, at our feet. You know well, Satan, patron of my distress, I did not trudge up there to vainly weep, but like an old man with an old mistress, I longed to intoxicate myself, with the infernal delight of the vast procuress, who can always make things fresh. Whether you still sleep in the morning light, heavy, dark, rheumatic, or whether your hands flutter, in your pure, gold-edged veils of night, I love you, infamous capital! Courtesans and pimps, you often offer pleasures the vulgar mob will never understand. ~ Charles Baudelaire,

121:Beautiful she was by the morning light; with her fair, rich color, and her gleaming eyes, and her crown of halfbright, half-dusky hair, like the bronze in which there much mixture of gold. But I thought I never saw anything of so much greed, or so intensely selfish. There was a vivid animal pleasure in the sight of what were dainties to her senses ; but there was no sort of gratitude or feeling at the generous and thoughtful affection which had been thus tender of her in her absence. She ate all there was on the table; seeming to like to draw the pleasure out to its longest span; when ended, she washed the things and set them away, and did a little house-work, all in a very idle, slovenly manner—like one whose heart was not at all in her occupation. ~ Ouida,

122:The house was an immense place, isolated in a great wooded area. The building and the trees seemed wet, glistening dimly in the grey morning light that was much like the light of midday of Anthea. It was refreshing to his over-sensitive eyes. He liked the woods, the quiet sense of life in them, and the glistening moisture - the sense of water and of fruitfulness that this earth overflowed with, even down to the continual trilling and chirping sounds of the insects. It would be an endless source of delight compared to his own world, with the dryness, the emptiness, the soundlessness of the broad, empty deserts between the almost deserted cities where the only sound was the whining of the cold and endless wind that voiced the agony of his own, dying people..... ~ Walter Tevis,

123:The throbbing in her jaw brought her back. The sky outside was brightening, the morning light highlighting the horrible mess in front of her. She must have been out for a while. Rising, she took in the scene. The man was collapsed on her game room floor, slowly leaking blood on her Berber carpet. She idly eyed the stain. “That’s going to be a bitch to get out.” She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. What an inane thing to say. Shock, she must be going into shock. How long had they fought? Had it been only five minutes? Half an hour? She felt like she had struggled against him for days; her body was tired and sore. Never mind the blood caked around her mouth and the gaping slash across her shin. She put her hand up to her face. Her nose was broken again. Damn. ~ J T Ellison,

124:It was then that Lily saw the flute lying across the imprint of Cade's head upon the pillow. He was gone. She tried not to acknowledge the desperation that brought. Carefully lifting the flute, Lily examined it in the morning light. It wasn't the same one he carried in his pocket. That one was faded and worn to Cade's fingers. This one was polished and untouched, carved to fit her smaller hand and embellished with an intricate vine along its side. She knew nothing of reeds or woods and didn't know how he had come to make it, but Lily knew Cade had made this one for her. Tentatively, she placed the mouth of the instrument to her lips and blew across it. The sound was sweet and pure and full of promise. In a fury of self-pity, Lily flung it across the room. Unable ~ Patricia Rice,

125:I. Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, Then it will be GOOD night. II. How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood-- Then it will be--GOOD night. III. To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never SAY good-night. Published by Leigh Hunt over the signature Sigma, The Literary Pocket-Book, 1822. It is included in the Harvard manuscript book, and there is a transcript by Shelley in a copy of The Literary Pocket-Book, 1819, presented by him to Miss Sophia Stacey, December 29, 1820.    ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Good-Night ,

126:When the morning light came into the room it found them curled together in a nest of red and white sheets. It revealed also marks, all over the pale cool skin: handprints around the narrow waist, sliding impressions from delicate strokes, like weals, raised rosy discs where his lips had rested lightly. He cried out, when he saw her, that he had hurt her. No, she said, she was part icewoman, it was her nature, she had an icewoman's skin that responded to every touch by blossoming red. Sasan still stared, and repeated, I have hurt you. No, no, said Fiammarosa, they are the marks of pleasure, pure pleasure. I shall cover them up, for only we ourselves should see our happiness. But inside her a little melted pool of water slopped and swayed where she had been solid and shining. ~ A S Byatt,

127:In early missionary journals Osages were often described as being ‘the happiest people in the world.’… They had a sense of freedom because they didn’t own anything and nothing owned them. But the Osage Nation was in the way of the economic drive of the European world… and life as they once knew it would never be the same.” The statement continued, “Today our hearts are divided between two worlds. We are strong and courageous, learning to walk in these two worlds, hanging on to the threads of our culture and traditions as we live in a predominantly non-Indian society. Our history, our culture, our heart, and our home will always be stretching our legs across the plains, singing songs in the morning light, and placing our feet down with the ever beating heart of the drum. We walk in two worlds. ~ David Grann,

128:The Brave Men HERE'S to the men who laugh In the face of grim despair, Who gather the tares and chaff But sow with a cheerful air. Here's to the smiling men Who, giving, can take a blow, And rise to the fight again When others have laid them low. Here's to the men who grin When plans that they build go wrong, And straightway new plans begin With courage and purpose strong. Here's to the glad, brave men Who, battling, expect a bruise, And rise to the fight again Undaunted by fights they lose. Here's to the men who smile, With faith in the morning light, And bravely await the while Till victory crowns their fight. Here's to the fighting men That always need not succeed, To rise to the fight again— The brave in defeat we need. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

129:The Two Friends I HAVE two friends—two glorious friends—two better could not be, And every night when midnight tolls they meet to laugh with me. The first was shot by Carlist thieves—ten years ago in Spain. The second drowned near Alicante—while I alive remain. I love to see their dim white forms come floating through the night, And grieve to see them fade away in early morning light. The first with gnomes in the Under Land is leading a lordly life, The second has married a mermaiden, a beautiful water-wife. And since I have friends in the Earth and Sea—with a few, I trust, on high, ’T is a matter of small account to me—the way that I may die. For whether I sink in the foaming flood, or swing or the triple tree, Or die in my bed, as a Christian should, is all the same to me. ~ Charles Godfrey Leland,

130:WHEN I bring you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints--when I give coloured toys to you, my child. When I sing to make you dance, I truly know why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth--when I sing to make you dance. When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands, I know why there is honey in the cup of the flower, and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice--when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands. When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight the summer breeze brings to my body--when I kiss you to make you smile. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, When And Why ,

131:She who ever had remained in the depth of my being, in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her veils in the morning light, will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song. Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain. I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life. Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart. Many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in despair. There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, She ,

132:Dangerous and indifferent ground: against its fixed mass the tragedies of people count for nothing although the signs of misadventure are everywhere. No past slaughter nor cruelty, no accident nor murder that occurs on the little ranches or at the isolate crossroads with their bare populations of three or seventeen, or in the reckless trailer courts of mining towns delays the flood of morning light. Fences, cattle, roads, refineries, mines, gravel pits, traffic lights, graffiti'd celebration of athletic victory on bridge overpass, crust of blood on the Wal-Mart loading dock, the sun-faded wreaths of plastic flowers marking death on the highway are ephemeral. Other cultures have camped here a while and disappeared. Only earth and sky matter. Only the endlessly repeated flood of morning light. You begin to see that God does not owe us much beyond that. ~ Annie Proulx,

133:Thorgil held out the hand she's been hiding. It was an odd, silvery color. "I can't move my fingers. I'm paralyzed." She laughed bitterly. "Once, Frith Half-Troll threatened to cut off my right hand so I could be a warrior no more. It seems she got her wish." ... "Remember Tyr? The god who sacrificed his hand to bind the giant wolf? It was a noble deed, to be sung about through all time - and you've done the same!" Thorgil looked up, and now the morning light reached the camp and shone onto her face. "So I have," she murmured. "Yes! You'll be known as - what shall we call you? Thorgil Silver-Hand, who fought the Hound of Hel. I'll make a song about it." "Oh, Jack," whispered the shield maiden. She blinked back tears, then shook her head angrily. "Curse this sunlight. It's making my eyes water... Thorgil Silver-Hand. I like that," she said. ~ Nancy Farmer,

134:The Homestead HERE we came when love was young. Now that love is old, Shall we leave the floor unswept And the hearth acold? Here the hill-wind in the dusk, Wandering to and fro, Moves the moonflowers, like a ghost Of the long ago. Here from every doorway looks A remembered face, Every sill and panel wears A familiar grace. Let the windows smile again To the morning light, And the door stand open wide When the moon is bright. Let the breeze of twilight blow Through the silent hall, And the dreaming rafters hear How the thrushes call. Oh, be merciful and fond To the house that gave All its best to shelter love, Built when love was brave! Here we came when love was young. Now that love is old, Never let its day be lone, Nor its heart acold! ~ Bliss William Carman,

135:Writing … is an addiction, an illusory release, a presumptuous taming of reality, a way of expressing lightly the unbearable. That we age and leave behind this litter of dead, unrecoverable selves is both unbearable and the commonest thing in the world — it happens to everybody. In the morning light one can write breezily, without the slight acceleration of one’s pulse, about what one cannot contemplate in the dark without turning in panic to God. In the dark one truly feels that immense sliding, that turning of the vast earth into darkness and eternal cold, taking with it all the furniture and scenery, and the bright distractions and warm touches, of our lives. Even the barest earthly facts are unbearably heavy, weighted as they are with our personal death. Writing, in making the world light — in codifying, distorting, prettifying, verbalizing it — approaches blasphemy. ~ John Updike,

136:When I bring to you colored toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of colors on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints -when I give colored toys to you, my child. When I sing to make you dance I truly know why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth -when I sing to make you dance. When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice -when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands. When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body -when I kiss you to make you smile. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Colored Toys ,

137:tilted her head in gentle inquiry. Lavinia’s laugh floated on the autumn breeze. Thomas wanted suddenly to shout at Lady Hero, to make that gentle expression fall from her face, to shake her until she quit her questions and her perceptive looks, and then he wanted to jump from the carriage and plant a facer in that stupid young buck with Lavinia. But he did none of that, of course. Gentlemen of his rank never acted in such a way. Instead, he merely urged the horses on, waiting interminably to pass Lavinia’s carriage. “She’s in my past,” he said through cold lips. “I met her when I was rather down, I’m afraid.” He remembered when he was the man who she laughed up at, the way it had made his chest swell. And he remembered the sight of her in the morning light, so carnal, so wise. He’d been able to see every single line in her face, the slight sag to her breasts, and strangely it hadn’t made a whit of difference. She’d been ~ Anonymous,

138:About May One night Nurse Sleep held out her hand To tired little May. 'Come, go with me to Wonderland,' She said, 'I know the way. Just rock-a-by-hum-m-m, And lo! we come To the place where the dream-girls play.' But naughty May, she wriggled away From Sleep's soft arms, and said: 'I must stay awake till I eat my cake, And then I will go to bed; With a by-lo, away I will go.' But the good nurse shook her head. She shook her head and away she sped, While May sat munching her crumb. But after the cake there came an ache, Though May cried: 'Come, Sleep, come, And it's oh! my! let us by-lo-by'All save the echoes were dumb. She ran after Sleep toward Wonderland, Ran till the morning light; And just as she caught her and grasped her hand, A nightmare gave her a fright. And it's by-lo, I hope she'll know Better another night. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

139:The Only Day In Existence The early sun is so pale and shadowy, I could be looking up at a ghost in the shape of a window, a tall, rectangular spirit looking down at me in bed, about to demand that I avenge the murder of my father. But the morning light is only the first line in the play of this day-the only day in existence-the opening chord of its long song, or think of what is permeating the thin bedroom curtains as the beginning of a lecture I will listen to until it is dark, a curious student in a V-neck sweater, angled into the wooden chair of his life, ready with notebook and a chewed-up pencil, quiet as a goldfish in winter, serious as a compass at sea, eager to absorb whatever lesson this damp, overcast Tuesday has to teach me, here in the spacious classroom of the world with its long walls of glass, its heavy, low-hung ceiling. ~ Billy Collins,

140:Love Sorrow Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you must take care of what has been given. Brush her hair, help her into her little coat, hold her hand, especially when crossing a street. For, think, what if you should lose her? Then you would be sorrow yourself; her drawn face, her sleeplessness would be yours. Take care, touch her forehead that she feel herself not so utterly alone. And smile, that she does not altogether forget the world before the lesson. Have patience in abundance. And do not ever lie or ever leave her even for a moment by herself, which is to say, possibly, again, abandoned. She is strange, mute, difficult, sometimes unmanageable but, remember, she is a child. And amazing things can happen. And you may see, as the two of you go walking together in the morning light, how little by little she relaxes; she looks about her; she begins to grow. ~ Mary Oliver,

141:The Israelites by their crying injustices provoke God to punish them. He shall at last restore Jacob. WOE to you that devise that which is unprofitable, and work evil in your beds: in the morning light they execute it, because their hand is against God. 2 And they have coveted fields, and taken them by violence, and houses they have forcibly taken away: and oppressed a man and his house, a man and his in heritance. 8 Therefore thus saith the Lord: Behold, I devise an evil against this family: from which you shall not withdraw your necks, and you shall not walk haughtily, for this is a very evil time. 4 In that day a parable shall be taken up upon you, and a song shall be sung with melody by them that say: We are laid waste and spoiled: the portion of my people is changed: how shall he de part from me, whereas he is returning that will divide our land? 5 Therefore thou shalt have none that MICHEAS The remnant of Israel restored shall cast the cord of a lot in the assem bly of the Lord. ~ Anonymous,

142:Its hard to stay up. Its been a long long day And you've got the sandman at your door. But hang on, leave the TV on and lets do it anyway. Its ok. You can always sleep through work tomorrow. Ok? Hey, Hey, Tomorrow's just your future yesterday. Tell the clock on the wall, "Forget the wake up call." Cause the night's not nearly through. Wipe the sleep from your eyes. Give yourself a surprise. Let your worries wait another day. And if you stay too late at the bar, At least you made it out this far. So make up your mind and say, "Let's do it anyway!" Its Ok You can always sleep through work tomorrow, ok? Hey, Hey, Tomorrow's just your future yesterday. Life's too short to worry about the things that you can live without And I regret to say, the morning light is hours away. The world can be such a fright, But it belongs to us tonight. What's the point of going to bed? You look so lovely when your eyes are red. Tomorrow's just your future yesterday. ~ Craig Ferguson,

143:I. The fiery mountains answer each other; Their thunderings are echoed from zone to zone; The tempestuous oceans awake one another, And the ice-rocks are shaken round Winter's throne, When the clarion of the Typhoon is blown. II. From a single cloud the lightening flashes, Whilst a thousand isles are illumined around, Earthquake is trampling one city to ashes, An hundred are shuddering and tottering; the sound Is bellowing underground. III. But keener thy gaze than the lightenings glare, And swifter thy step than the earthquakes tramp; Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean; thy stare Makes blind the volcanoes; the suns bright lamp To thine is a fen-fire damp. IV. From billow and mountain and exhalation The sunlight is darted through vapour and blast; From spirit to spirit, from nation to nation, From city to hamlet thy dawning is cast,-- And tyrants and slaves are like shadows of night In the van of the morning light. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Liberty ,

144:I don’t know if you’ve spent time in the Catskills. From a distance, say, the parking lot of the old Caldor’s (which became an Ames that became a Stop ‘N’ Shop) in Huguenot, they’ve always made me think of a herd of giant animals, all standing grazing on the horizon. Up close, when you’re driving among them with the early morning light breaking over their round peaks, they seem incredibly present, more real than real, these huge solid heaps of rock that wear their trees like mile-long scarves. You glance at them, trying to keep your eyes on the road, which is already pretty busy with people driving up for a weekend getaway, and somehow you wouldn’t be surprised if the mountain closest to you were to cast off its trees in one titanic shrug and start to lumber away, a vast, unimaginable beast. When you turn off onto whatever secondary road you need to take, and you’re following its twists and turns back into the mountains, and the ground is steep to either side of you, opening every now and then on a meadow, or an old house, you think, Here, there are secret places. Well, ~ John Langan,

145:XIV     I found a few old letters of mine carefully hidden in thy boxa few small toys for thy memory to play with. With a timorous heart thou didst try to steal these trifles from the turbulent stream of time which washes away planets and stars, and didst say, These are only mine! Alas, there is no one now who can claim themwho is able to pay their price; yet they are still here. Is there no love in this world to rescue thee from utter loss, even like this love of thine that saved these letters with such fond care?     O woman, thou camest for a moment to my side and touched me with the great mystery of the woman that there is in the heart of creationshe who ever gives back to God his own outflow of sweetness; who is the eternal love and beauty and youth; who dances in bubbling streams and sings in the morning light; who with heaving waves suckles the thirsty earth and whose mercy melts in rain; in whom the eternal one breaks in two in joy that can contain itself no more and overflows in the pain of love.      ~ Rabindranath Tagore, I Found A Few Old Letters ,

146: "Derek?" I called. No answer. I took a few more steps, then called a little louder, "Derek? Are you out here?" A branch snapped in the woods. I pictured Derek, in the middle of a Change, unable to respond, and hurried toward the forest's edge. The noise stopped and I paused at the end of the path leading in, peering into the dark woods, listening. Another snap. Something like a groan. "Derek? It's me." I stepped in. It took only a few paces for the morning light to fade and darkness to envelop me. "Derek?" I jumped as he rounded a corner down the path. I didn't need full daylight to see the expression on his face at all to know I was in trouble, just the set of his shoulders and he long strides as he bore down on me. "I—" I began. "What the hell are you doing, Chloe? I said we'd come out here later and try to contact that ghost. Key word? We. If you're here—" I lifted my hands. "Okay, you caught me. I was sneaking out on my own, hoping no one would notice. That's why I've been calling your name." ~ Kelley Armstrong,

147:drummed his fingers on the heavy wooden table. Sensing something was terribly wrong, the school-aged children quickly finished their oatmeal and left for school. After breakfast fifteen year old Elizabeth helped Esther clear the dishes while Mem moved over to the sewing pile. The normally cheerful atmosphere of their home was strained. Hannah’s usually sweet and cheerful demeanor was cloaked in sadness. Esther noticed a few tears in her mother's eyes as she had quickly turned and walked away from the table. Esther now wished she had never gone to see Uncle Benuel the night before; it hurt so much to see the sadness and disappointment so openly displayed on her parent’s faces. That morning, Esther had awakened early, wracked with guilt and regret and  hurried down the farmhouse stairs in search for her mother. She found her leaning against a window sill that faced toward the northwest. Her tear-stained green eyes seemed to be searching for something far in the distance. Perplexed, Esther looked, too, but she saw nothing in the early morning light. “I am so very sorry Mem.” Esther sobbed after a comfortable ~ Misty Griffin,

148:Honey bees, too, use a highly specialized learning mechanism to help them figure out where they are going: the difference is that their system works based on the trajectory of a single star, our very own sun. Once again, part of the system is prewired, but part of it requires learning. The prewired bit is a mathematical function that relates the sun's position on the horizon to to a bee's orientation-but some of the values of the equation must be set, which is where learning comes in. What the bee learns is a highly specific bit of information about the sun's trajectory at the bee's particular latitude at a particular time of year. A five o'clock winter sun in Boston means something very different from a five o'clock summer sun in California, and a highly focused learning mechanism allows honeybees to take advantage of that information. We know that bees don't simply memorize a correspondence between particular places on the horizon and particular headings, because bees that have been raised in conditions in which they are exposed only to morning light can accurately use the sun as a guide during evening light. ~ Gary F Marcus,

149:Imagine, mother, that you are to stay at home and I am to travel into strange lands.   Imagine that my boat is ready at the landing fully laden.   Now think well, mother, before you say what I shall bring for you when I come back.   Mother, do you want heaps and heaps of gold?   There, by the banks of golden streams, fields are full of golden harvest.   And in the shade of the forest path the golden champ flower drop on the ground.   I will gather them all for you in many hundred baskets.   Mother, do you want pearls big as the raindrops of autumn?   I shall cross to the pearl island shore.   There in the early morning light pearls tremble on the meadow flowers, pearls drop on the grass, and pearls are scattered on the sand in spray by the wild sea-waves.   My brother shall have a pair of horses with wings to fly among the clouds.   For father I shall bring a magic pen that, without his knowing, will write of itself.   For you, mother, I must have the casket and jewel that cost seven kings their kingdom. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Merchant ,

150:Taking architecture seriously therefore makes some singular strenuous demands upon us. It requires that we open ourselves to the idea that we are affected by our surroundings even when they are made of vinyl and would be expensive and time-consuming to ameliorate. It means conceding that we are inconveniently vulnerable to the color of our wallpaper and that our sense of purpose may be derailed by an unfortunate bedspread. At the same time, it means acknowledging that buildings are able to solve no more than a fraction of our dissatisfactions or prevent evil from unfolding under their watch. Architecture, even at its most accomplished, will only ever constitute a small, and imperfect (expensive, prone to destruction, and morally unreliable), protest against the state of things. More awkwardly still, architecture asks us to imagine that happiness might often have an unostentatious, unheroic character to it, that it might be found in a run of old floorboards or in a wash of morning light over a plaster wall—in undramatic, frangible scenes of beauty that move us because we are aware of the darker backdrop against which they are set. ~ Alain de Botton,

151:She looked out the window, and her heart jumped: the expanse of the pie pantry and orchard shimmered in the early-morning light in front of her, the bay and LaKe Michigan glimmering in the distance. To Sam, it looked as if one of her grandmother's paintings had come to life: red apples bobbed as tree limbs swayed in the breeze; bushes thick with the bluest of blueberries shimmied; peaches, fuzzy and bright, nestled snugly against branches; shiny cars and people dressed in bright T-shirts and caps danced into the pie pantry and into the orchards; near the distance, the cornfields seemed to move as if they were doing the wave at a football game, while cherry trees dotted with the deep red fruit resembled holly bushes out of season. And yet there was an incredible uniformity to the scene despite the visual overload: everything was lined up in neat rows, as if each tree, bush, and person understood its purpose at this very moment. I've forgotten this view, Sam thought, recalling the one from her own bedroom window earlier in the morning. There is an order to life's chaos, be it the city or country, if we just stop for a moment and see it. ~ Viola Shipman,

152:Not every day is awful. Not every day is good. Despite the way the hours pass, I’m living like I should. Not every day is all wrong. Not every day is right. At least I’m not a spider trying to scamper out of sight. Not every day is ideal. Not every day is bad. At any rate I have my senses, even if they’re mad. Not every day is happy. Not every day is glum. When melancholy drags me down, a simple tune I hum. Not every day I smile. Not every day I frown. With effort, I can take a scowl and turn it upside down. Not every day is crazy. Not every day is sane. If consequence nips at my heels I don’t pass on the blame. Not every day is giddy. Not every day is blah. Yet I can still appreciate a giggle and guffaw. Not every day is timid. Not every day is proud. I may not be a dragon, but I roar about as loud. Not every day has rainbows. Not every day has rain. Despite the fact I’m stiff and sore, I’m not in chronic pain. On every day the sun shines, so every night I pray that I might see the morning light and live another day. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,

153:Pardoned Out I’m pardoned out. Again the stars Shine on me with their myriad eyes. So long I’ve peered ‘twixt iron bars, I’m awed by this expanse of skies. The world is wider than I thought, And yet ‘tis not so wide, I know, But into its remotest spot My tale of shame can go. I’m pardoned out. Old Father Time Who seemed to halt in horror, when I strained my manhood by a crime, With steady step moves on again, And through the black appalling night, That walled me in a gloom accurst, The wonder of the morning light In sudden glory burst. I’m pardoned out. I shall be knows No more by number, but by name. And yet each whispering wind has blown Abroad the story of my shame. I dread to see men shrink away With startled looks of scorn or fear, When in life’s crowded marts some day, That name falls on their ear. I’m pardoned out, ah God! to roam Like some whipped dog among my kind. I have no friends, I have no home, Save these bleak walls I leave behind. How can I face the world of men, My comrades in the days of yore? Oh! hide me in my cell again, And, warden lock the door. ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

154:The boat of the boatman Madhu is moored at the wharf of Rajgunj.   It is uselessly laden with jute, and has been lying there idle for ever so long.   If he would only lend me his boat, I should man her with a hundred oars, and hoist sails, five or six or seven.   I should never steer her to stupid markets.   I should sail the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.   But, mother, you won't weep for me in a corner.   I am not going into the forest like Ramachandra to come back only after fourteen years.   I shall become the prince of the story, and fill my boat with whatever I like.   I shall take my friend Ashu with me. We shall sail merrily across the ever seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.   We shall set sail in the early morning light.   When at noontide you are bathing at the pond, we shall be in the land of a strange king.   We shall pass the ford of Tirpurni, and leave behind us the desert of Tepantar.   When we come back it will be getting dark, and I shall tell you of all that we have seen.   I shall cross the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Sailor ,

155:Now his work-mates pitied him, although they tried not to show it, and it was generally arranged that he was given jobs which allowed him to work alone. The smell of ink, and the steady rhythm of the press, then induced in him a kind of peace - it was the peace he felt when he arrived early, at a time when he might be the only one to see the morning light as it filtered through the works or to hear the sound of his footsteps echoing through the old stone building. At such moments he was forgetful of himself and thus of others until he heard their voices, raised in argument or in greeting, and he would shrink into himself again. At other times he would stand slightly to one side and try to laugh at their jokes, but when they talked about sex he became uneasy and fell silent for it seemed to him to be a fearful thing. He still remembered how the girls in the schoolyard used to chant, Kiss me, kiss me if you can I will put you in my pan, Kiss me, kiss me as you said I will fry you till you're dead And when he thought of sex, it was as of a process which could tear him limb from limb. He knew from his childhood reading that, if he ran into the forest, there would be a creature lying in wait for him. ~ Peter Ackroyd,

156:Christmas Morning The angel host that sped last night, Bearing the wondrous news afar, Came in their ever-glorious flight Unto a slumbering little star. 'Awake and sing, O star!' they cried. 'Awake and glorify the morn! Herald the tidings far and wide-He that shall lead His flock is born!' The little star awoke and sung As only stars in rapture may, And presently where church bells hung The joyous tidings found their way. 'Awake, O bells! 't is Christmas morn-Awake and let thy music tell To all mankind that now is born What Shepherd loves His lambkins well!' Then rang the bells as fled the night O'er dreaming land and drowsing deep, And coming with the morning light, They called, my child, to you asleep. Sweetly and tenderly they spoke, And lingering round your little bed, Their music pleaded till you woke, And this is what their music said: 'Awake and sing! 'tis Christmas morn, Whereon all earth salutes her King! In Bethlehem is the Shepherd born. Awake, O little lamb, and sing!' So, dear my child, kneel at my feet, And with those voices from above Share thou this holy time with me, The universal hymn of love. 93 ~ Eugene Field,

157:What is this strange touch?" With a start, Jesse realized that Rides the Wind had awakened. He lay watching her closely.Feeling shy she pulled the buffalo robe up under her chin, answering softly, "My people say 'kiss.'" "And who gives this 'kiss'?" "Parents to children, husband to wife." "Show me." As he said it he leaned toward her. Jesse obediently placed a kiss upon the wind-hardened cheek. He kept his face near hers and the dark eyes searched hers.Then a knowing smile curled up the edges of his mouth. "When Marcus Whitman met with Running Bear and the traders,Rides the Wind was there.I saw many things.I saw this touch you call 'kiss' between man and woman.It was not here," he tapped his cheek, "but here." His finger indicated his mouth. Jesse felt her face flush and wondered if the early morning light revealed her embarrassment. She assented, "Yes,for some it is so." "Did Jesse King and Homer King touch in this ay?" Jesse looked hard into the searching eyes.They returned her stare with honest interest. "My people do not speak of these things." Rides the Wind was quiet for a moment, pondering her response. "If the white man speaks not of what is here," he laid a hand flat upon the tawny chest, "he must be very sad. ~ Stephanie Grace Whitson,

158:When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow’d, And else when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d, still I was not happy, But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn, When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light, When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise, And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way coming, O then I was happy, O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food nourish’d me more, and the beautiful day pass’d well, And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came my friend, And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores, I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me, For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night, In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me, And his arm lay lightly around my breast – and that night I was happy. ~ Walt Whitman,

159:"Where have I come from, where did you pick me up?" the baby asked its mother.   She answered, half crying, half laughing, and clasping the baby to her breast-   "You were hidden in my heart as its desire, my darling.   You were in the dolls of my childhood's games; and when with clay I made the image of my god every morning, I made the unmade you then.   You were enshrined with our household deity, in his worship I worshipped you.   In all my hopes and my loves, in my life, in the life of my mother you have lived.   In the lap of the deathless Spirit who rules our home you have been nursed for ages.   When in girlhood my heart was opening its petals, you hovered as a fragrance about it.   Your tender softness bloomed in my youthful limbs, like a glow in the sky before the sunrise.   Heaven's first darling, twain-born with the morning light, you have floated down the stream of the world's life, and at last you have stranded on my heart.   As I gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me; you who belong to all have become mine.   For fear of losing you I hold you tight to my breast. What magic has snared the world's treasure in these slender arms of mine?" ~ Rabindranath Tagore, The Beginning ,

160:After all the dangers of the past few hours, she savored the tranquil beauty of the Orcadian landscape, with its delicate pastel wash of lavenders and blues. "This is a beautiful place," she whispered, especially charmed by the flock of hardy swans honking and clacking on the hillside, and by the shaggy black pony that was staring at them from the edge of a barren meadow nearby, its long mane blowing in the breeze. "Beautiful?" Rohan had turned to her. She could feel him staring at her. "You think so?" She looked at him. "Don't you?" He shrugged, then shook his head. "Bleak and harsh and difficult." "Perhaps." She smiled gently, gazing at him. "But there is an exquisite sensitivity in the color of the light. And the sweep of these hills bespeaks a calm strength," she said slowly, her gaze traveling over the landscape. "Noble, but unpretentious. It is what it is. A hard land, maybe. But plain and honest." She glanced at him. "I could live here." The morning light matched the soft blue shade of Rohan's eyes as he gazed at her, sensing she was not talking only about Orkney. His wordless stare was so overwhelmed with emotion for her that although she was covered in grime and dressed like somebody's footman, the way he looked at her made her feel as beautiful as a princess. ~ Gaelen Foley,

161:Dear Patton: I've been feeling blue lately but I wasn't sure if it had anything to do with the amount of rain we've had over the last few weeks. What are your thoughts on that? Ms. Diller Cary, NC Dear Ms. Diller: Rain can have a profound effect on someone inclined toward melancholy. I live in Los Angeles, and, as of this writing, we've just experienced three weeks of unending late-winter storms. The sky has been a limitless bowl of sludgy, hopeless gray. The ground, soaked and muddy, emits burbly, hissing spurts with every step, which sound like a scornful parent who sees no worth, hope, or value in their offspring. The morning light through my bedroom window promises nothing but a damp, unwelcoming day of thankless busywork and futile, doomed chores. My breakfast cereal tastes like being ostracized. My morning coffee fills my stomach with dread. What's the point of even answering this question? The rain--it will not stop. Even if I say something that will help you--which I won't, because I'm such a useless piece of shit--you'll eventually die and I'll die and everyone we know will die and this book will turn to dust and the universe will run down and stop, and dead dead dead dead dead. Dead. Read Chicken Soup for the Soul, I guess. Dead. Dead dead. Patton ~ Patton Oswalt,

162:Santa Claus "HALT! Who goes there?” The sentry’s call Rose on the midnight air Above the noises of the camp, The roll of wheels, the horses’ tramp. The challenge echoed over all— “Halt! Who goes there?” A quaint old figure clothed in white, He bore a staff of pine, An ivy-wreath was on his head. “Advance, oh friend,” the sentry said, “Advance, for this is Christmas night, And give the countersign.” “No sign nor countersign have I, Through many lands I roam The whole world over far and wide, To exiles all at Christmastide, From those who love them tenderly I bring a thought of home. “From English brook and Scottish burn, From cold Canadian snows, From those far lands ye hold most dear I bring you all a greeting here, A frond of a New Zealand fern, A bloom of English rose. “From faithful wife and loving lass I bring a wish divine, For Christmas blessings on your head.” “I wish you well,” the sentry said, “But here, alas! you may not pass Without the countersign.” He vanished—and the sentry’s tramp Re-echoed down the line. It was not till the morning light The soldiers knew that in the night Old Santa Claus had come to camp 260 Without the countersign. ~ Banjo Paterson,

163:I remained alone in my room, that room with the too lofty ceiling in which I had been so wretched on my first arrival, in which I had thought with such longing of Mlle de Stermaria, had watched for the appearance of Albertine and her friends, like migratory birds alighting upon the beach, in which I had possessed her with such indifference after I had sent the lift-boy to fetch her, in which I had experienced my grandmother’s kindness, then realised that she was dead; those shutters, beneath which shone the early morning light, I had opened the first time to look out upon the first ramparts of the sea (those shutters which Albertine made me close in case anybody should see us kissing). I became aware of my own transformations by contrasting them with the unchangingness of my surroundings. One grows accustomed to these as to people, and when, all of a sudden, one recalls the different meaning that they used to convey to one and then, after they had lost all meaning, the events, very different from those of today, which they enshrined, the diversity of the acts performed beneath the same ceiling, between the same glazed bookshelves, the change in one’s heart and in one’s life which that diversity implies, seem to be increased still further by the unalterable permanence of the setting, reinforced by the unity of the scene. ~ Marcel Proust,

164:Tito looked eagerly toward the dark crest of the mountain, behind which the sky pulsed in the morning light. Now a fragment of the rocky ridge flashed violently like a glowing metal beginning to melt. The crest blurred and seemed suddenly lower, as if it were melting down, and from the fiery gap the dazzling sun appeared. Simultaneously, the ground, the house, and their shore of the lake were illuminated, and the two, standing in the strong radiance, instantly felt the delightful warmth of this light. The boy, filled with the solemn beauty of the moment and the glorious sensation of his youth and strength, stretched his limbs with rhythmic arm movements, which his whole body soon took up, celebrating the break of day in an enthusiastic dance and expressing his deep oneness with the surging, radiant elements. His steps flew in joyous homage toward the victorious sun and reverently retreated from it; his outspread arms embraced mountain, lake, and sky; kneeling, he seemed to pay tribute to the earth mother, and extending his hands, to the waters of the lake; he offered himself, his youth, his freedom, his burning sense of is own life, like a festive sacrifice to the powers. The sunlight gleamed on his tanned shoulders; his eyes were half-closed to the dazzle; his young face stared masklike with an expression of inspired, almost fanatical gravity. ~ Hermann Hesse,

165:The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script is not language but a map. What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds. ~ Jack Gilbert,

166:Joseph Brodsky In Venice (1981) La Serenissima, in morning light, is beautiful. But you already knew that. Palette of honeyed ochre and ship's bell bronze, water precisely the color of the hand-ground pigment with which the water of Venice has been painted for centuries, angled slats of aquamarine chopped by wakes to agate, matte black backlit with raw opal and anodized aluminum, rope-work of wisteria, wands of oleander emerging from hidden gardens. At noon, near the boat-yard of the last gondola maker, a violin echoes from deep inside an empty cistern. Lo and behold. Ecco. A swirl of wind-blown ashes from yet another cigarette and for a moment you see December snow in Saint Petersburg, the Lion's Bridge, crystalline halo crowning Akhmatova's defiant silhouette. Sunset: bitter orange and almond milk, sepia retinting the canals with cartographer's ink as you study the small gray lagoon crabs patrolling a kingdom of marble slabs descending into the depths; rising almost imperceptibly, the tide licks at, kisses, then barely spills across the top step's foot-worn, weed-velveted lip in slippery caravans, dust-laden rivulets. So another day's cargo of terrestrial grit enriches their scuttled realm, and they make haste, like drunken pirates in a silent film, erratically but steadfastly, to claim it. ~ Campbell McGrath,

167:I marveled at an Ocean without shore, and at a Shore that did not have an ocean; And at a Morning Light without darkness, and at a Night that was without daybreak; And then a Sphere with no locality known to either fool or learned scholar; And at an azure Dome raised over the earth, circulating 'round its center - Compulsion; And at a rich Earth without o'er-arching vault and no specific location, the Secret concealed... I courted a Secret which existence did not alter; for it was asked of me: 'Has Thought enchanted you? ' - To which I replied: 'I have no power over that; I counsel you: Be patient with it while you live. But, truly, if Thought becomes established in my mind, the embers kindle into flame, And everything is given up to fire the like of which was never seen before!' And it was said to me: 'He does not pluck a flower who calls himself with courtesy 'Freeborn'.' 'He who woos the belle femme in her boudoir, love-beguiled, will never deem the bridal-price too high!' I gave her the dower and was given her in marriage throughout the night until the break of Dawn - But other than Myself I did not find. - Rather, that One whom I married - may his affair be known: For added to the Sun's measure of light are the radiant New Moon and shining Stars; Like Time, dispraised - though the Prophet (Blessings on him!) had once declared of your Lord that He is Time. ~ Ibn Arabi, An Ocean Without Shore ,

168:Dan's Wife Up in early morning light, Sweeping, dusting, 'setting right,' Oiling all the household springs, Sewing buttons, tying strings, Telling Bridget what to do, Mending rips in Johnny's shoe, Running up and down the stair, Tying baby in her chair, Cutting meat and spreading bread, Dishing out so much per head, Eating as she can by chance, Giving husband kindly glance; Toiling, working, busy life,-Smart woman, Dan's wife. Dan comes home at fall of night, Home so cheerful, neat, and bright; Children meet him at the door, Pull him in and looked him o'er; Wife asks how the work has gone. 'Busy times with us at home!' Supper done, Dan reads with ease,-Happy Dan, but one to please! Children must be put to bed-All the little prayers are said; Little shoes are placed in rows, Bedclothes tucked o'er little toes; Busy, noisy, wearing life,-Tired woman, Dan's wife. Dan reads on and falls asleep-See the woman softly creep; Baby rests at last, poor dear, Not a word her heart to cheer; Mending-basket full to top, Stockings, shirt, and little frock; Tired eyes and weary brain, 110 Side with darting, ugly pain; 'Never mind, 'will pass away,' She must work, but never play; Closed piano, unused books, Done the walks to easy nooks, Brightness faded out of life,-Saddened woman, Dan's wife. Upstairs, tossing to and fro, Fever holds the woman low; Children wander free to play When and where they will today; Bridget loiters--dinner's cold, Dan looks anxious, cross, and old; Household screws are out of place, Lacking one dear, patient face; Steady hands, so weak but true, Hands that knew just what to do, Never knowing rest or play, Folded now--and laid away; Work of six in one short life,-Shattered woman, Dan's wife. ~ Anonymous Americas,

169:Finally, as the sky began to grow light in the morning, I’d feel that I might be drifting off. But that wasn’t sleep. My fingertips were just barely brushing against the outermost edge of sleep. And all the while, my mind was awake. I would feel a hint of drowsiness, but my mind was there, in its own room, on the other side of a transparent wall, watching me. My physical self was drifting through the feeble morning light, and all the while it could feel my mind staring, breathing, close beside it. I was both a body on the verge of sleep and a mind determined to stay awake. The incomplete drowsiness would continue on and off all day. My head was always foggy. I couldn’t get an accurate fix on the things around me—their distance or mass or texture. The drowsiness would overtake me at regular, wavelike intervals: on the subway, in the classroom, at the diner table. My mind would slip away from my body. The world would sway soundlessly. I would drop things. My pencil or my purse or my fork would clatter to the floor. All I wanted was to throw myself down and sleep. But I couldn’t. The wakefulness was always there beside me. I could feel its chilling shadow. It was the shadow of myself. Weird, I would think as the drowsiness overtook me, I’m in my own shadow. I would walk and eat and talk to people inside my drowsiness. And the strangest thing was that no one noticed. I lost fifteen pounds that month, and no one noticed. No one in my family, not one of my friends or classmates, realized that I was going through life asleep. It was literally true: I was going through life asleep. My body had no more feeling than a drowned corpse. My very existence, my life in the world, seemed like a hallucination. A strong wind would make me think that my body was about to be blown to the end of the earth, to some land I had never seen or heard of, where my mind and body would separate forever. Hold tight, I would tell myself, but there was nothing for me to hold on to. ~ Haruki Murakami,

170:Finally, as the sky began to grow light in the morning, I’d feel that I might be drifting off. But that wasn’t sleep. My fingertips were just barely brushing against the outermost edge of sleep. And all the while, my mind was awake. I would feel a hint of drowsiness, but my mind was there, in its own room, on the other side of a transparent wall, watching me. My physical self was drifting through the feeble morning light, and all the while it could feel my mind staring, breathing, close beside it. I was both a body on the verge of sleep and a mind determined to stay awake. The incomplete drowsiness would continue on and off all day. My head was always foggy. I couldn’t get an accurate fix on the things around me—their distance or mass or texture. The drowsiness would overtake me at regular, wavelike intervals: on the subway, in the classroom, at the dinner table. My mind would slip away from my body. The world would sway soundlessly. I would drop things. My pencil or my purse or my fork would clatter to the floor. All I wanted was to throw myself down and sleep. But I couldn’t. The wakefulness was always there beside me. I could feel its chilling shadow. It was the shadow of myself. Weird, I would think as the drowsiness overtook me, I’m in my own shadow. I would walk and eat and talk to people inside my drowsiness. And the strangest thing was that no one noticed. I lost fifteen pounds that month, and no one noticed. No one in my family, not one of my friends or classmates, realized that I was going through life asleep. It was literally true: I was going through life asleep. My body had no more feeling than a drowned corpse. My very existence, my life in the world, seemed like a hallucination. A strong wind would make me think that my body was about to be blown to the end of the earth, to some land I had never seen or heard of, where my mind and body would separate forever. Hold tight, I would tell myself, but there was nothing for me to hold on to. ~ Haruki Murakami,

171:Only A Jockey Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, Out on the track where the night shades still lurk, ere the first gleam of the sungod's returning light Round come the racehorses early at work. Reefing and pulling and racing so readily, Close sit the jockey-boys holding them hard, "Steady the stallion there -- canter him steadily, Don't let him gallop so much as a yard." Fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him, Reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall, Plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of him Goes to the ground with a terrible fall. "Stop him there! Block him there! Drive him in carefully, Lead him about till he's quiet and cool. Sound as a bell! though he's blown himself fearfully, Now let us pick up this poor little fool. "Stunned? Oh, by Jove, I'm afraid it's a case with him; Ride for the doctor! keep bathing his head! Send for a cart to go down to our place with him" -No use! One long sigh and the little chap's dead. Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see, Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest. Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee, What did you do for him? -- bad was the best. Negroes and foreigners, all have a claim on you; Yearly you send your well-advertised hoard, But the poor jockey-boy -- shame on you, shame on you, "Feed ye My little ones" -- what said the Lord? Him ye held less than the outer barbarian, Left him to die in his ignorant sin; Have you no principles, humanitarian? Have you no precept -- "Go gather them in?" 206 Knew he God's name? In his brutal profanity That name was an oath -- out of many but one. What did he get from our famed Christianity? Where has his soul -- if he had any -- gone? Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it? What did he know of God's infinite Grace? Draw the dark curtain of shame o'er the thought of it Draw the shroud over the jockey-boy's face. ~ Banjo Paterson,

172:Counsel: It is hardly a secret that man has a share in the attribute of 'knower', yet man's knowledge is different from that of God the most high in three specific ways. First, regarding the multitude of things known: although the things man knows are wide-ranging, they are limited to his heart, and how could they correspond to what is infinite? Secondly, that man's disclosure, while clear, does not reach the goal beyond which no goal is possible; rather his seeing of things is like seeing them behind a thin veil. You should not deny degrees of disclosure, because inward vision is like outward sight, so there is a difference between what is clear at the time of departure and what becomes clear in morning light. Thirdly, that the knowledge which God-may He be praised and exalted-has of things is not derived from things but things are derived from it, while man's knowledge of things is contingent upon things and results from them. Now if it is difficult for you to understand the difference, compare the knowledge of one who learns chess to the knowledge of the person who devised it. For the knowledge of the person who devised it is itself the cause of the existence of chess, while the fact that chess exists is the cause of the knowledge of one who learns it. The knowledge of the one who devised it precedes chess, while the knowledge of the learner follows upon it and comes afterwards. Similarly, the knowledge which God-great and glorious-has of things precedes them and causes them, while our knowledge is not like that. Man's distinction is due to knowledge, inasmuch as it is one of the attributes of God-great and glorious; yet that knowledge is more distinguished whose objects are more distinguished, and the most distinguished object of knowledge is God the most high. Likewise, knowing God the most high is the most beneficial knowledge of all, while knowledge of the rest of things is only distinguished because it is knowledge of the actions of God-great and glorious, or knowledge of the way which brings man closer to God-great and glorious, or the thing which facilitates attaining to knowledge of God the most high and closeness to Him. All knowledge other than that cannot claim much distinction. ~ Abu Hamid al-Ghazali,

173:From that point of view he gazed at the Oriental beauty he had not seen before. It seemed strange to him that his long-felt wish, which had seemed unattainable, had at last been realized. In the clear morning light he gazed now at the city and now at the plan, considering its details, and the assurance of possessing it agitated and awed him. "But could it be otherwise?" he thought. "Here is this capital at my feet. Where is Alexander now, and of what is he thinking? A strange, beautiful, and majestic city; and a strange and majestic moment! In what light must I appear to them!" thought he, thinking of his troops. "Here she is, the reward for all those fainthearted men," he reflected, glancing at those near him and at the troops who were approaching and forming up. "One word from me, one movement of my hand, and that ancient capital of the Tsars would perish. But my clemency is always ready to descend upon the vanquished. I must be magnanimous and truly great. But no, it can't be true that I am in Moscow," he suddenly thought. "Yet here she is lying at my feet, with her golden domes and crosses scintillating and twinkling in the sunshine. But I shall spare her. On the ancient monuments of barbarism and despotism I will inscribe great words of justice and mercy… . It is just this which Alexander will feel most painfully, I know him." (It seemed to Napoleon that the chief import of what was taking place lay in the personal struggle between himself and Alexander.) "From the height of the Kremlin—yes, there is the Kremlin, yes—I will give them just laws; I will teach them the meaning of true civilization, I will make generations of boyars remember their conqueror with love. I will tell the deputation that I did not, and do not, desire war, that I have waged war only against the false policy of their court; that I love and respect Alexander and that in Moscow I will accept terms of peace worthy of myself and of my people. I do not wish to utilize the fortunes of war to humiliate an honored monarch. 'Boyars,' I will say to them, 'I do not desire war, I desire the peace and welfare of all my subjects.' However, I know their presence will inspire me, and I shall speak to them as I always do: clearly, impressively, and majestically. But can it be true that I am in Moscow? Yes, there she lies. ~ Leo Tolstoy,

174:The Parting The chestnut steed stood by the gate His noble master's will to wait, The woody park so green and bright Was glowing in the morning light, The young leaves of the aspen trees Were dancing in the morning breeze. The palace door was open wide, Its lord was standing there, And his sweet lady by his side With soft dark eyes and raven hair. He smiling took her wary hand And said, 'No longer here I stand; My charger shakes his flowing mane And calls me with impatient neigh. Adieu then till we meet again, Sweet love, I must no longer stay.' 'You must not go so soon,' she said, 'I will not say farewell. The sun has not dispelled the shade In yonder dewy dell; Dark shadows of gigantic length Are sleeping on the lawn; And scarcely have the birds begun To hail the summer morn; Then stay with me a little while,' She said with soft and sunny smile. He smiled again and did not speak, But lightly kissed her rosy cheek, And fondly clasped her in his arms, Then vaulted on his steed. And down the park's smooth winding road 113 He urged its flying speed. Still by the door his lady stood And watched his rapid flight, Until he came to a distant wood That hid him from her sight. But ere he vanished from her view He waved to her a last adieu, Then onward hastily he steered And in the forest disappeared. The lady smiled a pensive smile And heaved a gently sigh, But her cheek was all unblanched the while And tearless was her eye. 'A thousand lovely flowers,' she said, 'Are smiling on the plain. And ere one half of them are dead, My lord will come again. The leaves are waving fresh and green On every stately tree, And long before they die away He will return to me!' -Alas! Fair lady, say not so; Thou canst not tell the weight of woe That lies in store for thee. Those flowers will fade, those leaves will fall, Winter will darken yonder hall; Sweet spring will smile o'er hill and plain And trees and flowers will bloom again, And years will still keep rolling on, But thy beloved lord is gone. His absence thou shalt deeply mourn, And never smile on his return. ~ Anne Brontë,

175:The Gallant Peter Clarke On Walden's Range at morning time The sun shone brightly down; It shone across the winding Page Near Murrurundi town. It glittered o'er the Burning Mount, Where murky shadows fell Across the path to travellers known To some, alas, too well. There stands a simple block of stone, Erected as a mark To show the spot where he fought and died, That gallant Peter Clarke. And if you will but list awhile, To you I will relate What happened there to Peter Clarke And Jimmy Clarke, his mate. They camped one night close by the range, In songs the hours flew past, And little did poor Peter think That night would be his last. At dawn they toiled the steep ascent; They had scarcely reached the top When a voice in accents stern and cold Commanded them to stop. 'Hand up your money, watch and chain,' The robber sternly cried, 'Who takes my money takes my life!' The angry Clarke replied. Then laughed the robber loud in scorn As he his pistol drew. Said he 'My hand is firm and strong, And my aim is ever true. 31 'And he who will my word gainsay, Though he be earl or knight, I swear by all I sacred hold He ne'er shall see morning light. 'So give up your money now, my lad, And do not idly rave. Resist and, by the God above, This night you'll fill the grave.' 'Those are but words and idle words,' The daring Clarke replied, And with one rapid bound he strode Close by the robber's side. And now commenced the struggle For life between them both, One hand of Clarke's the pistol grasped And the other grasped his throat. Now haste you, haste you, Jimmy Clarke, And seek for help in need Your comrade's welfare, nay, his life Depends on your good speed. But hark to that loud pistol shot, In a second rends the skies. A human being on the sod In his death struggle lies. But in his dying gasp Poor Peter seemed to say, 'Revenge, revenge you, Peter Clarke! And so he passed away. But the robber, frightened by his deed, In terror now did lie, For the hand of Clarke upon his throat Is tighter as he died. And so indeed he was avenged, 32 For God has said it so 'Who takes a life must yield a life!' And the murderer met his doom. ~ Anonymous Oceania,

176:My gaze fell on a plain door-tapestry at the other end of the room. A service access? I turned and saw a narrow, discreet outline of a door tucked in the corner between two bookshelves; that was the service door, then. Might I find some kind of archive beyond that tapestry? I crossed the room, heard no noise beyond, so I lifted the tapestry. The room was small, filled with light. It was a corner room, with two entrances, floor-to-ceiling windows in two walls, and bookshelves everywhere else. In the slanting rays of the morning sun I saw a writing table angled between the windows--and kneeling at the table, dressed in riding clothes, was the Marquis of Shevraeth. He put down his pen and looked up inquiringly. Feeling that to run back out would be cowardly, I said, “Your mother invited me to use the library. I thought this might be an archive.” “It is,” he said. “Memoirs from kings and queens addressed specifically to heirs. Most are about laws. A few are diaries of Court life. Look around.” He picked up the pen again and waved it toward the shelves. “Over there you’ll find the book of laws by Turic the Third, he of the twelve thousand proclamations. Next to it is his daughter’s, rescinding most of them.” He pushed a pile of papers in my direction. “Or if you’d like to peruse something more recent, here are Galdran’s expenditure lists and so forth. They give a fairly comprehensive overview of his policies.” I stepped into the room and bent down to lift up two or three of the papers. Some were proposals for increases in taxes for certain nobles; the fourth was a list of people “to be watched.” I looked at him in surprise. “You found these just lying around?” “Yes,” he said, sitting back on his cushion. The morning light highlighted the smudges of tiredness under his eyes. “He did not expect to be defeated. Your brother and I rode back here in haste, as soon as we could, in order to prevent looting; but such was Galdran’s hold on the place that, even though the news had preceded us by two days, I found his rooms completely undisturbed. I don’t think anyone believed he was really dead--they expected one of his ugly little ploys to catch out ‘traitors.’” I whistled, turning over another paper. “Wish I could have been there,” I said. “You could have been.” This brought me back to reality with a jolt. Of course I could have been there--but I had left without warning, without saying good-bye even to my own brother, in my haste to retreat to home and sanity. And memory. I glanced at him just in time to see him wince slightly and shake his head. Was that regret? For his words--or for my actions that day? ~ Sherwood Smith,

177:The Trial By Existence Even the bravest that are slain Shall not dissemble their surprise On waking to find valor reign, Even as on earth, in paradise; And where they sought without the sword Wide fields of asphodel fore’er, To find that the utmost reward Of daring should be still to dare. The light of heaven falls whole and white And is not shattered into dyes, The light for ever is morning light; The hills are verdured pasture-wise; The angel hosts with freshness go, And seek with laughter what to brave;— And binding all is the hushed snow Of the far-distant breaking wave. And from a cliff-top is proclaimed The gathering of the souls for birth, The trial by existence named, The obscuration upon earth. And the slant spirits trooping by In streams and cross- and counter-streams Can but give ear to that sweet cry For its suggestion of what dreams! And the more loitering are turned To view once more the sacrifice Of those who for some good discerned Will gladly give up paradise. And a white shimmering concourse rolls Toward the throne to witness there The speeding of devoted souls Which God makes his especial care. And none are taken but who will, Having first heard the life read out That opens earthward, good and ill, Beyond the shadow of a doubt; And very beautifully God limns, And tenderly, life’s little dream, But naught extenuates or dims, Setting the thing that is supreme. Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in its nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth’s unhonored things Sounds nobler there than ’neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one. But always God speaks at the end: ’One thought in agony of strife The bravest would have by for friend, The memory that he chose the life; But the pure fate to which you go Admits no memory of choice, Or the woe were not earthly woe To which you give the assenting voice.’ And so the choice must be again, But the last choice is still the same; And the awe passes wonder then, And a hush falls for all acclaim. And God has taken a flower of gold And broken it, and used therefrom The mystic link to bind and hold Spirit to matter till death come. ‘Tis of the essence of life here, Though we choose greatly, still to lack The lasting memory at all clear, That life has for us on the wrack Nothing but what we somehow chose; Thus are we wholly stripped of pride In the pain that has but one close, Bearing it crushed and mystified. ~ Robert Frost,

178:Nagasaki Days I -- A Pleasant Afternoon for Michael Brownstein and Dick Gallup One day 3 poets and 60 ears sat under a green-striped Chautauqua tent in Aurora listening to Black spirituals, tapping their feet, appreciating words singing by in mountain winds on a pleasant sunny day of rest -- the wild wind blew thru blue Heavens filled with fluffy clouds stretched from Central City to Rocky Flats, Plutonium sizzled in its secret bed, hot dogs sizzled in the Lion's Club lunchwagon microwave mouth, orangeade bubbled over in waxen cups Traffic moved along Colefax, meditators silent in the Diamond Castle shrine-room at Boulder followed the breath going out of their nostrils, Nobody could remember anything, spirits flew out of mouths & noses, out of the sky, across Colorado plains & the tent flapped happily open spacious & didn't fall down. June 18, 1978 II -- Peace Protest Cumulus clouds float across blue sky over the white-walled Rockwell Corporation factory -- am I going to stop that? Rocky Mountains rising behind us Denver shining in morning light -- Led away from the crowd by police and photographers 58 Middleaged Ginsberg and Ellsberg taken down the road to the greyhaired Sheriff's van -But what about Einstein? What about Einstein? Hey, Einstein Come back! III -- Golden Courthouse Waiting for the Judge, breathing silent Prisoners, witnesses, Police -the stenographer yawns into her palms. August 9, 1978 IV -- Everybody's Fantasy I walked outside & the bomb'd dropped lots of plutonium all over the Lower East Side There weren't any buildings left just iron skeletons groceries burned, potholes open to stinking sewer waters There were people starving and crawling across the desert the Martian UFOs with blue Light destroyer rays passed over and dried up all the waters Charred Amazon palmtrees for hundreds of miles on both sides of the river August 10, 1978 V -- Waiting Room at the Rocky Flats Plutonium Plant 59 "Give us the weapons we need to protect ourselves!" the bareheaded guard lifts his flyswatter above the desk -- whap! A green-letter'd shield on the pressboard wall! "Life is fragile. Handle with care" -My Goodness! here's where they make the nuclear bomb triggers. August 17, 1978 VI -- Numbers in Red Notebook 2,000,000 killed in Vietnam 13,000,000 refugees in Indochina 1972 200,000,000 years for the Galaxy to revolve on its core 24,000 the Babylonian Great Year 24,000 half life of plutonium 2,000 the most I ever got for a poetry reading 80,000 dolphins killed in the dragnet 4,000,000,000 years earth been born Summer 1978 ~ Allen Ginsberg,

179:One evening in April a thirty-two-year-old woman, unconscious and severely injured, was admitted to the hospital in a provincial town south of Copenhagen. She had a concussion and internal bleeding, her legs and arms were broken in several places, and she had deep lesions in her face. A gas station attendant in a neighboring village, beside the bridge over the highway to Copenhagen, had seen her go the wrong way up the exit and drive at high speed into the oncoming traffic. The first three approaching cars managed to maneuver around her, but about 200 meters after the junction she collided head-on with a truck. The Dutch driver was admitted for observation but released the next day. According to his statement he started to brake a good 100 meters before the crash, while the car seemed to actually increase its speed over the last stretch. The front of the vehicle was totally crushed, part of the radiator was stuck between the road and the truck's bumper, and the woman had to be cut free. The spokesman for emergency services said it was a miracle she had survived. On arrival at the hospital the woman was in very critical condition, and it was twenty-four hours before she was out of serious danger. Her eyes were so badly damaged that she lost her sight. Her name was Lucca. Lucca Montale. Despite the name there was nothing particularly Italian about her appearance. She had auburn hair and green eyes in a narrow face with high cheek-bones. She was slim and fairly tall. It turned out she was Danish, born in Copenhagen. Her husband, Andreas Bark, arrived with their small son while she was still on the operating table. The couple's home was an isolated old farmhouse in the woods seven kilometers from the site of the accident. Andreas Bark told the police he had tried to stop his wife from driving. He thought she had just gone out for a breath of air when he heard the car start. By the time he got outside he saw it disappearing along the road. She had been drinking a lot. They had had a marital disagreement. Those were the words he used; he was not questioned further on that point. Early in the morning, when Lucca Montale was moved from the operating room into intensive care, her husband was still in the waiting room with the sleeping boy's head on his lap. He was looking out at the sky and the dark trees when Robert sat down next to him. Andreas Bark went on staring into the gray morning light with an exhausted, absent gaze. He seemed slightly younger than Robert, in his late thirties. He had dark, wavy hair and a prominent chin, his eyes were narrow and deep-set, and he was wearing a shabby leather jacket. Robert rested his hands on his knees in the green cotton trousers and looked down at the perforations in the leather uppers of his white clogs. He realized he had forgotten to take off his plastic cap after the operation. The thin plastic crackled between his hands. Andreas looked at him and Robert straightened up to meet his gaze. The boy woke. ~ Jens Christian Gr ndahl,

180:Kestrel set her cup on its saucer. “I didn’t ask to see you,” she said. “Too bad.” Arin claimed the chair across from her table in the library in a manner unbearably familiar to her. It was as if the chair had always been his. He slouched in his seat, tipped his head back, and looked at her from beneath lowered lids. The morning light fired his profile. “Worried, Lady Kestrel?” He spoke in Valorian, his accent roughening his voice. He always pronounced his r’s too low in his throat, so that when he spoke in her tongue everything came across as a soft growl. “Dreading what I’ll say…or do?” He smiled a grim little smile. “No need. I’ll be the perfect gentleman.” He tugged at his cuffs. It was only then that Kestrel noticed that they came too short on his arms and showed his wrists. It pained her to see his self-consciousness, the way it had suddenly revealed itself. In this light, his gray eyes were too clear. His posture had been confident. His words had had an edge. But his eyes were uncertain. Arin fidgeted again with his cuffs as if there was something wrong with them--with him. No, she would have said. You’re perfect, she wanted to say. She imagined it: how she would reach out to touch Arin’s bare wrist. That could lead nowhere good. She was nervous, she was cold. Her stomach was a flurry of snow. She dropped her hands to her lap. “No one’s here anyway,” Arin said, “and the librarians are in the stacks. You’re safe enough.” It was too early for courtiers to be in the library. Kestrel had counted on this, and on the fact that if anyone did turn up and saw her with the Herrani minister of agriculture, such a meeting would excite little interest. One with Arin, however, was an entirely different story. It was frustrating: his uncanny ability to unsettle her plans--and her very sense of self. She said, “Pressing where you’re not invited seems to be a habit with you.” “And yours is to put people in their place. But people aren’t gaming pieces. You can’t arrange them to suit yourself.” A librarian coughed. “Lower your voice,” Kestrel hissed at Arin. “Stop being so--” “Inconvenient?” “Frankly, yes.” His smile came: quick, true, surprised by itself. Then changing, and slow. “I could be worse.” “I am sure.” “I could tell you how.” “Arin, how is it for you here, in the capital?” He held her gaze. “I would rather talk about what we were talking about.” “Arin, how is it for you here, in the capital?” He held her gaze. “I would rather talk about what we were talking about.” She arranged her fingers along the studs that pinned green leather to the tabletop. She felt each cool, small, hard nail. The silence inside her was like those nails. What it held down was something sheer: a feeling like fragile silk, billowing up at the sound of his voice. If she and Arin were to talk about what they had been talking about, that silk could tear free. It would float up. It would catch the light, and cast a colored shadow. What color would it be, Kestrel wondered, the silk of what she felt? What would it be like to let it go, let it canopy above her? ~ Marie Rutkoski,

181:I stepped into the room and bent down to lift up two or three of the papers. Some were proposals for increases in taxes for certain nobles; the fourth was a list of people “to be watched.” I looked at him in surprise. “You found these just lying around?” “Yes,” he said, sitting back on his cushion. The morning light highlighted the smudges of tiredness under his eyes. “He did not expect to be defeated. Your brother and I rode back here in haste, as soon as we could, in order to prevent looting; but such was Galdran’s hold on the place that, even though the news had preceded us by two days, I found his rooms completely undisturbed. I don’t think anyone believed he was really dead--they expected one of his ugly little ploys to catch out ‘traitors.’” I whistled, turning over another paper. “Wish I could have been there,” I said. “You could have been.” This brought me back to reality with a jolt. Of course I could have been there--but I had left without warning, without saying good-bye even to my own brother, in my haste to retreat to home and sanity. And memory. I glanced at him just in time to see him wince slightly and shake his head. Was that regret? For his words--or for my actions that day? “What you said last night,” I demanded, “about battles and me being used to them. What did you mean by that?” “It was merely an attempt to make you laugh.” “I did laugh,” I admitted, then frowned. “But did you really intend some kind of courtly double meaning? Hinting that I’m used to battles in the sense that I lost every one I was in? Or merely that I get into quarrels?” “Neither.” His tone was flat. “Forgive my maladroitness.” “Well, I don’t get into quarrels,” I said, suddenly desperate to explain, to accuse. “Except with--” There came a tap outside the opposite doorway then. I shut my mouth; and for a moment, there we were, in silence, me wishing I could run but feeling I ought not to. There was--something--I had to do, or say, though I had no idea what. So I watched him rise, move the few steps to the other tapestry, and lift it. I did not see whoever was outside--I realized he was shielding me from sight. I could not hear the voice beyond, but I heard his: “Please inform Lady Trishe I will be along shortly. Thank you.” He dropped the tapestry back into place and stood with his back to it, looking at me across the width of the room. “It seems,” he said, “that seeking your opinion will not cease to embroil us in argument, whatever the cause. I apologize. I also realize trying to convince you of my good intentions is a fruitless effort, but my own conscience demanded that I make the attempt.” I couldn’t think of any reply to make to that, so I whirled around and retreated into the library, my insides boiling with a nasty mixture of embarrassment and anger. Why did I always have to bring up that war--and pick a fight? What kind of answer was I looking for? All I do is repeat the humiliations of last year. As if I haven’t had enough of those, I thought grimly. And the worst thing was, I wouldn’t dare to go near that room again, despite his offer at the beginning of the encounter--an encounter which was thoroughly my own fault. ~ Sherwood Smith,

182:After wandering the world and living on the Continent I had long tired of well-behaved, fart-free gentlemen who opened the door and paid the bills but never had a story to tell and were either completely asexual or demanded skin-burning action until the morning light. Swiss watch salesmen who only knew of “sechs” as their wake-up hour, or hairy French apes who always required their twelve rounds of screwing after the six-course meal. I suppose I liked German men the best. They were a suitable mixture of belching northerner and cultivated southerner, of orderly westerner and crazy easterner, but in the post-war years they were of course broken men. There was little you could do with them except try to put them right first. And who had the time for that? Londoners are positive and jolly, but their famous irony struck me as mechanical and wearisome in the long run. As if that irony machine had eaten away their real essence. The French machine, on the other hand, is fuelled by seriousness alone, and the Frogs can drive you beyond the limit when they get going with their philosophical noun-dropping. The Italian worships every woman like a queen until he gets her home, when she suddenly turns into a slut. The Yank is one hell of a guy who thinks big: he always wants to take you the moon. At the same time, however, he is as smug and petty as the meanest seamstress, and has a fit if someone eats his peanut butter sandwich aboard the space shuttle. I found Russians interesting. In fact they were the most Icelandic of all: drank every glass to the bottom and threw themselves into any jollity, knew countless stories and never talked seriously unless at the bottom of the bottle, when they began to wail for their mother who lived a thousand miles away but came on foot to bring them their clean laundry once a month. They were completely crazy and were better athletes in bed than my dear countrymen, but in the end I had enough of all their pommel-horse routines. Nordic men are all as tactless as Icelanders. They get drunk over dinner, laugh loudly and fart, eventually start “singing” even in public restaurants where people have paid to escape the tumult of the world. But their wallets always waited cold sober in the cloakroom while the Icelandic purse lay open for all in the middle of the table. Our men were the greater Vikings in this regard. “Reputation is king, the rest is crap!” my Bæring from Bolungarvík used to say. Every evening had to be legendary, anything else was a defeat. But the morning after they turned into weak-willed doughboys. But all the same I did succeed in loving them, those Icelandic clodhoppers, at least down as far as their knees. Below there, things did not go as well. And when the feet of Jón Pre-Jón popped out of me in the maternity ward, it was enough. The resemblances were small and exact: Jón’s feet in bonsai form. I instantly acquired a physical intolerance for the father, and forbade him to come in and see the baby. All I heard was the note of surprise in the bass voice out in the corridor when the midwife told him she had ordered him a taxi. From that day on I made it a rule: I sacked my men by calling a car. ‘The taxi is here,’ became my favourite sentence. ~ Hallgr mur Helgason,

183:The Two Armies Once over the ocean in distant lands, In an age long past, were two hostile bandsTwo armies of men, both brave, both strong, And their hearts beat high as they marched along To fight the battle of right and wrong. Never, I think, did the Eye of heaven Look down on two armies so nearly even In well-trained soldiers, in strength and might. But one was the Wrong , and one was the Right And the last was the stronger in heaven's sight. And these hostile armies drew near, one night, And pitched their tents on two hill-sides green, With only the brow of a hill between. With the first red beams of the morning light Both knew would open the awful fight, And one of the armies lay hushed and still, And slept in the tents on the green side-hill. Heart beat with heart: and they all were as one In the thought of the battle to be begun With the first bright glance of the morning sun. Their aim was ignoble, their cause was wrong, But they were united , and so they were strong. Not so the army just over the hill: While the ranks of the foe were hushed and still, The ranks of the Right were torn with strife, 709 And with noise and confusion the air was rife. Disputes and quarrels, dissensions and jars, And the sound of fighting, and civil wars; And, ere the morning, brother and brother, Instead of the enemy, fought with each other. Over the hill, the foe, in glee, Listened and laughed. 'Ho ho!' quoth he. 'There is strife in the enemy's ranks, I see, And the bright red beams of the rising sun Will see a victory easily won. It matters little how strong the foe, This is a truth we all do know: There is no success without unity, However noble the cause may be. The day is ours before it's begun. Ho! for the triumph so easily won.' And on the morrow, the ranks of the Right Were routed and beaten, and put to flight, And the Wrong was the victor, and gained the fight. There are two armies abroad to-day, As in the age that has passed away. The makers, and venders, and patrons, and all Who aid in the traffic of Alcohol, These are the warriors, bold and strong, Who swell the ranks of the army of Wrong. And we are the soldiers, true and brave, Who are striving with heart and hand to save The youths of our land from the deep, dark grave That the foe is digging by day and by night. Only one thing can defeat the Right. There is nothing but triumph for us, unless 710 Dissension , that crafty foe to success, Creeps into our ranks. Oh! let us unite Let heart beat with heart as we enter the fight; Let the whole mighty army be one for the time, And sweep on the foe in a column sublime In its unity, earnestness, oneness, and might, Till the foe stands aghast at the wonderful sight, Till the enemy cowers and shivers, afraid Of the awful approach of the grand cavalcade. Close up the ranks, brothers! sisters, draw near, We are fighting one fight, we are all kinsmen here. Closer, still closer! in nearness lies might. Love is our watchword-on to the fight! ~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox,

184:She was not quite fair But she was bright She wore a necklace of coral beads In great astonishment I used to look at her With her large black eyes She looked straight She was about my age This adolescent maid. Her image is still alive in my mind. The southern gate of the room was open Against the pale blue sky The almond tree With its newly sprouted leaves Was gleaming in the morning light. She was dressed in a white sari Its black borders Winding around her young tender body Had fallen on her feet. On her two lovely hands Two gold bangles she had. On holidays at noon When I read books of stories On their pages only her image I found. She used to take me often to a mysterious land Which an unknown deity creates Beyond our reach Beyond my childish dreams. A fantasy embodied She cast the tender touch of her invisible shadow On my body and mind. To talk to her I was not so bold. I felt in my heart only a pain Like a softly sung tune - She was far, too far, As far as the highest branches of the shirish That sends a soft fragrance to the mind. It was the wedding ceremony of her dolls I was invited to attend In great fun The invitees made gleeful noises In diffidence I remained at one end I was tongue-tied and shy It seemed That evening passed in vain I dont remember what was served on my plate But I remember to have seen A pair of feet hurrying back and forth Covered by the dancing border of a sari. In a stolen glance I also saw In her bangles were caught The pure golden rays of the sun. In her sweet voice She made repeated requests Back home half the night They resonated in my mind. Then by and by We became known to each other more Freely we began to mix. I began to call her by her nickname. I got over my shyness We began to cut jokes. Often for made-up mistakes She was mad with me in a mocking rage. Sometimes her rude words and cruel jokes Gave me pain. Sometimes she blamed me For my carelessness. Sometimes I saw her carelessly dressed She was busy in cooking She didnt feel embarrassed. For my idiocy which is natural in a male She used to rebuke me severely In her arrogance of womanly superior knowledge. One day she told me, I know how to read palms. She took my hand in her hand And read it with her head bent She told me You are luckless in love. I gave no reply The real proof, her loving touch, Conclusively disproved my lucklessness in love. Yet after all these I cannot forget the pain I couldnt know her more! One can hardly be nearest to what is beautiful It ever remains far When nearer it urges one ever To know it ever more. My days, filled with joys and sorrows, Are ending in the western sky The harshness of summer Is mellowing in blue The glow of autumn on golden corn Is playing the holiday flute. Laden with dreams My boat is slowly sailing To an unknown land. Transcreation of the poem Shyama from the collection Akashpradip by Rabindranath Tagore. The theme is the memories of his notun-bouthan or new sister-in-law Kadambaridevi, the wife of his elder brother Jyotirindranath Tagore. Transcreation by Kumud Biswas. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Shyama ,

185:The Last Song Of Sappho Thou tranquil night, and thou, O gentle ray Of the declining moon; and thou, that o'er The rock appearest, 'mid the silent grove, The messenger of day; how dear ye were, And how delightful to these eyes, while yet Unknown the furies, and grim Fate! But now, No gentle sight can soothe this wounded soul. Then, only, can forgotten joy revive, When through the air, and o'er the trembling fields The raging south wind whirls its clouds of dust; And when the car, the pondrous car of Jove, Omnipotent, high-thundering o'er our heads, A pathway cleaves athwart the dusky sky. Then would I love with storm-charged clouds to fly Along the cliffs, along the valleys deep, The headlong flight of frightened flocks to watch, Or hear, upon some swollen river's shore The angry billows' loud, triumphant roar. How beautiful thou art, O heaven divine, And thou, O dewy earth! Alas no part Of all this beauty infinite, the gods And cruel fate to wretched Sappho gave! To thy proud realms, O Nature, I, a poor, Unwelcome guest, rejected lover, come; To all thy varied forms of loveliness, My heart and eyes, a suppliant, lift in vain. The sun-lit shore hath smiles no more for me, Nor radiant morning light at heaven's gate; The birds no longer greet me with their songs, Nor whispering trees with gracious messages; And where, beneath the bending willows' shade, The limpid stream its bosom pure displays, As I, with trembling and uncertain foot, Oppressed with grief, upon its margin pause, The dimpled waves recoil, as in disdain, And urge their flight along the flowery plain. What fearful crime, what hideous excess 92 Have so defiled me, e'en before my birth, That heaven and fortune frown upon me thus? Wherein have I offended, as a child, When we of evil deeds are ignorant, That thus disfigured, of the bloom of youth Bereft, my little thread of life has from The spindle of the unrelenting Fate Been drawn? Alas, incautious are thy words! Mysterious counsels all events control, And all, except our grief, is mystery. Deserted children, we were born to weep; But why, is known to those above, alone. O vain the cares, the hopes of earlier years! To idle shows Jove gives eternal sway O'er human hearts. Unless in shining robes arrayed, All manly deeds in arms, or art, or song, Appeal in vain unto the vulgar throng. I die! This wretched veil to earth I cast, And for my naked soul a refuge seek Below, and for the cruel faults atone Of gods, the blind dispensers of events. And thou, to whom I have been bound so long, By hopeless love, and lasting faith, and by The frenzy vain of unappeased desire, Live, live, and if thou canst, be happy here! My cup o'erflows with bitterness, and Jove Has from his vase no drop of sweetness shed, For all my childhood's hopes and dreams have fled. The happiest day the soonest fades away; And then succeed disease, old age, the shade Of icy death. Behold, alas! Of all My longed-for laurels, my illusions dear, The end,--the gulf of hell! My spirit proud Must to the realm of Proserpine descend, The Stygian shore, the night that knows no end. ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,

186:In Nunhead Cemetary It is the clay what makes the earth stick to his spade; He fills in holes like this year after year; The others have gone; they were tired, and half afraid But I would rather be standing here; There is nowhere else to go. I have seen this place From the windows of the train that's going past Against the sky. This is rain on my face It was raining here when I saw it last. There is something horrible about a flower; This, broken in my hand, is one of those He threw it in just now; it will not live another hour; There are thousands more; you do not miss a rose. One of the children hanging about Pointed at the whole dreadful heap and smiled This morning after THAT was carried out; There is something terrible about a child. We were like children last week, in the Strand; That was the day you laughed at me Because I tried to make you understand The cheap, stale chap I used to be Before I saw the things you made me see. This is not a real place; perhaps by-and-by I shall wake - I am getting drenched with all this rain: To-morrow I will tell you about the eyes of the Chrystal Palace train Looking down on us, and you will laugh and I shall see what you see again. Not here, not now. We said 'Not yet Across our low stone parapet Will the quick shadows of the sparrows fall. But still it was a lovely thing Through the grey months to wait for Spring With the birds that go a-gypsying In the parks till the blue seas call. 10 And next to these, you used to care For the Lions in Trafalgar Square, Who'll stand and speak for London when her bell of Judgement tolls And the gulls at Westminster that were The old sea-captains souls. To-day again the brown tide splashes step by step, the river stair, And the gulls are there! By a month we have missed our Day: The children would have hung about Round the carriage and over the way As you and I came out. We should have stood on the gulls' black cliffs and heard the sea And seen the moon's white track, I would have called, you would have come to me And kissed me back. You have never done that: I do not know Why I stood staring at your bed And heard you, though you spoke so low, But could not reach your hands, your little head; There was nothing we could not do, you said, And you went, and I let you go! Now I will burn you back, I will burn you through, Though I am damned for it we two will lie And burn, here where the starlings fly To these white stones from the wet sky - ; Dear, you will say this is not I It would not be you, it would not be you! If for only a little while You will think of it you will understand, If you will touch my sleeve and smile As you did that morning in the Strand I can wait quietly with you Or go away if you want me to God! What is God? but your face has gone and your hand! Let me stay here too. 11 When I was quite a little lad At Christmas time we went half mad For joy of all the toys we had, And then we used to sing about the sheep The shepherds watched by night; We used to pray to Christ to keep Our small souls safe till morning light - ; I am scared, I am staying with you to-night Put me to sleep. I shall stay here: here you can see the sky; The houses in the street are much too high; There is no one left to speak to there; Here they are everywhere, And just above them fields and fields of roses lie If he would dig it all up again they would not die. ~ Charlotte Mary Mew,

187:The World-Soul Thanks to the morning light, Thanks to the seething sea, To the uplands of New Hampshire, To the green-haired forest free; Thanks to each man of courage, To the maids of holy mind, To the boy with his games undaunted, Who never looks behind. Cities of proud hotels, Houses of rich and great, Vice nestles in your chambers, Beneath your roofs of slate. It cannot conquer folly, Time-and-space-conquering steam, And the light-outspeeding telegraph Bears nothing on its beam. The politics are base, The letters do not cheer, And 'tis far in the deeps of history The voice that speaketh clear. Trade and the streets ensnare us, Our bodies are weak and worn, We plot and corrupt each other, And we despoil the unborn. Yet there in the parlor sits Some figure of noble guise, Our angel in a stranger's form, Or woman's pleading eyes; Or only a flashing sunbeam In at the window pane; Or music pours on mortals Its beautiful disdain. The inevitable morning Finds them who in cellars be, And be sure the all-loving Nature Will smile in a factory. Yon ridge of purple landscape, Yon sky between the walls, Hold all the hidden wonders In scanty intervals. Alas, the sprite that haunts us Deceives our rash desire, It whispers of the glorious gods, And leaves us in the mire: We cannot learn the cipher That's writ upon our cell, Stars help us by a mystery Which we could never spell. If but one hero knew it, The world would blush in flame, The sage, till he hit the secret, Would hang his head for shame. But our brothers have not read it, Not one has found the key, And henceforth we are comforted, We are but such as they. Still, still the secret presses, The nearing clouds draw down, The crimson morning flames into The fopperies of the town. Within, without, the idle earth Stars weave eternal rings, The sun himself shines heartily, And shares the joy he brings. And what if trade sow cities Like shells along the shore, And thatch with towns the prairie broad With railways ironed o'er; They are but sailing foambells Along Thought's causing stream, And take their shape and Sun-color From him that sends the dream. For destiny does not like To yield to men the helm, And shoots his thought by hidden nerves Throughout the solid realm. The patient Dmon sits With roses and a shroud, He has his way, and deals his gifts But ours is not allowed. He is no churl or trifler, And his viceroy is none, Love-without-weakness, Of genius sire and son; And his will is not thwarted, The seeds of land and sea Are the atoms of his body bright, And his behest obey. He serveth the servant, The brave he loves amain, He kills the cripple and the sick, And straight begins again; For gods delight in gods, And thrust the weak aside; To him who scorns their charities, Their arms fly open wide. When the old world is sterile, And the ages are effete, He will from wrecks and sediment The fairer world complete. He forbids to despair, His cheeks mantle with mirth, And the unimagined good of men Is yeaning at the birth. Spring still makes spring in the mind, When sixty years are told; Love wakes anew this throbbing heart, And we are never old. Over the winter glaciers, I see the summer glow, And through the wild-piled snowdrift The warm rose buds below. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, The World-Soul ,

188:I always had trouble with the feet of Jón the First, or Pre-Jón, as I called him later. He would frequently put them in front of me in the evening and tell me to take off his socks and rub his toes, soles, heels and calves. It was quite impossible for me to love these Icelandic men's feet that were shaped like birch stumps, hard and chunky, and screaming white as the wood when the bark is stripped from it. Yes, and as cold and damp, too. The toes had horny nails that resembled dead buds in a frosty spring. Nor can I forget the smell, for malodorous feet were very common in the post-war years when men wore nylon socks and practically slept in their shoes. How was it possible to love these Icelandic men? Who belched at the meal table and farted constantly. After four Icelandic husbands and a whole load of casual lovers I had become a vrai connaisseur of flatulence, could describe its species and varieties in the way that a wine-taster knows his wines. The howling backfire, the load, the gas bomb and the Luftwaffe were names I used most. The coffee belch and the silencer were also well-known quantities, but the worst were the date farts, a speciality of Bæring of Westfjord. Icelandic men don’t know how to behave: they never have and never will, but they are generally good fun. At least, Icelandic women think so. They seem to come with this inner emergency box, filled with humour and irony, which they always carry around with them and can open for useful items if things get too rough, and it must be a hereditary gift of the generations. Anyone who loses their way in the mountains and gets snowed in or spends the whole weekend stuck in a lift can always open this special Icelandic emergency box and get out of the situation with a good story. After wandering the world and living on the Continent I had long tired of well-behaved, fart-free gentlemen who opened the door and paid the bills but never had a story to tell and were either completely asexual or demanded skin-burning action until the morning light. Swiss watch salesmen who only knew of “sechs” as their wake-up hour, or hairy French apes who always required their twelve rounds of screwing after the six-course meal. I suppose I liked German men the best. They were a suitable mixture of belching northerner and cultivated southerner, of orderly westerner and crazy easterner, but in the post-war years they were of course broken men. There was little you could do with them except try to put them right first. And who had the time for that? Londoners are positive and jolly, but their famous irony struck me as mechanical and wearisome in the long run. As if that irony machine had eaten away their real essence. The French machine, on the other hand, is fuelled by seriousness alone, and the Frogs can drive you beyond the limit when they get going with their philosophical noun-dropping. The Italian worships every woman like a queen until he gets her home, when she suddenly turns into a slut. The Yank is one hell of a guy who thinks big: he always wants to take you the moon. At the same time, however, he is as smug and petty as the meanest seamstress, and has a fit if someone eats his peanut butter sandwich aboard the space shuttle. I found Russians interesting. In fact they were the most Icelandic of all: drank every glass to the bottom and threw themselves into any jollity, knew countless stories and never talked seriously unless at the bottom of the bottle, when they began to wail for their mother who lived a thousand miles away but came on foot to bring them their clean laundry once a month. They were completely crazy and were better athletes in bed than my dear countrymen, but in the end I had enough of all their pommel-horse routines. Nordic men are all as tactless as Icelanders. They get drunk over dinner, laugh loudly and fart, eventually start “singing” even in public restaurants where people have paid to escape the tumult of ~ Hallgr mur Helgason,

189:Saltbush Bill On The Patriarchs Come all you little rouseabouts and climb upon my knee; To-day, you see, is Christmas Day, and so it’s up to me To give you some instruction like—a kind of Christmas tale— So name your yarn, and off she goes. What, “Jonah and the Whale”? Well, whales is sheep I’ve never shore; I’ve never been to sea, So all them great Leviathans is mysteries to me; But there’s a tale the Bible tells I fully understand, About the time the Patriarchs were settling on the land. Those Patriarchs of olden time, when all is said and done, They lived the same as far-out men on many a Queensland run— A lot of roving, droving men who drifted to and fro, The same we did out Queensland way a score of years ago. Now Isaac was a squatter man, and Jacob was his son, And when the boy grew up, you see, he wearied of the run. You know the way that boys grow up—there’s some that stick at home; But any boy that’s worth his salt will roll his swag and roam. So Jacob caught the roving fit and took the drovers’ track To where his uncle had a run, beyond the outer back; You see they made for out-back runs for room to stretch and grow, The same we did out Queensland way a score of years ago. Now, Jacob knew the ways of stock—that’s most uncommon clear— For when he got to Laban’s Run, they made him overseer; He didn’t ask a pound a week, but bargained for his pay To take the roan and strawberry calves—the same we’d take to-day. The duns and blacks and “Goulburn roans” (that’s brindles), coarse and hard, He branded them with Laban’s brand, in Old Man Laban’s yard; So, when he’d done the station work for close on seven year, Why, all the choicest stock belonged to Laban’s overseer. It’s often so with overseers—I’ve seen the same thing done By many a Queensland overseer on many a Queensland run. But when the mustering time came on old Laban acted straight, And gave him country of his own outside the boundary gate. 242 He gave him stock, and offered him his daughter’s hand in troth; And Jacob first he married one, and then he married both; You see, they weren’t particular about a wife or so— No more were we up Queensland way a score of years ago. But when the stock were strong and fat with grass and lots of rain, Then Jacob felt the call to take the homeward road again. It’s strange in every creed and clime, no matter where you roam, There comes a day when every man would like to make for home. So off he set with sheep and goats, a mighty moving band, To battle down the homeward track along the Overland— It’s droving mixed-up mobs like that that makes men cut their throats. I’ve travelled rams, which Lord forget, but never travelled goats. But Jacob knew the ways of stock, for (so the story goes) When battling through the Philistines—selectors, I suppose— He thought he’d have to fight his way, an awkward sort of job; So what did Old Man Jacob do? of course, he split the mob. He sent the strong stock on ahead to battle out the way; He couldn’t hurry lambing ewes—no more you could to-day— And down the road, from run to run, his hand ’gainst every hand, He moved that mighty mob of stock across the Overland. The thing is made so clear and plain, so solid in and out, There isn’t any room at all for any kind of doubt. It’s just a plain straightforward tale—a tale that lets you know The way they lived in Palestine three thousand years ago. It’s strange to read it all to-day, the shifting of the stock; You’d think you see the caravans that loaf behind the flock, The little donkeys and the mules, the sheep that slowly spread, And maybe Dan or Naphthali a-ridin’ on ahead. The long, dry, dusty summer days, the smouldering fires at night; The stir and bustle of the camp at break of morning light; The little kids that skipped about, the camels’ dead-slow tramp— I wish I’d done a week or two in Old Man Jacob’s camp! But if I keep the narrer path, some day, perhaps, I’ll know How Jacob bred them strawberry calves three thousand years ago. 243 ~ Banjo Paterson,

190:Confiteor The shore-boat lies in the morning light, By the good ship ready for sailing ; The skies are clear, and the dawn is bright, Tho' the bar of the bay is fleck'd with white, And the wind is fitfully wailing ; Near the tiller stands the prit, and the knight Leans over the quarter-railing. 'There is time while the vessel tarries still, There is time while her shrouds are slack, There is time ere her sails to the west-wind fill, Ere her tall masts vanish from town and from hill, Ere cleaves to her keel the track ; There is time for confession to those who will, To those who may never come back.' 'Sir priest, you can shrive these men of mine, And, I pray you, shrive them fast, And shrive those hardy sons of the brine, Captain and mates of the Eglantine, And sailors before the mast ; Then pledge me a cup of the Cyprus wine, For I fain would bury the past.' 'And hast thou naught to repent, my son ? Dost thou scorn confession and shrift ? Ere thy sands from the glass of time shall run Is there naught undone that thou should'st have done, Naught done that thou should'st have left ? The guiltiest soul may from guilt be won, And the stoniest heart may be cleft.' 'Have my ears been closed to the prayer of the poor, Or deaf to the cry of distress ? Have I given little, and taken more ? Have I brought a curse to the widow's door ? Have I wrong'd the fatherless ? Have I steep'd my fingers in guiltless gore, That I must perforce confess ?' 128 'Have thy steps been guided by purity Through the paths with wickedness rife ? Hast thou never smitten thine enemy ? Hast thou yielded naught to the lust of the eye, And naught to the pride of life ? Hast thou pass'd all snares of pleasure by ? Hast thou shunn'd all wrath and strife ?' 'Nay, certes ! a sinful life I've led, Yet I've suffer'd, and lived in hope ; I may suffer still, but my hope has fled,— I've nothing now to hope or to dread, And with fate I can fairly cope ; Were the waters closing over my head, I should scarcely catch at a rope.' 'Dost suffer ? thy pain may be fraught with grace, Since never by works alone We are saved ;—the penitent thief may trace The wealth of love in the Saviour's face To the Pharisee rarely shown ; And the Magdalene's arms may yet embrace The foot of the jasper throne.' 'Sir priest, a heavier doom I dree, For I feel no quickening pain, But a dull dumb weight, when I bow my knee, And (not with the words of the Pharisee) My hard eyes heavenward strain, Where my dead darling prayeth for me ! Now, I wot, she prayeth in vain ! 'Still I hear it over the battle's din, And over the festive cheer,— So she pray'd with clasp'd hands, white and thin,— The prayer of a soul absolved from sin, For a soul that is dark and drear, For the light of repentance bursting in, And the flood of the blinding tear. 'Say, priest ! when the saint must vainly plead, 129 Oh ! how shall the sinner fare ? I hold your comfort a broken reed ; Let the wither'd branch for itself take heed, While the green shoots wait your care ; I've striven, though feebly, to grasp your creed, And I've grappled my own despair.' 'By the little within thee, good and brave, Not wholly shattered, though shaken ; By the soul that crieth beyond the grave, The love that He once in His mercy gave, In His mercy since retaken, I conjure thee, oh sinner ! pardon crave ! I implore thee, oh sleeper, waken !' 'Go to ! shall I lay my black soul bare To a vain, self-righteous man ? In my sin, in my sorrow, you may not share, And yet, could I meet with one who must bear The load of an equal ban, With him I might strive to blend one prayer, The wail of the Publican.' 'My son, I too am a withered bough, My place is to others given ; Thou hast sinn'd, thou sayest ; I ask not how, For I too have sinn'd, even as thou, And I too have feebly striven, And with thee I must bow, crying, 'Shrive us now ! Our Father which art in heaven !' ' ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

191:Glasgow SING, poet, 'tis a merry world; That cottage smoke is rolled and curled In sport, that every moss Is happy, every inch of soil: Before me runs a road of toil With my grave cut across. Sing, trailing showers and breezy downs I know the tragic hearts of towns. City! I am true son of thine; Ne'er dwelt I where great mornings shine Around the bleating pens; Ne'er by the rivulets I strayed, And ne'er upon my childhood weighed The silence of the glens. Instead of shores where ocean beats I hear the ebb and flow of streets. Black Labor draws his weary waves Into their secret moaning caves; But, with the morning light, That sea again will overflow With a long, weary sound of woe, Again to faint in night. Wave am I in that sea of woes, Which, night and morning, ebbs and flows. I dwelt within a gloomy court, Wherein did never sunbeam sport; Yet there my heart was stirred My very blood did dance and thrill, When on my narrow window-sill Spring lighted like a bird. Poor flowers! I watched them pine for weeks, With leaves as pale as human cheeks. Afar, one summer, I was borne; Through golden vapors of the morn I heard the hills of sheep: 10 I trod with a wild ecstasy The bright fringe of the living sea: And on a ruined keep I sat, and watched an endless plain Blacken beneath the gloom of rain. Oh, fair the lightly-sprinkled waste, O'er which a laughing shower has raced! Oh, fair the April shoots! Oh, fair the woods on summer days, While a blue hyacinthine haze Is dreaming round the roots! In thee, O city! I discern Another beaity, sad and strern. Draw thy fierce streams of blinding ore, Smite on a thousand anvils, roar Down the harbor-bars; Smoulder in smoky sunsets, flare On rainy nights; with street and square Lie empty to the stars. From terrace proud to alley base I know thee as my mother's face. When sunset bathes thee in his gold, In wreaths of bronze thy sides are rolled, They smoke is dusky fire; And, from the glory round thee poured, A sunbeam like an angel's sword Shivers upon a spire. Thus have I watched thee, Terror! Dream! While the blue night crept up the stream. The wild train plunges in the hills, He shrieks across the midnight rills; Streams through the shifting glare, The roar and flap of foundry fires, That shake with light the sleeping shires; And on the moorlands bare He sees afar a crown of light Hang o'er thee in the hollow night. 11 And through thy heart as through a dream, Flows on that black disdainful stream; All scornfully it flows, Between the huddled gloom of masts, Silent as pines unvexed by blasts 'Tween lamps in streaming rows, O wondrous sight! O stream of dread! O long, dark river of the dead! Afar, the banner of the year Unfurls: but dimly prisoned here, Tis only when I greet A dropt rose lying in my way, A butterfly that flutters gay Athwart the noisy street, I know the happy Summer smiles Around thy suburbs, miles on miles. 'Twere neither pæan now, nor dirge, The flash and thunder of the surge On flat sands wide and bare; No haunting joy or anguish dwells In the green light of sunny dells, Or in the starry air. Alike to me the desert flower, The rainbow laughing o'er the shower While o'er thy walls the darkness sails, I lean against the churchyard rails; Up in the midnight towers The belfried spire, the street is dead, I hear in silence overhead The clang of iron hours: It moves me not - I know her tomb Is yonder in the shapeless gloom. All raptures of this mortal breath, Solemnities of life and death, Dwell in thy noise alone: Of me thou hast become a part Some kindred with my human heart Lives in thy streets of stone; 12 For we have been familiar more Than galley-slave and weary oar. The beech is dipped in wine; the shower Is burnished; on the swinging flower The latest bee doth sit. The low sun stares through dust of gold. And o'er the darkened heath and wold The large ghost-moth doth flit. In every orchard Autumn stands, With apples in his golden hands. But all these sights and sounds are strange; Then wherefore from thee shoud I range? Thou hast my kith and kin; My childhood, youth, and manhood brave; Thou hast that unforgotten grave Within thy central din. A sacredness of love and death Dwells in thy noise and smoky breath. ~ Alexander Smith,

192:First Love Ah, well can I the day recall, when first The conflict fierce of love I felt, and said: If _this_ be love, how hard it is to bear! With eyes still fixed intent upon the ground, I saw but _her_, whose artless innocence, Triumphant took possession of this heart. Ah, Love, how badly hast thou governed me! Why should affection so sincere and pure, Bring with it such desire, such suffering? Why not serene, and full, and free from guile But sorrow-laden, and lamenting sore, Should joy so great into my heart descend? O tell me, tender heart, that sufferest so, Why with that thought such anguish should be blent, Compared with which, all other thoughts were naught? That thought, that ever present in the day, That in the night more vivid still appeared, When all things round in sweet sleep seemed to rest: Thou, restless, both with joy and misery Didst with thy constant throbbings weary so My breast, as panting in my bed I lay. And when worn out with grief and weariness, In sleep my eyes I closed, ah, no relief It gave, so broken and so feverish! How brightly from the depths of darkness, then, The lovely image rose, and my closed eyes, Beneath their lids, their gaze upon it fed! O what delicious impulses, diffused, My weary frame with sweet emotion filled! What myriad thoughts, unstable and confused, 31 Were floating in my mind! As through the leaves Of some old grove, the west wind, wandering, A long, mysterious murmur leaves behind. And as I, silent, to their influence yield, What saidst thou, heart, when she departed, who Had caused thee all thy throbs, and suffering? No sooner had I felt within, the heat Of love's first flame, than with it flew away The gentle breeze, that fanned it into life. Sleepless I lay, until the dawn of day; The steeds, that were to leave me desolate, Their hoofs were beating at my father's gate. And I, in mute suspense, poor timid fool, With eye that vainly would the darkness pierce, And eager ear intent, lay, listening, That voice to hear, if, for the last time, I Might catch the accents from those lovely lips; The voice alone; all else forever lost! How many vulgar tones my doubtful ear Would smite, with deep disgust inspiring me, With doubt tormented, holding hard my breath! And when, at last, that voice into my heart Descended, passing sweet, and when the sound Of horses and of wheels had died away; In utter desolation, then, my head I in my pillow buried, closed my eyes, And pressed my hand against my heart, and sighed. Then, listlessly, my trembling knees across The silent chamber dragging, I exclaimed, 'Nothing on earth can interest me more!' The bitter recollection cherishing 32 Within my breast, to every voice my heart, To every face, insensible remained. Long I remained in hopeless sorrow drowned; As when the heavens far and wide their showers Incessant pour upon the fields around. Nor had I, Love, thy cruel power known, A boy of eighteen summers flown, until That day, when I thy bitter lesson learned; When I each pleasure held in scorn, nor cared The shining stars to see, or meadows green, Or felt the charm of holy morning light; The love of glory, too, no longer found An echo in my irresponsive breast, That, once, the love of beauty with it shared. My favorite studies I neglected quite; And those things vain appeared, compared with which, I used to think all other pleasures vain. Ah! how could I have changed so utterly? How could one passion all the rest destroy? Indeed, what helpless mortals are we all! My heart my only comfort was, and with That heart, in conference perpetual, A constant watch upon my grief to keep. My eye still sought the ground, or in itself Absorbed, shrank from encountering the glance Of lovely or unlovely countenance; The stainless image fearing to disturb, So faithfully reflected in my breast; As winds disturb the mirror of the lake. And that regret, that I could not enjoy Such happiness, which weighs upon the mind, And turns to poison pleasure that has passed, 33 Did still its thorn within my bosom lodge, As I the past recalled; but shame, indeed, Left not its cruel sting within this heart. To heaven, to you, ye gentle souls, I swear, No base desire intruded on my thought; But with a pure and sacred flame I burned. That flame still lives, and that affection pure; Still in my thought that lovely image breathes, From which, save heavenly, I no other joy, Have ever known; my only comfort, now! ~ Count Giacomo Leopardi,

193:Confession Une fois, une seule, aimable et douce femme, À mon bras votre bras poli S'appuya (sur le fond ténébreux de mon âme Ce souvenir n'est point pâli); II était tard; ainsi qu'une médaille neuve La pleine lune s'étalait, Et la solennité de la nuit, comme un fleuve, Sur Paris dormant ruisselait. Et le long des maisons, sous les portes cochères, Des chats passaient furtivement L'oreille au guet, ou bien, comme des ombres chères, Nous accompagnaient lentement. Tout à coup, au milieu de l'intimité libre Eclose à la pâle clarté De vous, riche et sonore instrument où ne vibre Que la radieuse gaieté, De vous, claire et joyeuse ainsi qu'une fanfare Dans le matin étincelant Une note plaintive, une note bizarre S'échappa, tout en chancelant Comme une enfant chétive, horrible, sombre, immonde, Dont sa famille rougirait, Et qu'elle aurait longtemps, pour la cacher au monde, Dans un caveau mise au secret. Pauvre ange, elle chantait, votre note criarde: «Que rien ici-bas n'est certain, Et que toujours, avec quelque soin qu'il se farde, Se trahit l'égoïsme humain; Que c'est un dur métier que d'être belle femme, Et que c'est le travail banal De la danseuse folle et froide qui se pâme Dans son sourire machinal; 155 Que bâtir sur les coeurs est une chose sotte; Que tout craque, amour et beauté, Jusqu'à ce que l'Oubli les jette dans sa hotte Pour les rendre à l'Eternité!» J'ai souvent évoqué cette lune enchantée, Ce silence et cette langueur, Et cette confidence horrible chuchotée Au confessionnal du coeur. Confession One time, once only, sweet, amiable woman, On my arm your smooth arm Rested (on the tenebrous background of my soul That memory is not faded); It was late; like a newly struck medal The full moon spread its rays, And the solemnity of the night streamed Like a river over sleeping Paris. And along the houses, under the porte-cocheres, Cats passed by furtively, With ears pricked up, or else, like beloved shades, Slowly escorted us. Suddenly, in the midst of that frank intimacy Born in the pale moonlight, From you, sonorous, rich instrument which vibrates Only with radiant gaiety, From you, clear and joyful as a fanfare In the glistening morning light, A plaintive note, a bizarre note Escaped, faltering Like a puny, filthy, sullen, horrible child, Who would make his family blush, And whom they have hidden for a long time In a secret cellar. 156 Poor angel, it sang, your discordant note: 'That naught is certain here below, That always, though it paint its face with utmost care Man's selfishness reveals itself, That it's a hard calling to be a lovely woman, And that it is the banal task Of the cold and silly danseuse who faints away With a mechanical smile, That to build on hearts is a foolish thing, That all things break, love, and beauty, Till Oblivion tosses them into his dosser To give them back to Eternity!' I've often evoked that enchanted moon, The silence and the languidness, And that horrible confidence whispered In the heart's confessional. — William Aggeler Confession Once, and once only, kind and gentle lady, Your polished arm on mine you placed (Deep down within my spirit, dark and shady, I keep the memory uneffaced). A medal, newly-coined, of flashing silver, The full moon shone. The night was old. Its solemn grandeur, like a mighty river, Through sleeping Paris softly rolled. Along the streets, by courtyard doors, cats darted And passed in furtive, noiseless flight With cars pricked; or, like shades of friends departed, Followed us slowly through the night. Cutting this easy intimacy through, 157 That hatched from out that pearly light — O rich resounding instrument, from you, Who'd always thrilled with loud delight, From you, till then as joyful as a peal Of trumpets on a sparkling morn, A cry so plaintive that it seemed unreal, Was staggeringly torn. Like some misborn, deformed, and monstrous kid Who puts his family to the blush, Whose presence in a cellar must be hid And his existence in a hush! Poor angel! that harsh note was meant to sing 'That nothing in this world is certain, And human egotism is the thing Which all existence serves to curtain. That it's an irksome task to be a beauty, A boring job one has to face — Like frigid dancers, smiling as a duty With hard, mechanical grimace: That building upon hearts is idiotic: All cracks, love, beauty, and fraternity Until Oblivion puts them in his pocket To pawn them on to old Eternity!' I often have recalled that moon of magic, That languid hush on quays and marts, And then this confidence, so grim and tragic, In the confessional of hearts. — Translated by Roy Campbell ~ Charles Baudelaire,

194:The Wood BUT two miles more, and then we rest ! Well, there is still an hour of day, And long the brightness of the West Will light us on our devious way; Sit then, awhile, here in this wood­ So total is the solitude, We safely may delay. These massive roots afford a seat, Which seems for weary travellers made. There rest. The air is soft and sweet In this sequestered forest glade, And there are scents of flowers around, The evening dew draws from the ground; How soothingly they spread ! Yes; I was tired, but not at heart; No­that beats full of sweet content, For now I have my natural part Of action with adventure blent; Cast forth on the wide vorld with thee, And all my once waste energy To weighty purpose bent. Yet­say'st thou, spies around us roam, Our aims are termed conspiracy ? Haply, no more our English home An anchorage for us may be ? That there is risk our mutual blood May redden in some lonely wood The knife of treachery ? Say'st thou­that where we lodge each night, In each lone farm, or lonelier hall Of Norman Peer­ere morning light Suspicion must as duly fall, As day returns­such vigilance Presides and watches over France, Such rigour governs all ? 74 I fear not, William; dost thou fear ? So that the knife does not divide, It may be ever hovering near: I could not tremble at thy side, And strenuous love­like mine for thee­ Is buckler strong, 'gainst treachery, And turns its stab aside. I am resolved that thou shalt learn To trust my strength as I trust thine; I am resolved our souls shall burn, With equal, steady, mingling shine; Part of the field is conquered now, Our lives in the same channel flow, Along the self-same line; And while no groaning storm is heard, Thou seem'st content it should be so, But soon as comes a warning word Of danger­straight thine anxious brow Bends over me a mournful shade, As doubting if my powers are made To ford the floods of woe. Know, then it is my spirit swells, And drinks, with eager joy, the air Of freedom­where at last it dwells, Chartered, a common task to share With thee, and then it stirs alert, And pants to learn what menaced hurt Demands for thee its care. Remember, I have crossed the deep, And stood with thee on deck, to gaze On waves that rose in threatening heap, While stagnant lay a heavy haze, Dimly confusing sea with sky, And baffling, even, the pilot's eye, Intent to thread the maze­ Of rocks, on Bretagne's dangerous coast, 75 And find a way to steer our band To the one point obscure, which lost, Flung us, as victims, on the strand;­ All, elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword, And not a wherry could be moored Along the guarded land. I feared not then­I fear not now; The interest of each stirring scene Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow, In every nerve and bounding vein; Alike on turbid Channel sea, Or in still wood of Normandy, I feel as born again. The rain descended that wild morn When, anchoring in the cove at last, Our band, all weary and forlorn, Ashore, like wave-worn sailors, cast­ Sought for a sheltering roof in vain, And scarce could scanty food obtain To break their morning fast. Thou didst thy crust with me divide, Thou didst thy cloak around me fold; And, sitting silent by thy side, I ate the bread in peace untold: Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet As costly fare or princely treat On royal plate of gold. Sharp blew the sleet upon my face, And, rising wild, the gusty wind Drove on those thundering waves apace, Our crew so late had left behind; But, spite of frozen shower and storm, So close to thee, my heart beat warm, And tranquil slept my mind. So now­nor foot-sore nor opprest With walking all this August day, I taste a heaven in this brief rest, 76 This gipsy-halt beside the way. England's wild flowers are fair to view, Like balm is England's summer dew, Like gold her sunset ray. But the white violets, growing here, Are sweeter than I yet have seen, And ne'er did dew so pure and clear Distil on forest mosses green, As now, called forth by summer heat, Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat­ These fragrant limes between. That sunset ! Look beneath the boughs, Over the copse­beyond the hills; How soft, yet deep and warm it glows, And heaven with rich suffusion fills; With hues where still the opal's tint, Its gleam of poisoned fire is blent, Where flame through azure thrills ! Depart we now­for fast will fade That solemn splendour of decline, And deep must be the after-shade As stars alone to-night will shine; No moon is destined­pale­to gaze On such a day's vast Phoenix blaze, A day in fires decayed ! There­hand-in-hand we tread again The mazes of this varying wood, And soon, amid a cultured plain, Girt in with fertile solitude, We shall our resting-place descry, Marked by one roof-tree, towering high Above a farm-stead rude. Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare, We'll seek a couch of dreamless ease; Courage will guard thy heart from fear, And Love give mine divinest peace: To-morrow brings more dangerous toil, 77 And through its conflict and turmoil We'll pass, as God shall please. ~ Charlotte Brontë,

195:The Ballad Of Dick Turpin The daylight moon looked quietly down Through the gathering dusk on London town A smock-frocked yokel hobbled along By Newgate, humming a country song. Chewing a straw, he stood to stare At the proclamation posted there: “Three hundred guineas on Turpins head, Trap him alive or shoot him dead; And a hundred more for his mate, Tom King.” He crouched like a tiger about to spring. Then he looked up, and he looked down; And chuckling low, like a country clown, Dick Turpin painfully hobbled away In quest of his inn – “The Load of Hay”... Alone in her stall, his mare, Black Bess, Lifted her head in mute distress; For five strange men had entered the yard And looked at her long, and looked at her hard. They went out, muttering under their breath; And then – the dusk grew still as death. But the velvet ears of the listening mare Lifted and twitched. They were there – still there; Hidden and waiting; for whom? And why? The clock struck four, a set drew nigh. It was King! Dick Turpins’ mate. The black mare whinnied. Too late! Too late! They rose like shadows out of the ground And grappled him there, without a sound. 98 “Throttle him – quietly – choke him dead! Or we lose this hawk for a jay, they said.” They wrestled and heaved, five men to one; And a yokel entered the yard, alone; A smock-frocked yokel, hobbling slow; But a fight is physic as all men know. His age dropped off, he stood upright. He leapt like a tiger into the fight. Hand to hand, they fought in the dark; For none could fire at a twisting mark. Where he that shot at a foe might send His pistol ball through the skull of a friend. But “Shoot Dick, Shoot” gasped out Tom King “Shoot! Or damn it we both shall swing! Shoot and chance it!” Dick leapt back. He drew. He fired. At the pistols crack The wrestlers whirled. They scattered apart And the bullet drilled through Tom Kings heart... Dick Turpin dropped his smoking gun. They had trapped him five men to one. A gun in the hand of the crouching five. They could take Dick Turpin now alive; Take him and bind him and tell their tale As a pot house boast, when they drank their ale. He whistled, soft as a bird might call And a head rope snapped in his birds dark stall. He whistled, soft as a nightingale He heard the swish of her swinging tail. 99 There was no way out that the five could see To heaven or hell, but the Tyburn tree; No door but death; and yet once more He whistled, as though at a sweethearts door. The five men laughed at him, trapped alive; And – the door crashed open behind the five! Out of the stable, a wave of thunder, Swept Black Bess, and the five went under. He leapt to the saddle, a hoof turned stone, Flashed blue fire, and their prize was gone..... ** He rode for one impossible thing; that in the morning light The towers of York might waken himfrom London and last night. He rode to prove himself another, and leave himself behind. And the hunted self was like a cloud; but the hunter like the wind. Neck and neck they rode together; that, in the day’s first gleam, each might prove that the other self was but a mocking dream. And the little sleeping villages, and the breathless country side Woke to the drum of the ghostly hooves, but missed that ghostly ride. The did not see, they did not hear as the ghostly hooves drew nigh, The dark magnificent thief in the night that rode so subtly by. 100 They woke, they rushed to the way-side door, They saw what the midnight showed,A mare that came like a crested wave, Along the Great North Road. A flying spark in the formless dark, a flash from the hoof-spurned stone, And the lifted face of a man – that took the starlight and was gone. The heard the sound of a pounding chase three hundred yards away There were fourteen men in a stream of sweat and a plaster of Midland clay. The starlight struck their pistol-butts as they passed in the clattering crowd But the hunting wraith was away like the wind at the heels of the hunted cloud. He rode by the walls of Nottingham, and over him as he went Like ghosts across the Great North Road, the boughs of Sherwood bent. By Bawtry, all the chase but one has dropped a league behind, Yet, one rider haunted him, invisibly, as the wind. And northward, like a blacker night, he saw the moors up-loom And Don and Derwent sang to him, like memory in the gloom. And northward, northward as he rode, and sweeter than a prayer The voices of those hidden streams, the Trent, the Ouse and the Aire; Streams that could never slake his thirst. He heard them as he flowed But one dumb shadow haunted him along the Great North Road. Till now, at dawn, the towers of York rose on 101 the reddening sky. And Bess went down between his knees, like a breaking wave to die. He lay beside her in the ditch, he kissed her lovely head, And a shadow passed him like the wind and left him with his dead. He saw, but not that one as wakes, the city that he sought, He had escaped from London town, but not from his own thought. He strode up to the Mickle-gate, with none to say him nay. And there he met his Other Self in the stranger light of day. He strode up to the dreadful thing that in the gateway stood And it stretched out a ghostly hand that the dawn had stained with blood. It stood as in the gates of hell, with none to hear or see, “Welcome,” it said, “Thou’st ridden well, and outstript all but me”. ~ Alfred Noyes,

196:The Highwayman PART ONE THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. II He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. III Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. IV And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say— 118 'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.' VI He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West. PART TWO He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching— King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door. II They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. III They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; 119 They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! 'Now, keep good watch!' and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say— Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! IV She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain . VI Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still! VII Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, 120 Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death. VIII He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. IX Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding— Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. XI Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. ~ Alfred Noyes,

197:ON INVOLUNTARY BLISS With such riddles and bitternesses in his heart Zarathustra crossed the sea. But when he was four days away from the blessed isles and from his friends, he had overcome all his pain; triumphant and with firm feet he stood on his destiny again. And then Zarathustra spoke thus to his jubilant conscience I am alone again and I want to be so; alone with the pure sky and open sea; again it is afternoon around me. It was in the afternoon that I once found my friends for the first time; it was afternoon the second time too, at the hour when all light grows quieter. For whatever of happiness is still on its way between heaven and earth now seeks a shelter in a bright soul; it is from happiness that all light has grown quieter. 161 0 afternoon of my life Once my happiness too descended to the valley to seek shelter; and found those open, hospitable souls. 0 afternoon of my life What have I not given up to have one single thing: this living plantation of my thoughts and this morning light of my highest hope Companions the creator once sought, and children of his hope; and behold, it turned out that he could not find them, unless he first created them himself. Thus I am in the middle of my work, going to my children and returning from them: for his children's sake, Zarathustra must perfect himself. For from the depths one loves only one's child and work; and where there is great love of oneself it is the sign of pregnancy: thus I found it to be. My children are still verdant in their first spring, standing close together and shaken by the same winds-the trees of my garden and my best soil. And verily, where such trees stand together there are blessed isles. But one day I want to dig them up and place each by itself, so it may learn solitude and defiance and caution. Gnarled and bent and with supple hardness it shall then stand by the sea, a living lighthouse of invincible life. Where the storms plunge down into the sea and the mountain stretches out its trunk for water, there every one shall once have his day and night watches for his testing and knowledge. He shall be known and tested, whether he is of my kind and kin, whether he is the master of a long will, taciturn even when he speaks, and yielding so that in giving he receives-so that he may one day become my companion and a fellow creator and fellow celebrant of Zarathustra-one who writes my will on my tablets to contri bute to the greater perfection of all things. And for his sake and the sake 162 of those like him I must perfect myself; therefore I now evade my happiness and offer myself to all unhappiness, for my final testing and knowledge. And verily, it was time for me to leave; and the wanderer's shadow and the longest boredom and the stillest hour-they all urged me: "It is high time." The wind blew through my keyhole and said, "Come!" Cunningly, the door flew open and said to me, "Go!" But I lay there chained to the love for my children: desire set this snare for me-the desire for love that I might become my children's prey and lose myself to them. Desire-this means to me to have lost myself. I have you, my children! In this experience everything shall be security and nothing desire. But, brooding, the sun of my love lay on me; Zarathustra was cooking in his own juice-then shadows and doubts flew over me. I yearned for frost and winter: "Oh, that frost and winter might make me crack and crunch again" I sighed; then icy mists rose from me. My past burst its tombs; many a pain that had been buried alive awoke, having merely slept, hidden in burial shrouds. Thus everything called out to me in signs: "It is time!" But I did not hear, until at last my abyss stirred and my thought bit me. Alas, abysmal thought that is my thought, when shall I find the strength to hear you burrowing, without trembling any more? My heart pounds to my very throat whenever I hear you burrowing. Even your silence wants to choke me, you who are so abysmally silent. As yet I have never dared to summon you; it was enough that I carried you with me. As yet I have not been strong enough for the final overbearing, prankish bearing of the lion. Your gravity was always terrible enough for me; but one day I shall yet find the strength and the lion's voice to summon you. 163 And once I have overcome myself that far, then I also want to overcome myself in what is still greater; and a victory shall seal my perfection. Meanwhile I still drift on uncertain seas; smoothtongued accident flatters me; forward and backward I look, and still see no end. As yet the hour of my final struggle has not come to me-or is it coming just now? Verily, with treacherous beauty sea and life look at me. 0 afternoon of my life 0 happiness before evening! 0 haven on the high seasl 0 peace in uncertainty How I mistrust all of youl Verily, I am mistrustful of your treacherous beauty. I am like the lover who mistrusts the all-too-velvet smile. As he pushes his most beloved before him, tender even in his hardness, and jealous, thus I push this blessed hour before me. Away with you, blessed hour: with you bliss came to me against my will. Willing to suffer my deepest pain, I stand here: you came at the wrong time. Away with you, blessed hour: rather seek shelter there-with my children. Hurry and bless them before evening with my happiness. There evening approaches even now: the sun sinks. Gone-my happiness! Thus spoke Zarathustra. And he waited for his unhappiness the entire night, but he waited in vain. The night remained bright and still, and happiness itself came closer and closer to him. Toward morning, however, Zarathustra laughed in his heart and said mockingly, "Happiness runs after me. That is because I do not run after women. For happiness is a woman." ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, ON INVOLUNTARY BLISS ,

198:I hardly hear the curlew cry, Nor the grey rush when the wind is high, Before my thoughts begin to run On the heir of Uladh, Buan's son, Baile, who had the honey mouth; And that mild woman of the south, Aillinn, who was King Lugaidh's heir. Their love was never drowned in care Of this or that thing, nor grew cold Because their bodies had grown old. Being forbid to marry on earth, They blossomed to immortal mirth. About the time when Christ was born, When the long wars for the White Horn And the Brown Bull had not yet come, Young Baile Honey Mouth, whom some Called rather Baile Little-Land, Rode out of Emain with a band Of harpers and young men; and they Imagined, as they struck the way To many-pastured Muirthemne, That all things fell out happily, And there, for all that fools had said, Baile and Aillinn would be wed. They found an old man running there: He had ragged long grass-coloured hair; He had knees that stuck out of his hose; He had puddle-water in his shoes; He had half a cloak to keep him dry, Although he had a squirrel's eye. That runner said: "I am from the south; I run to Baile Honey-Mouth, To tell him how the girl Aillinn Rode from the country of her kin, And old and young men rode with her: For all that country had been astir If anybody half as fair Had chosen a husband anywhere But where it could see her every day. When they had ridden a little way An old man caught the horse's head With: ""You must home again, and wed With somebody in your own land.'' A young man cried and kissed her hand, ""O lady, wed with one of us''; And when no face grew piteous For any gentle thing she spake, She fell and died of the heart-break.' Because a lover's heart s worn out, Being tumbled and blown about By its own blind imagining, And will believe that anything That is bad enough to be true, is true, Baile's heart was broken in two; And he, being laid upon green boughs, Was carried to the goodly house Where the Hound of Uladh sat before The brazen pillars of his door, His face bowed low to weep the end Of the harper's daughter and her friend For although years had passed away He always wept them on that day, For on that day they had been betrayed; And now that Honey-Mouth is laid Under a cairn of sleepy stone Before his eyes, he has tears for none, Although he is carrying stone, but two For whom the cairn's but heaped anew. Now had that old gaunt crafty one, Gathering his cloak about him, Where Aillinn rode with waiting-maids, Who amid leafy lights and shades Dreamed of the hands that would unlace Their bodices in some dim place When they had come to the marriage-bed, And harpers, pacing with high head As though their music were enough To make the savage heart of love Grow gentle without sorrowing, Imagining and pondering Heaven knows what calamity; "Another's hurried off,' cried he, "From heat and cold and wind and wave; They have heaped the stones above his grave In Muirthemne, and over it In changeless Ogham letters writ - Baile, that was of Rury's seed. But the gods long ago decreed No waiting-maid should ever spread Baile and Aillinn's marriage-bed, For they should clip and clip again Where wild bees hive on the Great Plain. Therefore it is but little news That put this hurry in my shoes.' Then seeing that he scarce had spoke Before her love-worn heart had broke. He ran and laughed until he came To that high hill the herdsmen name The Hill Seat of Laighen, because Some god or king had made the laws That held the land together there, In old times among the clouds of the air. That old man climbed; the day grew dim; Two swans came flying up to him, Linked by a gold chain each to each, And with low murmuring laughing speech Alighted on the windy grass. They knew him: his changed body was Tall, proud and ruddy, and light wings Were hovering over the harp-strings That Edain, Midhir's wife, had wove In the hid place, being crazed by love. What shall I call them? fish that swim, Scale rubbing scale where light is dim By a broad water-lily leaf; Or mice in the one wheaten sheaf Forgotten at the threshing-place; Or birds lost in the one clear space Of morning light in a dim sky; Or, it may be, the eyelids of one eye, Or the door-pillars of one house, Or two sweet blossoming apple-boughs That have one shadow on the ground; Or the two strings that made one sound Where that wise harper's finger ran. For this young girl and this young man Have happiness without an end, Because they have made so good a friend. They know all wonders, for they pass The towery gates of Gorias, And Findrias and Falias, And long-forgotten Murias, Among the giant kings whose hoard, Cauldron and spear and stone and sword, Was robbed before earth gave the wheat; Wandering from broken street to street They come where some huge watcher is, And tremble with their love and kiss. They know undying things, for they Wander where earth withers away, Though nothing troubles the great streams But light from the pale stars, and gleams From the holy orchards, where there is none But fruit that is of precious stone, Or apples of the sun and moon. What were our praise to them? They eat Quiet's wild heart, like daily meat; Who when night thickens are afloat On dappled skins in a glass boat, Far out under a windless sky; While over them birds of Aengus fly, And over the tiller and the prow, And waving white wings to and fro Awaken wanderings of light air To stir their coverlet and their hair. And poets found, old writers say, A yew tree where his body lay; But a wild apple hid the grass With its sweet blossom where hers was, And being in good heart, because A better time had come again After the deaths of many men, And that long fighting at the ford, They wrote on tablets of thin board, Made of the apple and the yew, All the love stories that they knew. Let rush and bird cry out their fill Of the harper's daughter if they will, Beloved, I am not afraid of her. She is not wiser nor lovelier, And you are more high of heart than she, For all her wanderings over-sea; But I'd have bird and rush forget Those other two; for never yet Has lover lived, but longed to wive Like them that are no more alive. ARGUMENT. Baile and Aillinn were lovers, but Aengus, the Master of Love, wishing them to he happy in his own land among the dead, told to each a story of the other's death, so that their hearts were broken and they died. ~ William Butler Yeats, Baile And Aillinn ,

199:Hark! the owlet flaps her wing, In the pathless dell beneath, Hark! night ravens loudly sing, Tidings of despair and death.-- Horror covers all the sky, Clouds of darkness blot the moon, Prepare! for mortal thou must die, Prepare to yield thy soul up soon-- Fierce the tempest raves around, Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly, Crashing thunder shakes the ground, Fire and tumult fill the sky. Hark! the tolling village bell, Tells the hour of midnight come, Now can blast the powers of Hell, Fiend-like goblins now can roam-- See! his crest all stained with rain, A warrior hastening speeds his way, He starts, looks round him, starts again, And sighs for the approach of day. See! his frantic steed he reins, See! he lifts his hands on high, Implores a respite to his pains, From the powers of the sky.-- He seeks an Inn, for faint from toil, Fatigue had bent his lofty form, To rest his wearied limbs awhile, Fatigued with wandering and the storm. ... ... Slow the door is opened wide-- With trackless tread a stranger came, His form Majestic, slow his stride, He sate, nor spake,--nor told his name-- Terror blanched the warrior's cheek, Cold sweat from his forehead ran, In vain his tongue essayed to speak,-- At last the stranger thus began: 'Mortal! thou that saw'st the sprite, Tell me what I wish to know, Or come with me before 'tis light, Where cypress trees and mandrakes grow. 'Fierce the avenging Demon's ire, Fiercer than the wintry blast, Fiercer than the lightning's fire, When the hour of twilight's past'-- The warrior raised his sunken eye. It met the stranger's sullen scowl, 'Mortal! Mortal! thou must die,' In burning letters chilled his soul. WARRIOR: Stranger! whoso'er you are, I feel impelled my tale to tell-- Horrors stranger shalt thou hear, Horrors drear as those of Hell. O'er my Castle silence reigned, Late the night and drear the hour, When on the terrace I observed, A fleeting shadowy mist to lower.-- Light the cloud as summer fog, Which transient shuns the morning beam; Fleeting as the cloud on bog, That hangs or on the mountain stream.-- Horror seized my shuddering brain, Horror dimmed my starting eye. In vain I tried to speak,--In vain My limbs essayed the spot to fly-- At last the thin and shadowy form, With noiseless, trackless footsteps came,-- Its light robe floated on the storm, Its head was bound with lambent flame. In chilling voice drear as the breeze Which sweeps along th' autumnal ground, Which wanders through the leafless trees, Or the mandrake's groan which floats around. 'Thou art mine and I am thine, 'Till the sinking of the world, I am thine and thou art mine, 'Till in ruin death is hurled-- 'Strong the power and dire the fate, Which drags me from the depths of Hell, Breaks the tomb's eternal gate, Where fiendish shapes and dead men yell, 'Haply I might ne'er have shrank From flames that rack the guilty dead, Haply I might ne'er have sank On pleasure's flowery, thorny bed-- --'But stay! no more I dare disclose, Of the tale I wish to tell, On Earth relentless were my woes, But fiercer are my pangs in Hell-- 'Now I claim thee as my love, Lay aside all chilling fear, My affection will I prove, Where sheeted ghosts and spectres are! 'For thou art mine, and I am thine, 'Till the dreaded judgement day, I am thine, and thou art mine-- Night is past--I must away.' Still I gazed, and still the form Pressed upon my aching sight, Still I braved the howling storm, When the ghost dissolved in night.-- Restless, sleepless fled the night, Sleepless as a sick mans bed, When he sighs for morning light, When he turns his aching head,-- Slow and painful passed the day. Melancholy seized my brain, Lingering fled the hours away, Lingering to a wretch in pain.-- At last came night, ah! horrid hour, Ah! chilling time that wakes the dead, When demons ride the clouds that lower, --The phantom sat upon my bed. In hollow voice, low as the sound Which in some charnel makes its moan, What floats along the burying ground, The phantom claimed me as her own. Her chilling finger on my head, With coldest touch congealed my soul-- Cold as the finger of the dead, Or damps which round a tombstone roll-- Months are passed in lingering round, Every night the spectre comes, With thrilling step it shakes the ground, With thrilling step it round me roams-- Stranger! I have told to thee, All the tale I have to tell-- Stranger! canst thou tell to me, How to scape the powers of Hell?-- STRANGER: Warrior! I can ease thy woes, Wilt thou, wilt thou, come with me-- Warrior! I can all disclose, Follow, follow, follow me. Yet the tempest's duskiest wing, Its mantle stretches o'er the sky, Yet the midnight ravens sing, 'Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.' At last they saw a river clear, That crossed the heathy path they trod, The Strangers look was wild and drear, The firm Earth shook beneath his nod-- He raised a wand above his head, He traced a circle on the plain, In a wild verse he called the dead, The dead with silent footsteps came. A burning brilliance on his head, Flaming filled the stormy air, In a wild verse he called the dead, The dead in motley crowd were there.-- 'Ghasta! Ghasta! come along, Bring thy fiendish crowd with thee, Quickly raise th' avenging Song, Ghasta! Ghasta! come to me.' Horrid shapes in mantles gray, Flit athwart the stormy night, 'Ghasta! Ghasta! come away, Come away before 'tis light.' See! the sheeted Ghost they bring, Yelling dreadful oer the heath, Hark! the deadly verse they sing, Tidings of despair and death! The yelling Ghost before him stands, See! she rolls her eyes around, Now she lifts her bony hands, Now her footsteps shake the ground. STRANGER: Phantom of Theresa say, Why to earth again you came, Quickly speak, I must away! Or you must bleach for aye in flame,-- PHANTOM: Mighty one I know thee now, Mightiest power of the sky, Know thee by thy flaming brow, Know thee by thy sparkling eye. That fire is scorching! Oh! I came, From the caverned depth of Hell, My fleeting false Rodolph to claim, Mighty one! I know thee well.-- STRANGER: Ghasta! seize yon wandering sprite, Drag her to the depth beneath, Take her swift, before 'tis light, Take her to the cells of death! Thou that heardst the trackless dead, In the mouldering tomb must lie, Mortal! look upon my head, Mortal! Mortal! thou must die. Of glowing flame a cross was there, Which threw a light around his form, Whilst his lank and raven hair, Floated wild upon the storm.-- The warrior upwards turned his eyes, Gazed upon the cross of fire, There sat horror and surprise, There sat Gods eternal ire.-- A shivering through the Warrior flew, Colder than the nightly blast, Colder than the evening dew, When the hour of twilights past.-- Thunder shakes th' expansive sky, Shakes the bosom of the heath, 'Mortal! Mortal! thou must die'-- The warrior sank convulsed in death. JANUARY, 1810. The idea of the following tale was taken from a few unconnected German Stanzas.--The principal Character is evidently the Wandering Jew, and although not mentioned by name, the burning Cross on his forehead undoubtedly alludes to that superstition, so prevalent in the part of Germany called the Black Forest, where this scene is supposed to lie. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ghasta Or, The Avenging Demon!!! ,

200:The Enchanted Ring A Tale of Halloween You ask me for a tale of Halloween? 'Tis well. I lately read a treasure tome Within whose legend-haunted lone demesne The free, wild Fancy finds herself at home. Now, while the night wind wings the starlit dome, And while the dead leaves eerie converse hold, Through the rich Conjurer's Kingdom with me roam; And, wandering there, the story shall be told Of what befell in Leinster in the days of old. II In Leinster in the days of old, I wis, There was no maiden of the countryside But on All Hallows (such a night as this!) In Love's dim chancery her fortune tried. The bursting nut upon the hearth she plied; Or, while a lighted candle she would bear, Gazed in her glass with eyes intent and wide; Or, with weird mutterings, like a witch's prayer, She sowed three rows of nothing on the empty air! III All rites had little Barbara performed, Yet nothing did she see, and nothing hear; Her busy thoughts soon into dreamland swarmed. The rosy apple lay, untasted, near For him who, ere another rounded year, Should taste Love's feast with her. And now the wind (As on this very night) with sighings drear, Spake close beneath her latticed window-blind Such dreamwise things as it hath spoke time out of mind. IV 16 Why moans our little sister? 'Rest thee, rest! Fear naught.' Soon careful arms have clasp'd her round, And a soft cheek against her own is pressed. For thus, since childhood, Barbara hath found In mother-love with sister's love upbound, Swift respite from the terrors of the night. But now, what sleep so restless, yet so sound, That not for touch or tone will take its flight, Or aught at all except the broadcast morning light! 'My precious one, such troubled dreams were thine; Yet, though I strove, I could not waken thee.' 'Dear mother-sister- dearest sister mineMethought an unknown guide did beckon me Far, far from here. My will I could not free; I needs must follow through weald and waste. Outworn I reached a manor fair to see; Outworn, alone, through a long hall I paced, That was with many a speaking, stately portrait graced. VI 'Then, stilly as a spirit loosed from earth, I climbed a stair, and to a chamber came, Rich hung with broidered cloths. Upon the hearth Dull embers held a little fitful flame. A sudden trembling ran through all my frame, When, from amidst those silken hangings rare, A voice pronounced: 'Reveal thy face and name, I conjure thee! At least, some token spare That I may trace thee when thou goest I know not where!' VII 'It was a grievous and a sinful thingBut over me was sovereign, stern command I must obey. Thy gift, the birthday ring, With my own name engraved within the bandThe ring, alas! I drew it from my hand, 17 And laid it on the marble mantel high. Then died the flame from out the falling brand, Then were the four walls darkling earth and sky; And, once again, till dawn a wanderer was I. VIII 'But, Agatha, thou art not vexed at me? Thou dost not mourn the ring? 'Twas mine last eve, This morning it is gone, as thou canst see!' 'Nay, darling, thou no reason hast to grieve: I may not tell thee why, but I believe That ere another wingèd year is flown Some brightest threads for thee will Fortune weave.' So spake her sister, sage of look and tone, And held the little, fevered hand within her own. IX The Winter long is over in the land, And mellow is the furrowed soil, and quick With hopeful promise to the toiler's hand. He, too, that toils not, leaning on his stick, Is cheered to see the bean-flowers set so thick, And thick the blossoms on the orchard bough. How sweet the air! Hath any soul been sick? Oh, let that soul drink health from beauty now; Stand forth beneath the sky; unknit the careworn brow! 'Say, children, if ye guess, what aileth himThe stranger who oft leans beyond the hedge To see our budding roses? Yet so dim His eye, he knows them not from ragged sedge! The black ox's hoof hath trod on him, I pledge My hopes beyond the grave, he seeketh aye For that which flees him to the world's far edge! Come, children, tell me what the gossips say: Your grandsire nothing hears- the old at home must stay!' XI 18 Good Agatha replies with playful look: 'Let Barbara speak. And if she be the rose (To us the sweetest flower in any nookOr tame or wild- that in our Leinster grows) Hath drawn the stranger to our garden-close, With what true eye hath he the best discerned.' (A blush-rose, on the moment, springs and blows!) 'Ay, sister, grandsire, all that I have learned, I freely tell you; since deceit I always spurned. XII 'But twice have I had speech with him- no more, First time he asked a rose, and spake me fair, I gave it him, so sad a look he wore; And on he passed, as one who doth not care. Again, as I was searching everywhere My bracelet that had fallen to the ground, He leaped the hedge-row ere I was aware; And he it was that, searching, quickly found My bracelet. Surely, I to courtesy was bound.' XIII 'Ay, surely, child. Your grandsire taught you that, What said you then?' 'I bade him stay and rest; And down upon the old oak bench we sat. He spake of losses- how another's quest 'Twas ever his to aid, for he was blest With wizard sight, save for the thing he soughtA thing not lost, since never yet possessed; He had but dreamed of it! I answered naught; But much, in truth, since then of what he said have thought.' XIV By this time closed are the ears of age, And lid-fast are the eyes. And now, alone, Spake carelessly good Agatha the sage: 'Great prudence, little Barbe, thou hast shown; But I have heard the stranger well is known, 19 That gentle is his birth, and the estate Is broad and fair, which singly he doth own. 'Tis said his health hath suffered much of late; Wholesome this air; so he prolongs his visit's date.' XV Then subtly did fond Agatha contrive: 'Thou dost but a charitable deed, If from his soul this withering gloom thou drive. Lightly along the self-same channel lead Thy talk. Say that thou gav'st his words good heed; Since back to thee thy bracelet he could bring, Thou would'st, once more, consult his wizard rede, For thou hast lost a yet more precious thingThy sister's gift to thee- the name, too, on the ring!' XVI 'That dare I not- !' broke in the little maid; 'For well thou knowest how the ring was lost, And all the tricks at Halloween I played. Alas, those charms were wrought at heavy cost, To be, as I have been, a homeless ghostA shadow of myself- of self bereft!' 'Then, child, tell only what importeth mostA ring of thine was somewhere lost, or left; And thou, once more, art fain to seek his counsel deft.' XVII The Rose sends challenge to the flower-world all: What bloom like mint- at once both proud and sweet? Unstored to the Rose's burning accents fall Upon the twain within the garden-seat. Yet, what can make the Rose's color fleet From a young maiden's cheek- what sudden stress? What words are these a young man may repeat, While light springs up in eyes long lustreless? But come, let us o'erhear- 'twere idle, still to guess? XVIII 20 It thus had chanced: when came the moment fit, Full simply little Barbara broached the theme Directed by her sister's subtler wit: Since he had found her bracelet, it would seem A yet mor precious loss he might redeem: A ring of hers had vanished- left no trace. So great a wizard might some potent scheme Devise, to bring it from its hiding-place.' She lightly spake. Intent, her comrade scanned her face. XIX 'Speak thou the truth, no word from me withhold; Lift up thine eyes, and they the truth shall speak, For it must be that slender ring of gold Bounds the whole world of happiness I seek. Tell me when thou this ring didst lose, and eke All circumstance that did the time attend.' 'Twas then the Rose's color fled her cheek; But since her tongue to guile she could not lend, She told straightforwardly her story to the end. XX 'As thou hast spoken truth, and naught beside' He said, 'I'll speak the living truth to thee. That night some charms of Halloween I tried, Dared thus to do by a blithe company In mine old hall, far in the West Country. The charms performed, I thought of them no more; Yet deemed it strange that sleep came not to me; And as the rising wind shook blind and door, I watched with half-shut eyes the firelight on the floor. XXI 'Then glidingly, and noiseless as a dream, A figure stoled in white, with floating hair, Touched faintly by the embers' fitful gleam, Approached the fireplace and stood wavering thereStood piteously, with tender feet all bare, 21 And tender palms reached out above the coals (As they had borne too long the frosty air). Then, I remembered me the time- All Souls, When visions vanish as the hour of midnight tolls! XXII 'Already was the clock upon the stroke, Already had the vision turned to go When, in a voice I scarcely knew, I spoke, Desiring that the presence should bestow Some sign, or constant pledge of truth, to show When daylight should to disbelief incline. The vision faded. On the mantel, lo! This ring I found. And surely, it is thine, And surely, maiden, both the ring and thou art mine!' XXIII Needs not to say what afterwards befellHow smiled the mother-sister sage and dear, When came the fine confession, guessed full well; Or how, before the rounding of the year, She saw- through many a rainbow-lighted tearHer darling pace the aisle, a happy bride! Nay!- rather must I counsel all who hear Leave juggling wiles of Halloween untried, Lest no such powers benign your doubtful venture guide! ~ Edith Matilda Thomas,

201:Scene.--Before the Cavern of the Indian Enchantress. The Enchantress comes forth. Enchantress. He came like a dream in the dawn of life, He fled like a shadow before its noon; He is gone, and my peace is turned to strife, And I wander and wane like the weary moon.   O, sweet Echo, wake,   And for my sake Make answer the while my heart shall break! But my heart has a music which Echo's lips, Though tender and true, yet can answer not, And the shadow that moves in the soul's eclipse Can return not the kiss by his now forgot;   Sweet lips! he who hath   On my desolate path Cast the darkness of absence, worse than death! The Enchantress makes her spell: she is answered by a Spirit. Spirit. Within the silent centre of the earth My mansion is; where I have lived insphered From the beginning, and around my sleep Have woven all the wondrous imagery Of this dim spot, which mortals call the world; Infinite depths of unknown elements Massed into one impenetrable mask; Sheets of immeasurable fire, and veins Of gold and stone, and adamantine iron. And as a veil in which I walk through Heaven I have wrought mountains, seas, and waves, and clouds, And lastly light, whose interfusion dawns In the dark space of interstellar air. ANOTHER SCENE Indian Youth and Lady. Indian. And, if my grief should still be dearer to me Than all the pleasures in the world beside, Why would you lighten it? Lady.                I offer only That which I seek, some human sympathy In this mysterious island. Indian.               Oh! my friend, My sister, my beloved!What do I say? My brain is dizzy, and I scarce know whether I speak to thee or her. Lady.             Peace, perturbed heart! I am to thee only as thou to mine, The passing wind which heals the brow at noon, And may strike cold into the breast at night, Yet cannot linger where it soothes the most, Or long soothe could it linger. Indian.                  But you said You also loved? Lady.         Loved! Oh, I love. Methinks This word of love is fit for all the world, And that for gentle hearts another name Would speak of gentler thoughts than the world owns. I have loved. Indian.        And thou lovest not? if so, Young as thou art thou canst afford to weep. Lady. Oh! would that I could claim exemption From all the bitterness of that sweet name. I loved, I love, and when I love no more Let joys and grief perish, and leave despair To ring the knell of youth. He stood beside me, The embodied vision of the brightest dream, Which like a dawn heralds the day of life; The shadow of his presence made my world A Paradise. All familiar things he touched, All common words he spoke, became to me Like forms and sounds of a diviner world. He was as is the sun in his fierce youth, As terrible and lovely as a tempest; He came, and went, and left me what I am. Alas! Why must I think how oft we two Have sate together near the river springs, Under the green pavilion which the willow Spreads on the floor of the unbroken fountain, Strewn, by the nurslings that linger there, Over that islet paved with flowers and moss, While the musk-rose leaves, like flakes of crimson snow, Showered on us, and the dove mourned in the pine, Sad prophetess of sorrows not her own? The crane returned to her unfrozen haunt, And the false cuckoo bade the spray good morn; And on a wintry bough the widowed bird, Hid in the deepest night of ivy-leaves, Renewed the vigils of a sleepless sorrow. I, left like her, and leaving one like her, Alike abandoned and abandoning (Oh! unlike her in this!) the gentlest youth, Whose love had made my sorrows dear to him, Even as my sorrow made his love to me! Indian. One curse of Nature stamps in the same mould The features of the wretched; and they are As like as violet to violet, When memory, the ghost, their odours keeps Mid the cold relics of abandoned joy. Proceed. Lady.     He was a simple innocent boy. I loved him well, but not as he desired; Yet even thus he was content to be: A short content, for I was Indian [aside].                God of Heaven! From such an islet, such a river-spring! I dare not ask her if there stood upon it A pleasure-dome surmounted by a crescent, With steps to the blue water. [Aloud.] It may be That Nature masks in life several copies Of the same lot, so that the sufferers May feel another's sorrow as their own, And find in friendship what they lost in love. That cannot be: yet it is strange that we, From the same scene, by the same path to this Realm of abandonment -- But speak! your breath Your breath is like soft music, your words are The echoes of a voice which on my heart Sleeps like a melody of early days. But as you said-- Lady.          He was so awful, yet So beautiful in mystery and terror, Calming me as the loveliness of heaven Soothes the unquiet sea:and yet not so, For he seemed stormy, and would often seem A quenchless sun masked in portentous clouds; For such his thoughts, and even his actions were; But he was not of them, nor they of him, But as they hid his splendour from the earth. Some said he was a man of blood and peril, And steeped in bitter infamy to the lips. More need was there I should be innocent, More need that I should be most true and kind, And much more need that there should be found one To share remorse and scorn and solitude, And all the ills that wait on those who do The tasks of ruin in the world of life. He fled, and I have followed him. Indian.                   Such a one Is he who was the winter of my peace. But, fairest stranger, when didst thou depart From the far hills where rise the springs of India? How didst thou pass the intervening sea? Lady. If I be sure I am not dreaming now, I should not doubt to say it was a dream. Methought a star came down from heaven, And rested mid the plants of India, Which I had given a shelter from the frost Within my chamber. There the meteor lay, Panting forth light among the leaves and flowers, As if it lived, and was outworn with speed; Or that it loved, and passion made the pulse Of its bright life throb like an anxious heart, Till it diffused itself, and all the chamber And walls seemed melted into emerald fire That burned not; in the midst of which appeared A spirit like a child, and laughed aloud A thrilling peal of such sweet merriment As made the blood tingle in my warm feet: Then bent over a vase, and murmuring Low, unintelligible melodies, Placed something in the mould like melon-seeds, And slowly faded, and in place of it A soft hand issued from the veil of fire, Holding a cup like a magnolia flower, And poured upon the earth within the vase The element with which it overflowed, Brighter than morning light, and purer than The water of the springs of Himalah. Indian. You waked not? Lady.        Not until my dream became Like a child's legend on the tideless sand, Which the first foam erases half, and half Leaves legible. At length I rose, and went, Visiting my flowers from pot to pot, and thought To set new cuttings in the empty urns, And when I came to that beside the lattice, I saw two little dark-green leaves Lifting the light mould at their birth, and then I half-remembered my forgotten dream. And day by day, green as a gourd in June, The plant grew fresh and thick, yet no one knew What plant it was; its stem and tendrils seemed Like emerald snakes, mottled and diamonded With azure mail and streaks of woven silver; And all the sheaths that folded the dark buds Rose like the crest of cobra-di-capel, Until the golden eye of the bright flower, Through the dark lashes of those veind lids, ....disencumbered of their silent sleep, Gazed like a star into the morning light. Its leaves were delicate, you almost saw The pulses With which the purple velvet flower was fed To overflow, and like a poet's heart Changing bright fancy to sweet sentiment, Changed half the light to fragrance. It soon fell, And to a green and dewy embryo-fruit Left all its treasured beauty. Day by day I nursed the plant, and on the double flute Played to it on the sunny winter days Soft melodies, as sweet as April rain On silent leaves, and sang those words in which Passion makes Echo taunt the sleeping strings; And I would send tales of forgotten love Late into the lone night, and sing wild songs Of maids deserted in the olden time, And weep like a soft cloud in April's bosom Upon the sleeping eyelids of the plant, So that perhaps it dreamed that Spring was come, And crept abroad into the moonlight air, And loosened all its limbs, as, noon by noon, The sun averted less his oblique beam. Indian. And the plant died not in the frost? Lady.                     It grew; And went out of the lattice which I left Half open for it, trailing its quaint spires Along the garden and across the lawn, And down the slope of moss and through the tufts Of wild-flower roots, and stumps of trees o'ergrown With simple lichens, and old hoary stones, On to the margin of the glassy pool, Even to a nook of unblown violets And lilies-of-the-valley yet unborn, Under a pine with ivy overgrown. And there its fruit lay like a sleeping lizard Under the shadows; but when Spring indeed Came to unswathe her infants, and the lilies Peeped from their bright green masks to wonder at This shape of autumn couched in their recess, Then it dilated, and it grew until One half lay floating on the fountain wave, Whose pulse, elapsed in unlike sympathies, Kept time Among the snowy water-lily buds. Its shape was such as summer melody Of the south wind in spicy vales might give To some light cloud bound from the golden dawn To fairy isles of evening, and it seemed In hue and form that it had been a mirror Of all the hues and forms around it and Upon it pictured by the sunny beams Which, from the bright vibrations of the pool, Were thrown upon the rafters and the roof Of boughs and leaves, and on the pillared stems Of the dark sylvan temple, and reflections Of every infant flower and star of moss And veined leaf in the azure odorous air. And thus it lay in the Elysian calm Of its own beauty, floating on the line Which, like a film in purest space, divided The heaven beneath the water from the heaven Above the clouds; and every day I went Watching its growth and wondering; And as the day grew hot, methought I saw A glassy vapour dancing on the pool, And on it little quaint and filmy shapes, With dizzy motion, wheel and rise and fall, Like clouds of gnats with perfect lineaments... O friend, sleep was a veil uplift from Heaven-- As if Heaven dawned upon the world of dream-- When darkness rose on the extinguished day Out of the eastern wilderness. Indian.                 I too Have found a moment's paradise in sleep Half compensate a hell of waking sorrow. Written at Pisa during the late winter or early spring of 1822. Note from Mrs. Shelley: 'The following fragments are part of a Drama undertaken for the amusement of the individuals who composed our intimate society, but left unfinished. I have preserved a sketch of the story as far as it had been shadowed in the poet's mind. An Enchantress, living in one of the islands of the Indian Archipelago, saves the life of a Pirate, a man of savage but noble nature. She becomes enamoured of him; and he, inconstant to his mortal love, for a while returns her passion; but at length, recalling the memory of her whom he left, and who laments his loss, he escapes from the Enchanted Island, and returns to his lady. His mode of life makes him again go to sea, and the Enchantress seizes the opportunity to bring him, by a spirit-brewed tempest, back to her Island.'~1839. ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Fragments Of An Unfinished Drama ,

202:Absolution THREE months had passed since she had knelt before The grate of the confessional, and he, --The priest--had wondered why she came no more To tell her sinless sins--the vanity Whose valid reason graced her simple dress-The prayers forgotten, or the untold beads-The little thoughtless words, the slight misdeeds, Which made the sum of her unrighteousness. She was the fairest maiden in his fold, With her sweet mouth and musical pure voice, Her deep grey eyes, her hair's tempestuous gold, Her gracious graceful figure's perfect poise. Her happy laugh, her wild unconscious grace, Her gentle ways to old, or sick, or sad, The comprehending sympathy she had, Had made of her the idol of the place. And when she grew so silent and so sad, So thin and quiet, pale and hollow-eyed, And cared no more to laugh and to be glad With other maidens by the waterside-All wondered, kindly grieved the elders were, And some few girls went whispering about, 'She loves--who is it? Let us find it out!' But never dared to speak of it to her. But the priest's duty bade him seek her out And say, 'My child, why dost thou sit apart? Hast thou some grief? Hast thou some secret doubt? Come and unfold to me thine inmost heart. God's absolution can assuage all grief And all remorse and woe beneath the sun. Whatever thou hast said, or thought, or done, The Holy Church can give thy soul relief.' 38 He stood beside her, young and strong, and swayed With pity for the sorrow in her eyes-Which, as she raised them to his own, conveyed Into his soul a sort of sad surprise-- For in those grey eyes had a new light grown, The light that only bitter love can bring, And he had fancied her too pure a thing For even happy love to dare to own. Yet all the more he urged on her--'Confess, And do not doubt some comfort will be lent By Holy Church thy penitence to bless. Trust her, my child.' With unconvinced consent She answered, 'I will come;' and so at last Out of the summer evening's crimson glow, With heart reluctant and with footsteps slow Into the cool great empty church she passed. 'By my own fault, my own most grievous fault, I cannot say, for it is not!' she said, Kneeling within the grey stone chapel's vault; And on the ledge her golden hair was spread Over the clasping hands that still increased Their nervous pressure, poor white hands and thin, While with hot lips she poured her tale of sin Into the cold ear of the patient priest. 'Love broke upon me in a dream; it came Without beginning, for to me it seemed That all my life this thing had been the same, And never otherwise than as I dreamed. I only knew my heart, entire, complete, Was given to my other self, my love-That I through all the world would gladly move So I might follow his adorèd feet. 39 'I dreamed my soul saw suddenly appear Immense abysses, infinite heights unknown; Possessed new worlds, new earths, sphere after sphere, New sceptres, kingdoms, crowns, became my own. When I had all, all earth, all time, all space, And every blessing, human and divine, I hated the possessions that were mine, And only cared for his belovèd face. 'I dreamed that in unmeasured harmony, Rain of sweet sounds fell on my ravished sense, And thrilled my soul with swelling ecstasy, And rose to unimagined excellence. And while the music bade my heart rejoice, And on my senses thrust delicious sway, I wished the perfect melody away, And in its place longed for his worshipped voice. 'And at the last I felt his arms enfold, His kisses crown my life--his whispered sighs Echo my own unrest--his spirit hold My spirit powerless underneath his eyes, My face flushed with new joy, and felt more fair: He clasped me close, and cried, 'My own, my own!' And then I woke in dawn's chill light, alone, With empty arms held out to empty air. 'I never knew I loved him till that dream Drew from my eyes the veil and left me wise. What I had thought was reverence grew to seem Only my lifelong love in thin disguise. And in my dream it looked so sinless too, So beautiful, harmonious, and right; The vision faded with the morning light, The love will last as long as I shall do. 40 'But in the world where I have wept my tears, My love is sinful and a bitter shame. How can I bear the never-ending years, When every night I hear him call my name? For though that first dream's dear delight is past, Yet since that night each night I dream him there With lips caressing on my brow and hair, And in my arms I hold my heaven fast!' 'Child, have you prayed against it?' 'Have I prayed? Have I not clogged my very soul with prayer; Stopped up my ears with sound of praying, made My very body faint with kneeling there Before the sculptured Christ, and all for this, That when my lips can pray no more, and sleep Shuts my unwilling eyes, my love will leap To dreamland's bounds, to meet me with his kiss? 'Strive against this?--what profit is the strife? If through the day a little strength I gain, At night he comes and calls me 'love' and 'wife,' And straightway I am all his own again. And if from love's besieging force my fight Some little victory have hardly won, What do I gain? As soon as day is done, I yield once more to love's delicious might.' 'Avoid him!' 'Ay, in dewy garden walk How often have I strayed, avoiding him. And heard his voice mix with the common talk, Yet never turned his way. My eyes grow dim With weeping over what I lose by day And find by night, yet never have to call My own. O God! is there no help at all-No hope, no chance, and no escapeful way?' 41 'And who is he to whom thy love is given?' 'What? Holy Church demands to know his name? No rest for me on earth, no hope of heaven Unless I tell it? Ah, for very shame I cannot--yet why not?--I will--I can! I have grown mad with brooding on my curse. Here! Take the name, no better and no worse My case will be. Father, thou art the man!' An icy shock shivered through all his frame-An overwhelming cold astonishment; But on the instant the revulsion came, His blood felt what her revelation meant, And madly rushed along his veins and cried: 'For you too life is possible, and love No more a word you miss the meaning of, But all your life's desire unsatisfied.' Then through his being crept a new strange fear-Fear of himself, and through himself, for her; His every fibre felt her presence near, Disquiet in his breast began to stir. 'Lord Christ,' his soul cried, while his heart beat fast, 'Give strength in this, my hour of utmost need.' And with the prayer strength came to him indeed, And with calm voice he answered her at last. 'Child, go in peace! Wrestle, and watch, and pray, And I will spend this night in prayer for thee, That God will take thy strange great grief away. Thou hast confessed thy sin. Absolvo te.' Silence most absolute a little while, Then passed the whisper of her trailing gown Over the knee-worn stones, and soft died down The dim deserted incense-memoried aisle. 42 She passed away, and yet, when she was gone, His heart still echoed her remembered sighs: What sin unpardonable had he done That evermore those grey unquiet eyes Floated between him and the dying day? How had she grown so desperately dear? Why did her love-words echo in his ear Through all the prayers he forced his lips to say? All night he lay upon the chancel floor, And coined his heart in tears and prayers, and new Strange longings he had never known before. Her very memory so thrilled him through, That to his being's core a shiver stole Of utter, boundless, measureless delight, Even while with unceasing desperate might His lips prayed for God's armour for his soul! The moon had bathed the chancel with her light, But now she crept into a cloud. No ray Was left to break the funeral black of night That closely hung around the form that lay So tempest-tossed within, so still without. 'God! I love her, love her, love her so! Oh, for one spark of heaven's fire to show Some way to cast this devil's passion out! 'I cannot choose but love--Thou knowest, Lord-Yet is my spirit strong to fly from sin, But oh, my flesh is weak, too weak the word I have to clothe its utter weakness in! I am Thy priest, vowed to be Thine alone, Yet if she came here with those love-dimmed eyes, How could I turn away from Paradise? Should I not wreck her soul, and blast my own? 'Christ, by Thy passion, by Thy death for men, 43 Oh, save me from myself, save her from me!' And at the word the moon came out again From her cloud-palace, and threw suddenly A shadow from the great cross overhead Upon the priest; and with it came a sense Of strength renewed, of perfect confidence In Him who on that cross for men hung dead. Beneath that shadow safety seemed to lie; And as he knelt before the altar there, Beside the King of Heaven's agony Light seemed all pangs His priest might have to bear-His grief, his love, his bitter wild regret, Would they not be a fitting sacrifice, A well-loved offering, blessed in the eyes That never scorned a sad heart's offering yet? But as the ghostly moon began to fade, And moonlight glimmered into ghostlier dawn, The shadow that the crucifix had made With twilight mixed; and with it seemed withdrawn The peace that with its shadowy shape began, And as the dim east brightened, slowly ceased The wild devotion that had filled the priest-And with full sunlight he sprang up--a man! 'Ten thousand curses on my priestly vow-The hated vow that held me back from thee! Down with the cross! no death-dark emblems now! I have done with death: life wakes for thee and me!' He tore the cross from out his breast, and trod The sacred symbol underfoot and cried, 'I am set free, unbound, unsanctified! I am thy lover--not the priest of God!' He strode straight down the church and passed along 44 The grave-set garden's dewy grass-grown slope: The woods about were musical with song, The world was bright with youth, and love, and hope; The flowers were sweet, and sweet his visions were, The sunlight glittered on the lily's head And on the royal roses, rich and red, And never had the earth seemed half so fair. Soon would he see her--soon would kneel before Her worshipped feet, and cry, 'I am thine own, As thou art mine, now, and for evermore!' And she should kiss the lips that had not known The kiss of love in any vanished year. And as he dreamed of his secured delight, Round the curved road there slowly came in sight A mourning band, and in their midst a bier. He hastened to pass on. Why should he heed A bier--a blot on earth's awakened face? For to his love-warm heart it seemed indeed That in sweet summer's bloom death had no place. Yet still he glanced--a pale concealing fold Veiled the dead, quiet face--and yet--and yet-Did he not know that hand, so white and wet? Did he not know those dripping curls of gold? 'We came to you to know what we should do, Father: we found her body in the stream, And how it happed, God knows!' One other knew-Knew that of him had been her last wild dream-Knew the full reason of that life-disdain-Knew how the shame of hopeless love confessed And unreturned had seemed to stain her breast, Till only death could make her clean again. They left her in the church where sunbeams bright 45 Gilded the wreathèd oak and carven stone With golden floods of consecrating light; And here at last, together and alone, The lovers met, and here upon her hair He set his lips, and dry-eyed kissed her face, And in the stillness of the holy place He spoke in tones of bitter blank despair: 'Oh, lips so quiet, eyes that will not see! Oh, clinging hands that not again will cling! This last poor sin may well be pardoned thee, Since for the right's sake thou hast done this thing. Oh, poor weak heart, for ever laid to rest, That could no longer strive against its fate, For thee high heaven will unbar its gate, And thou shalt enter in and shalt be blessed. 'The chances were the same for us,' he said, 'Yet thou hast won, and I have lost, the whole; Thou wouldst not live in sin, and thou art dead-But I--against thee I have weighed my soul, And, losing thee, have lost my soul as well. I have cursed God, and trampled on His cross; Earth has no measurement for all my loss, But I shall learn to measure it in hell!' ~ Edith Nesbit,

203:Viva Perpetua Now being on the eve of death, discharged From every mortal hope and earthly care, I questioned how my soul might best employ This hand, and this still wakeful flame of mind, In the brief hours yet left me for their use; Wherefore have I bethought me of my friend, Of you, Philarchus, and your company, Yet wavering in the faith and unconfirmed; Perchance that I may break into thine heart Some sorrowful channel for the love divine, I make this simple record of our proof In diverse sufferings for the name of Christ, Whereof the end already for the most Is death this day with steadfast faith endured. We were in prison many days, close-pent In the black lower dungeon, housed with thieves And murderers and divers evil men; So foul a pressure, we had almost died, Even there, in struggle for the breath of life Amid the stench and unendurable heat; Nor could we find each other save by voice Or touch, to know that we were yet alive, So terrible was the darkness. Yea, 'twas hard To keep the sacred courage in our hearts, When all was blind with that unchanging night, And foul with death, and on our ears the taunts And ribald curses of the soldiery Fell mingled with the prisoners' cries, a load Sharper to bear, more bitter than their blows. At first, what with that dread of our abode, Our sudden apprehension, and the threats Ringing perpetually in our ears, we lost The living fire of faith, and like poor hinds Would have denied our Lord and fallen away. Even Perpetua, whose joyous faith Was in the later holier days to be The stay and comfort of our weaker ones, Was silent for long whiles. Perchance she shrank 249 In the mere sickness of the flesh, confused And shaken by our new and horrible plight-The tender flesh, untempered and untried, Not quickened yet nor mastered by the soul; For she was of a fair and delicate make, Most gently nurtured, to whom stripes and threats And our foul prison-house were things undreamed. But little by little as our spirits grew Inured to suffering, with clasped hands, and tongues That cheered each other to incessant prayer, We rose and faced our trouble: we recalled Our Master's sacred agony and death, Setting before our eyes the high reward Of steadfast faith, the martyr's deathless crown. So passed some days whose length and count we lost, Our bitterest trial. Then a respite came. One who had interest with the governor Wrought our removal daily for some hours Into an upper chamber, where we sat And held each other's hands in childish joy, Receiving the sweet gift of light and air With wonder and exceeding thankfulness. And then began that life of daily growth In mutual exaltation and sweet help That bore us as a gently widening stream Unto the ocean of our martyrdom. Uniting all our feebler souls in one-A mightier--we reached forth with this to God. Perpetua had been troubled for her babe, Robbed of the breast and now these many days Wasting for want of food; but when that change Whereof I spake, of light and liberty Relieved the horror of our prison gloom, They brought it to her, and she sat apart, And nursed and tended it, and soon the child Would not be parted from her arms, but throve And fattened, and she kept it night and day. And always at her side with sleepless care Hovered the young Felicitas--a slight And spiritual figure--every touch and tone 250 Charged with premonitory tenderness, Herself so near to her own motherhood. Thus lightened and relieved, Perpetua Recovered from her silent fit. Her eyes Regained their former deep serenity, Her tongue its gentle daring; for she knew Her life should not be taken till her babe Had strengthened and outgrown the need of her. Daily we were amazed at her soft strength, Her pliant and untroubled constancy, Her smiling, soldierly contempt of death, Her beauty and the sweetness of her voice. Her father, when our first few bitterest days Were over, like a gust of grief and rage, Came to her in the prison with wild eyes, And cried: 'How mean you, daughter, when you say You are a Christian? How can any one Of honoured blood, the child of such as me, Be Christian? 'Tis an odious name, the badge Only of outcasts and rebellious slaves!' And she, grief-touched, but with unyielding gaze, Showing the fulness of her slender height: 'This vessel, father, being what it is, An earthen pitcher, would you call it thus? Or would you name it by some other name?' 'Nay, surely,' said the old man, catching breath, And pausing, and she answered: 'Nor can I Call myself aught but what I surely am-A Christian!' and her father, flashing back In silent anger, left her for that time. A special favour to Perpetua Seemed daily to be given, and her soul Was made the frequent vessel of God's grace, Wherefrom we all, less gifted, sore athirst, Drank courage and fresh joy; for glowing dreams Were sent her, full of forms august, and fraught With signs and symbols of the glorious end Whereto God's love hath aimed us for Christ's sake. Once--at what hour I know not, for we lay In that foul dungeon, where all hours were lost, 251 And day and night were indistinguishable-We had been sitting a long silent while, Some lightly sleeping, others bowed in prayer, When on a sudden, like a voice from God, Perpetua spake to us and all were roused. Her voice was rapt and solemn: 'Friends,' she said, 'Some word hath come to me in a dream. I saw A ladder leading to heaven, all of gold, Hung up with lances, swords, and hooks. A land Of darkness and exceeding peril lay Around it, and a dragon fierce as hell Guarded its foot. We doubted who should first Essay it, but you, Saturus, at last-So God hath marked you for especial grace-Advancing and against the cruel beast Aiming the potent weapon of Christ's name-Mounted, and took me by the hand, and I The next one following, and so the rest In order, and we entered with great joy Into a spacious garden filled with light And balmy presences of love and rest; And there an old man sat, smooth-browed, white-haired, Surrounded by unnumbered myriads Of spiritual shapes and faces angel-eyed, Milking his sheep; and lifting up his eyes He welcomed us in strange and beautiful speech, Unknown yet comprehended, for it flowed Not through the ears, but forth-right to the soul, God's language of pure love. Between the lips Of each he placed a morsel of sweet curd; And while the curd was yet within my mouth, I woke, and still the taste of it remains, Through all my body flowing like white flame, Sweet as of some immaculate spiritual thing.' And when Perpetua had spoken, all Were silent in the darkness, pondering, But Saturus spake gently for the rest: 'How perfect and acceptable must be Your soul to God, Perpetua, that thus He bends to you, and through you speaks his will. We know now that our martyrdom is fixed, Nor need we vex us further for this life.' 252 While yet these thoughts were bright upon our souls, There came the rumour that a day was set To hear us. Many of our former friends, Some with entreaties, some with taunts and threats, Came to us to pervert us; with the rest Again Perpetua's father, worn with care; Nor could we choose but pity his distress, So miserably, with abject cries and tears, He fondled her and called her 'Domina,' And bowed his aged body at her feet, Beseeching her by all the names she loved To think of him, his fostering care, his years, And also of her babe, whose life, he said, Would fail without her; but Perpetua, Sustaining by a gift of strength divine The fulness of her noble fortitude, Answered him tenderly: 'Both you and I, And all of us, my father, at this hour Are equally in God's hands, and what he wills Must be'; but when the poor old man was gone She wept, and knelt for many hours in prayer, Sore tried and troubled by her tender heart. One day, while we were at our midday meal, Our cell was entered by the soldiery, And we were seized and borne away for trial. A surging crowd had gathered, and we passed From street to street, hemmed in by tossing heads And faces cold or cruel; yet we caught At moments from masked lips and furtive eyes Of friends--some known to as and some unknown-Many veiled messages of love and praise. The floorways of the long basilica Fronted us with an angry multitude; And scornful eyes and threatening foreheads frowned In hundreds from the columned galleries. We were placed all together at the bar, And though at first unsteadied and confused By the imperial presence of the law, The pomp of judgment and the staring crowd, None failed or faltered; with unshaken tongue 253 Each met the stern Proconsul's brief demand In clear profession. Rapt as in a dream, Scarce conscious of my turn, nor how I spake, I watched with wondering eyes the delicate face And figure of Perpetua; for her We that were youngest of our company Loved with a sacred and absorbing love, A passion that our martyr's brotherly vow Had purified and made divine. She stood In dreamy contemplation, slightly bowed, A glowing stillness that was near a smile Upon her soft closed lips. Her turn had come, When, like a puppet struggling up the steps, Her father from the pierced and swaying crowd Appeared, unveiling in his aged arms The smiling visage of her babe. He grasped Her robe, and strove to draw her down. All eyes Were bent upon her. With a softening glance, And voice less cold and heavy with death's doom, The old Proconsul turned to her and said: 'Lady, have pity on your father's age; Be mindful of your tender babe; this grain Of harmless incense offer for the peace And welfare of the Emperor'; but she, Lifting far forth her large and noteless eyes, As one that saw a vision, only said: 'I cannot sacrifice'; and he, harsh tongued, Bending a brow upon her rough as rock, With eyes that struck like steel, seeking to break Or snare her with a sudden stroke of fear: 'Art thou a Christian?' and she answered, 'Yea, I am a Christian!' In brow-blackening wrath He motioned a contemptuous hand and bade The lictors scourge the old man down and forth With rods, and as the cruel deed was done, Perpetua stood white with quivering lips, And her eyes filled with tears. While yet his cries Were mingling with the curses of the crowd, Hilarianus, calling name by name, Gave sentence, and in cold and formal phrase Condemned us to the beasts, and we returned Rejoicing to our prison. Then we wished 254 Our martyrdom could soon have followed, not As doubting for our constancy, but some Grew sick under the anxious long suspense. Perpetua again was weighed upon By grief and trouble for her babe, whom now Her father, seeking to depress her will, Withheld and would not send it; but at length Word being brought her that the child indeed No longer suffered, nor desired the breast, Her peace returned, and, giving thanks to God, All were united in new bonds of hope. Now being fixed in certitude of death, We stripped our souls of all their earthly gear, The useless raiment of this world; and thus, Striving together with a single will, In daily increment of faith and power, We were much comforted by heavenly dreams, And waking visitations of God's grace. Visions of light and glory infinite Were frequent with us, and by night or day Woke at the very name of Christ the Lord, Taken at any moment on our lips; So that we had no longer thought or care Of life or of the living, but became As spirits from this earth already freed, Scarce conscious of the dwindling weight of flesh. To Saturus appeared in dreams the space And splendour of the heavenly house of God, The glowing gardens of eternal joy, The halls and chambers of the cherubim, In wreaths of endless myriads involved The blinding glory of the angel choir, Rolling through deeps of wheeling cloud and light The thunder of their vast antiphonies. The visions of Perpetua not less Possessed us with their homely tenderness-As one, wherein she saw a rock-set pool And weeping o'er its rim a little child, Her brother, long since dead, Dinocrates: Though sore athirst, he could not reach the stream, Being so small, and her heart grieved thereat. She looked again, and lo! the pool had risen, 255 And the child filled his goblet, and drank deep, And prattling in a tender childish joy Ran gaily off, as infants do, to play. By this she knew his soul had found release From torment, and had entered into bliss. Quickly as by a merciful gift of God, Our vigil passed unbroken. Yesternight They moved us to the amphitheatre, Our final lodging-place on earth, and there We sat together at our agape For the last time. In silence, rapt and pale, We hearkened to the aged Saturus, Whose speech, touched with a ghostly eloquence, Canvassed the fraud and littleness of life, God's goodness and the solemn joy of death. Perpetua was silent, but her eyes Fell gently upon each of us, suffused With inward and eradiant light; a smile Played often upon her lips. While yet we sat, A tribune with a band of soldiery Entered our cell, and would have had us bound In harsher durance, fearing our escape By fraud or witchcraft; but Perpetua, Facing him gently with a noble note Of wonder in her voice, and on her lips A lingering smile of mournful irony: 'Sir, are ye not unwise to harass us, And rob us of our natural food and rest? Should ye not rather tend us with soft care, And so provide a comely spectacle? We shall not honour Caesar's birthday well, If we be waste and weak, a piteous crew, Poor playthings for your proud and pampered beasts.' The noisy tribune, whether touched indeed, Or by her grave and tender grace abashed, Muttered and stormed a while, and then withdrew. The short night passed in wakeful prayer for some, For others in brief sleep, broken by dreams And spiritual visitations. Earliest dawn 256 Found us arisen, and Perpetua, Moving about with smiling lips, soft-tongued, Besought us to take food; lest so, she said, For all the strength and courage of our hearts, Our bodies should fall faint. We heard without, Already ere the morning light was full, The din of preparation, and the hum Of voices gathering in the upper tiers; Yet had we seen so often in our thoughts The picture of this strange and cruel death, Its festal horror, and its bloody pomp, The nearness scarcely moved us, and our hands Met in a steadfast and unshaken clasp. The day is over. Ah, my friend, how long With its wild sounds and bloody sights it seemed! Night comes, and I am still alive--even I, The least and last--with other two, reserved To grace to-morrow's second day. The rest Have suffered and with holy rapture passed Into their glory. Saturus and the men Were given to bears and leopards, but the crowd Feasted their eyes upon no cowering shape, Nor hue of fear, nor painful cry. They died Like armed men, face foremost to the beasts, With prayers and sacred songs upon their lips. Perpetua and the frail Felicitas Were seized before our eyes and roughly stripped, And shrinking and entreating, not for fear, Nor hurt, but bitter shame, were borne away Into the vast arena, and hung up In nets, naked before the multitude, For a fierce bull, maddened by goads, to toss. Some sudden tumult of compassion seized The crowd, and a great murmur like a wave Rose at the sight, and grew, and thundered up From tier to tier, deep and imperious: So white, so innocent they were, so pure: Their tender limbs so eloquent of shame; And so our loved ones were brought back, all faint, And covered with light raiment, and again Led forth, and now with smiling lips they passed 257 Pale, but unbowed, into the awful ring, Holding each other proudly by the hand. Perpetua first was tossed, and her robe rent, But, conscious only of the glaring eyes, She strove to hide herself as best she could In the torn remnants of her flimsy robe, And putting up her hands clasped back her hair, So that she might not die as one in grief, Unseemly and dishevelled. Then she turned, And in her loving arms caressed and raised The dying, bruised Felicitas. Once more Gored by the cruel beast, they both were borne Swooning and mortally stricken from the field. Perpetua, pale and beautiful, her lips Parted as in a lingering ecstasy, Could not believe the end had come, but asked When they were to be given to the beasts. The keepers gathered round her--even they-In wondering pity--while with fearless hand, Bidding us all be faithful and stand firm, She bared her breast, and guided to its goal The gladiator's sword that pierced her heart. The night is passing. In a few short hours I too shall suffer for the name of Christ. A boundless exaltation lifts my soul! I know that they who left us, Saturus, Perpetua, and the other blessed ones, Await me at the opening gates of heaven. ~ Archibald Lampman,

204:                             What is more gentle than a wind in summer?     What is more soothing than the pretty hummer     That stays one moment in an open flower,     And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?     What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing     In a green island, far from all men's knowing?     More healthful than the leafiness of dales?     More secret than a nest of nightingales?     More serene than Cordelia's countenance?     More full of visions than a high romance?     What, but thee Sleep? Soft closer of our eyes!     Low murmurer of tender lullabies!     Light hoverer around our happy pillows!     Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!     Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!     Most happy listener! when the morning blesses     Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes     That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.     But what is higher beyond thought than thee?     Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?     More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,     Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?     What is it? And to what shall I compare it?     It has a glory, and naught else can share it:     The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,     Chasing away all worldliness and folly;     Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,     Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;     And sometimes like a gentle whispering     Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing     That breathes about us in the vacant air;     So that we look around with prying stare,     Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning,     And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;     To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,     That is to crown our name when life is ended.     Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,     And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!     Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,     And die away in ardent mutterings.     No one who once the glorious sun has seen,     And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean     For his great Maker's presence, but must know     What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:     Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,     By telling what he sees from native merit.     O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen     That am not yet a glorious denizen     Of thy wide heaven- Should I rather kneel     Upon some mountain-top until I feel     A glowing splendour round about me hung,     And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?     O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen     That am not yet a glorious denizen     Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,     Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,     Smooth'd for intoxication by the breath     Of flowering bays, that I may die a death     Of luxury, and my young spirit follow     The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo     Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear     The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair     Visions of all places: a bowery nook     Will be elysium- an eternal book     Whence I may copy many a lovely saying     About the leaves, and flowers- about the playing     Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade     Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;     And many a verse from so strange influence     That we must ever wonder how, and whence     It came. Also imaginings will hover     Round my fire-side, and haply there discover     Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander     In happy silence, like the clear Meander     Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot     Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,     Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress     Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,     Write on my tablets all that was permitted,     All that was for our human senses fitted.     Then the events of this wide world I'd seize     Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze     Till at its shoulders it should proudly see     Wings to find out an immortality.     Stop and consider! life is but a day;     A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way     From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep     While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep     Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?     Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;     The reading of an ever-changing tale;     The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;     A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;     A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,     Riding the springy branches of an elm.     O for ten years, that I may overwhelm     Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed     That my own soul has to itself decreed.     Then will I pass the countries that I see     In long perspective, and continually     Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I'll pass     Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,     Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,     And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;     Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,     To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,-     Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white     Into a pretty shrinking with a bite     As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,     A lovely tale of human life we'll read.     And one will teach a tame dove how it best     May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;     Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,     Will set a green robe floating round her head,     And still will dance with ever varied ease,     Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:     Another will entice me on, and on     Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;     Till in the bosom of a leafy world     We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd     In the recesses of a pearly shell.     And can I ever bid these joys farewell?     Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,     Where I may find the agonies, the strife     Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,     O'ersailing the blue cragginess, a car     And steeds with streamy manes- the charioteer     Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:     And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly     Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly     Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,     Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.     Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;     And now I see them on the green-hill's side     In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.     The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks     To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear     Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,     Passing along before a dusky space     Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase     Some ever- fleeting music on they sweep.     Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:     Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;     Some with their faces muffled to the ear     Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,     Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom;     Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;     Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways     Flit onward- now a lovely wreath of girls     Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;     And now broad wings. Most awfully intent     The driver of those steeds is forward bent,     And seems to listen: O that I might know     All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.     The visions all are fled- the car is fled     Into the light of heaven, and in their stead     A sense of real things comes doubly strong,     And, like a muddy stream, would bear along     My soul to nothingness: but I will strive     Against all doubtings, and will keep alive     The thought of that same chariot, and the strange     Journey it went.                Is there so small a range     In the present strength of manhood, that the high     Imagination cannot freely fly     As she was wont of old? prepare her steeds,     Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds     Upon the clouds? Has she not shown us all?     From the clear space of ether, to the small     Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning     Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening     Of April meadows? Here her altar shone,     E'en in this isle; and who could paragon     The fervid choir that lifted up a noise     Of harmony, to where it aye will poise     Its mighty self of convoluting sound,     Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,     Eternally around a dizzy void?     Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd     With honors; nor had any other care     Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.     Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a schism     Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,     Made great Apollo blush for this his land.     Men were thought wise who could not understand     His glories: with a puling infant's force     They sway'd about upon a rocking horse,     And thought it Pegasus. Ah dismal soul'd!     The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd     Its gathering waves- ye felt it not. The blue     Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew     Of summer nights collected still to make     The morning precious: beauty was awake!     Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead     To things ye knew not of,- were closely wed     To musty laws lined out with wretched rule     And compass vile: so that ye taught a school     Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,     Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,     Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:     A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask     Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!     That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,     And did not know it,- no, they went about,     Holding a poor, decrepid standard out     Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large     The name of one Boileau!                    O ye whose charge     It is to hover round our pleasant hills!     Whose congregated majesty so fills     My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace     Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,     So near those common folk; did not their shames     Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames     Delight you? Did ye never cluster round     Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,     And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu     To regions where no more the laurel grew?     Or did ye stay to give a welcoming     To some lone spirits who could proudly sing     Their youth away, and die? 'Twas even so:     But let me think away those times of woe:     Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed     Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed     Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard     In many places;- some has been upstirr'd     From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,     By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,     Nested and quiet in a valley mild,     Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild     About the earth: happy are ye and glad.     These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've had     Strange thunders from the potency of song;     Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,     From majesty: but in clear truth the themes     Are ugly clubs, the Poets' Polyphemes     Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower     Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;     'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.     The very archings of her eye-lids charm     A thousand willing agents to obey,     And still she governs with the mildest sway:     But strength alone though of the Muses born     Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,     Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres     Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,     And thorns of life; forgetting the great end     Of poesy, that it should be a friend     To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.      Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than     E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds     Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds     A silent space with ever sprouting green.     All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,     Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,     Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.     Then let us clear away the choking thorns     From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,     Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,     Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown     With simple flowers: let there nothing be     More boisterous than a lover's bended knee;     Nought more ungentle than the placid look     Of one who leans upon a closed book;     Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes     Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!     As she was wont, th' imagination     Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,     And they shall be accounted poet kings     Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.     O may these joys be ripe before I die.     Will not some say that I presumptuously     Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace     'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?     That whining boyhood should with reverence bow     Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? How!     If I do hide myself, it sure shall be     In the very fane, the light of Poesy:     If I do fall, at least I will be laid     Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;     And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;     And there shall be a kind memorial graven.     But off Despondence! miserable bane!     They should not know thee, who athirst to gain     A noble end, are thirsty every hour.     What though I am not wealthy in the dower     Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know     The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow     Hither and thither all the changing thoughts     Of man: though no great minist'ring reason sorts     Out the dark mysteries of human souls     To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls     A vast idea before me, and I glean     Therefrom my liberty; thence too I've seen     The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear     As anything most true; as that the year     Is made of the four seasons- manifest     As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,     Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I     Be but the essence of deformity,     A coward, did my very eye-lids wink     At speaking out what I have dared to think.     Ah! rather let me like a madman run     Over some precipice; let the hot sun     Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down     Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown     Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.     An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,     Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!     How many days! what desperate turmoil!     Ere I can have explored its widenesses.     Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,     I could unsay those- no, impossible!     Impossible!            For sweet relief I'll dwell     On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay     Begun in gentleness die so away.     E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:     I turn full hearted to the friendly aids     That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,     And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.     The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet     Into the brain ere one can think upon it;     The silence when some rhymes are coming out;     And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:     The message certain to be done to-morrow.     'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow     Some precious book from out its snug retreat,     To cluster round it when we next shall meet.     Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs     Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;     Many delights of that glad day recalling,     When first my senses caught their tender falling.     And with these airs come forms of elegance     Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,     Careless, and grand-fingers soft and round     Parting luxuriant curls;- and the swift bound     Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye     Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.     Thus I remember all the pleasant flow     Of words at opening a portfolio.     Things such as these are ever harbingers     To trains of peaceful images: the stirs     Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:     A linnet starting all about the bushes:     A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,     Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted     With over pleasure- many, many more,     Might I indulge at large in all my store     Of luxuries: yet I must not forget     Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:     For what there may be worthy in these rhymes     I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes     Of friendly voices had just given place     To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace     The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.     It was a poet's house who keeps the keys     Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung     The glorious features of the bards who sung     In other ages- cold and sacred busts     Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts     To clear Futurity his darling fame!     Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim     At swelling apples with a frisky leap     And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap     Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a fane     Of liny marble, and thereto a train     Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:     One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward     The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet     Bending their graceful figures till they meet     Over the trippings of a little child:     And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild     Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.     See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping     Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;-     A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims     At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion     With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean     Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er     Its rocky marge, and balances once more     The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam     Feel all about their undulating home.     Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down     At nothing; just as though the earnest frown     Of over thinking had that moment gone     From off her brow, and left her all alone.     Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,     As if he always listened to the sighs     Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's worn     By horrid suffrance- mightily forlorn.     Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,     Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean     His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they!     For over them was seen a free display     Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone     The face of Poesy: from off her throne     She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.     The very sense of where I was might well     Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came     Thought after thought to nourish up the flame     Within my breast; so that the morning light     Surprised me even from a sleepless night;     And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,     Resolving to begin that very day     These lines; and howsoever they be done,     I leave them as a father does his son.             THE END (lines 250-1): An idea, says Leigh Hunt... "of as lovely and powerful a nature in embodying an abstraction, as we ever remember to have seen put into words." (line 354): Leigh Hunt's house: he says ... the poem "originated in sleeping in a room adorned with busts and pictures," -- "many a bust from Shout," as Shelley wrote to Mrs. Gisborne. In Hunt's Correspondence (Volume i, page 289) we read "Keats's Sleep and Poetry is a description of a parlour that was mine, no bigger than an old mansion's closet." Charles Cowden Clarke says (Gentleman's Magazine, February 1874) "It was in the library at Hunt's cottage, where an extemporary bed had been made up for him on the sofa." ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Chaucer ,

205:Orpheus ORPHEUS. LAUGHTER and dance, and sounds of harp and lyre, Piping of flutes, singing of festal songs, Ribbons of flame from flaunting torches, dulled By the broad summer sunshine, these had filled Since the high noon the pillared vestibules, The peristyles and porches, in the house Of the bride's father. Maidens, garlanded With rose and myrtle dedicate to Love, Adorned with chaplets fresh the bride, and veiled The shining head and wistful, girlish face, Ineffable sweetness of divided lips, Large light of clear, gray eyes, low, lucid brows, White as a cloud, beneath pale, clustering gold. When sunless skies uncertain twilight cast, That makes a friend's face as an alien's strange, Investing with a foreign mystery The dear green fields about our very home. Then waiting stood the gilded chariot Before the porch, and from the vine-wreathed door, Issued the white-veiled bride, while jocund youths And mænads followed her with dance and song. She came with double glory; for her lord, Son of Apollo and Calliope, Towered beside her, beautiful in limb And feature, as though formed to magic strains, Like the Bœotian city, that arose In airy structures to Amphion's lute. The light serene shone from his brow and eyes, Of one whose lofty thoughts keep consonance With the celestial music of the spheres. His smile was fluent, and his speech outsang The cadences of soft-stringed instruments. He to the chariot led Eurydice, And these twain, mounting with their paranymph, Drove onward through the dusky twilit fields, Preceded by the nymphs and singing youths, And boys diffusing light and odors warm, With flaming brands of aromatic woods, 138 And matrons bearing symbols of the life Of careful wives, the distaff and the sieve; And followed by the echoes of their songs, The fragrance crushed from moist and trodden grass, The blessing of the ever-present gods, Whom they invoked with earnest hymns and prayer. From Orpheus' portico, festooned with vines, Issued a flood of rare, ambrosial light, As though Olympian portals stood ajar, And Hymen, radiant by his torch's flame, Mystic with saffron vest and purple, stood With hands munificent to greet and bless. Ripe fruits were poured upon the married pair Alighting, and the chariot wheels were burnt, A token that the bride returned no more Unto her father's house. With step resolved, She crossed the threshold soft with flowers, secure That his heroic soul who guided her, Was potent and alert to grace her life, With noble outlines and ideal hues, Uplifting it to equal height with his. EPITHALAMIUM. TO ZEUS. Because thou art enthroned beyond our reach, Behind the brightest and the farthest star, And silence is as eloquent as speech, To thee who knowest us for what we are, We bring thee naught save brief and simple prayer, Strong in its naked, frank sincerity. Send sacred joys of marriage to this pair, With fertile increase and prosperity. Three nymphs had met beneath an oak that cast Cool, dappled shadow on the glowing grass, And liquid gleam of the translucent brook. The air was musical with frolic sounds Of feminine voices, and of laughter blithe. Patines of sunshine fell like mottled gold On the rose-white of bright bare limbs and neck, On flowing, snowy mantles, and again With sudden splendor on the gloriole Of warm, rich hair. The fairest nymph reclined Beneath the tree, and leaned her yellow head, With its crisp, clustering rings, against the trunk, 139 And dipped her pure feet in the colorless brook, Stirring the ripples into circles wide, With cool, delicious plashings in the stream. Her young companions lay upon the grass, With indolent eyes half closed, and parted lips Half-smiling, in the languor of the noon. But suddenly these twain, arising, cried, Startled and sharply, 'Lo, Eurydice, Behold!' and she, uplifting frightened eyes, Saw a strange shepherd watching with bold glance. Veiling their faces with their mantles light, Her sisters fled swift-footed, with shrill cries, Adown the meadow, but her wet feet clung To the dry grasses and the earthy soil. 'Eurydice, I love thee! fear me not, For I am Aristæus, with gray groves Of hoary olives, and innumerous flocks, And precious swarms of yellow-vested bees.' But she with sudden strength eluding him, Sprang o'er the flowery turf, with back-blown hair, And wing-like garments, shortened breath, and face Kindled with shame and terror. In her flight She ran through fatal flowers and tangled weeds, And thick rank grass beside a stagnant pool, When, with a keen and breathless cry of pain, Abrupt she fell amidst the tall, green reeds. Then Aristæus reached her, as a snake Crept back in sinuous lines amidst the slime. Desire was changed to pity, when he saw The wounded dryad in her agony Strive vainly to escape, repelling him With feeble arms. 'Forgive me, nymph,' he cried; ' I will not touch, save with most reverent hands, Thy sacred form. But let me bear thee hence, And soothe thy bruise with healing herbs. 'Too late, Leave me,' she sighed, 'and lead thou Orpheus here, That I may see him ere the daylight fails.' He left her pale with suffering, —earth seemed strange Unto her eyes, who knew she looked her last On level-stretching meadows, hazy hills, And all the light and color of the sky. Brief as a dream she saw her happy life, 140 Her father's face, her mother's blessed eyes, The hero who, unheralded, appeared, And all was changed,— all things put forth a voice, As in the season of the singing birds. She looked around revived, and saw again The lapsing river and abiding sky. Across the sunny fields came Aristæus, With Orpheus following,— and after these, Sad nymphs and heroes grave with sympathy. Quite calm she lay, and almost wished to die Before they reached her, if the throbbing pain Of limb and heart could only thus be stilled. But Orpheus hastened to her side, and mourned, 'Eurydice, Eurydice! Remain, — For there is no delight of speech nor song Among the dead. Will the gods jest with me, And call this life, which must forevermore Be but a void, a hunger, a desire, A stretching out of empty hands to grasp What earth nor sea nor heaven will restore? Is this the life that I conceived and sang, Rich with all noble opportunities And beautiful realities?' But she: 'Brave Orpheus, search thou not the eternal gods, Surely they love us dearer than we know. Do thou refrain, for yet I hold my faith. When I am gone, thou still wilt have thy lyre; Love it and cherish,— it is Fate's best gift, And with death's clearer vision, I can see That in all ages men will be upraised Nearer to gods through this than through aught else. My death may but inspire a larger note, A passionate cadence to thy strain, which else Were not quite human, and thus incomplete. And with this thought I am content to die. Cease not to sing to me when I am gone; Thy voice will reach me in the farthest spheres, Or wake me out of silence. Now begin, That I may float on those celestial waves Into the darkness, as I oft have longed.' ORPHEUS. Once in a wild, bright vision, came to me 141 Beautiful music, luminous as morn, An effluence of light and rapture born, With eyes as full of splendor as the sea; Dazzling as youth, with pinions frail as air, Yet potent to uplift and soar as prayer. Again I see her, cypress in her wreath, Sad with all grave and tender mysteries; Tears in her unimaginable eyes, That look their first with wondering awe on Death. Never again, in all the after years, Will her lips laugh with utter mirthfulness; Nor the strange longing in her eyes grow less, Nor any time dispel their mist of tears. Yea, with new numbers she completes her strain, A song unsung before by gods or men; But she hath lost, ah! lost for evermore, The ringing note of joy ineffable, The high assurance proud, that all is well, The glad refrain that pealed from shore to shore. O lyre, thou hast done with joyous things, Triumphant ecstasies, exultant song; Of subtle pain, keen anguish, hopeless wrong, I fashion now another of thy strings, And strike thee with a strong hand passionate, Into a fuller music, adequate Unto a soul that seeks insatiably, With fond, illusive hope and faith divine; For through all ages will my soul seek thine, Eurydice, my lost Eurydice! What solace to lament with empty hands And smitten heart, above a mound of earth, Vivid with mockery of perpetual flowers, O'er one small urn that holds beneath its lid, With overmeasure, all the flameless dust And soulless ashes of our love? Yet this Was Orpheus' life, to mourn beside the grave, From his stringed lyre compelling wild response And thrilling intonation of his grief, That made the hearts of gnarled and knotty oaks Ache as with human sympathy, and rived The adamantine centre of the rock, And lured the forest beasts, and hushed the birds, 142 Mavis and lark, while with wide, awful wings, The eagle shadowed his exalted brow. 'Surely,' he cried, 'the senseless dust hears not, More than the burnt brand hears old natural sounds Innumerable rustle of young leaves. It cannot be that only these remain, The ashes of her glittering limbs, warm flesh, And blessed hair,— my love had more than these Where is the vital soul, that was to me An inspiration and an influence? The gods are not unstable like rash man, Aimlessly to create and discreate, With cruel and capricious fantasy, For thus the immaculate skies would be a lie; Eurydice is but withdrawn from me, And disembodied, while mine eyesight blinds, My senses are a hindrance, and obstruct The accurate perception of my soul. When mine own spirit, nightly disenthralled, Soars to the land of dreams, whose boundaries, By day, loom infinitely far and vague, And yet, at night, become our very home,— There still I see thee with the same bright form, The same auroral eyes that made for me Perpetual morning; and I stretch mine arms Hungering after thee, and, calling, wake Unto the vapid glare of languid dawn. Yet all these things address my very soul, Telling it that thou art not dead; for death Is but the incarnation of man's fears; Gods do not recognize it. If thou art (As I have faith) in the known universe, Yea, though it be in the extremest land, Beyond the sunset, with its shining isles, I will go forth and seek thee, nor will cease To mourn thee and desire, till I have found.' Thus Orpheus fared across the full-fed streams Of Hebrus and of Strymon, and beyond The purple outlines and aerial crags, Snow-glittering of Scardus, Rhodope, And grand Orbelus; through fair, fertile fields Of Thessaly with increase of ripe corn, 143 Through Attica, Bœotia and Eubœa, And southward to the royal-citied state, Beautiful Corinth, throned upon the base Of green Acrocorinthus, whose soft slope Was dedicate with temples to the gods, And towering over all the sacred shrine Of Aphrodite. Upward from the town The mountain rose defensive, where the walls Of Corinth ended, and beyond the gates, The radiant plain of the Corinthian Gulf Stretched infinitely. Orpheus rested here, Till he bethought him to ascend the mount, With offerings at Aphrodite's shrine— Not sanguine victims, but fresh myrtle wreath And faultless rose—to sue the oracle For help and guidance. All the town was still, The bright red band of sunrise lit the sky Above the dark blue gulf, and Orpheus heard A hundred birds saluting, from the brake, Aurora, and cool rush of waterfalls. Made murmurous music, while Athené breathed The vigor of the morning in his soul. Up the steep mountain side he passed, beyond The silver growth of olives, and the belt Of pines, to where the foam-white temple stood, Smitten at once by all the beams of morn. He saw the double peak, rose-white with snow And early sunshine, of Parnassus cleave The northern sky, and sacred Helicon Erect its head, crowned with the Muses' grove, The Bay of Crissa and Corinthian Gulf, Below flashed restless, and a path of gold Divided with clear, tremulous light the waves. From the large beauty of the morn, he went Into the holy limits of the shrine, With warm air heavy with the odorous rose. ORPHEUS. I put into my prayer to thee, O mother, The tumult and the passion of the ocean, The unflecked purity of winnowed foam-wreaths; To thee who sprang from these, the incarnation 144 Of all the huge sea holds of grace or splendor, With its own light between thine amorous eyelids. For I, in thy most sacred cause a pilgrim, Have wandered tireless, from Thrace to Corinth, 'Midst foreign scenes and alien men and women. And at my right hand Grief incessant follows, And at my left walks Memory with the semblance Of lost Eurydice's ethereal beauty. Infatuate I gaze, until the vision Thrills me to madness, and I start and tremble, Remembering also Grief is my companion. Onward through spacious fields, by copious waters, Through purple growth of amaranth and crocus, And past the marble beauty of great cities, We three have journeyed,— strangers saw me reckless, And knew at once that I had walked with sorrow, And that the gods had chosen me their victim. Are all my carols useless, worse than useless? Shall my long pilgrimage, thus unrewarded, End at the blank, insuperable ocean? Hast thou no wise compassion, goddess, mother? In all the measureless years' unfathomed chances, Is the dear past to be repeated never? O supreme mother! crowned with blessed poppy As well as myrtle,— bring her here, or compass My soul with death, that elsewhere I may seek her. He ceased, and through the temple spread a mist Ambrosial, and above the shrine a star Serenely brightened, and a heavenly voice Made sweet response: ' Love guides himself thy course To the last sea-girt rock. No worthy soul May ever truly seek, and fail to find.' Still southward Orpheus journeyed, till he reached Cape Tænarus, the last bleak point of Greece, Desolate o'er an infinite waste of waves, While sunset lit the western sea and sky With yellow floods of warm, diffusive light, Kindling his serious face and earnest eyes, And glittering on his lyre. Long time he stood, And gazed upon the trouble of the waves, Expectant of a word, a sign— and still No answer made the wild, indifferent sea. 145 Impetuous, he smote his quivering lyre To reckless and sonorous melody, Vibrating o'er the watery turbulence. Then far below its western bath, the sun Dipped and was gone, and all the sea was gray. Still through the air rang those imploring notes, Unutterably plaintive— till there came From out the ocean cave of Tænarus The shining forms of Oceanides, With myriad faces raised supremely fair, And myriad arms that beckoned as he sang. Behold! a stir amidst the frothing brine, As though upheaved by powers submarine, In implicate confusion, wave on wave, Then rose with windy manes and fiery eyes, Proudly careering, the immortal steeds, Bearing, within the shell-shaped car, the god Of august aspect and imperial port, With such profusion of ambrosial locks As curl around the very front of Zeus. He with benign regard the minstrel viewed, Then whirling thrice his massy trident, struck The scarpéd promontory with its fork. And Orpheus felt the solid basis yield, And heard the hollow rumbling, as when earth Rocks to her centre, and high hills spit flame. And lo! he stood before a sulphurous throne, Set in an open space, wherefrom there streamed Four rivers stagnant, black. Here Ades reigned, His very presence unto mortal sense Oppressive as low thunder in the air. The triple-headed guardian of his realm Crouched at his feet, and in the dismal murk, The hideous Harpies hovered o'er his head. The serpent-haired Eumenides stood near, Brow-bound with sanguine fillets, and the Fates Wielded the distaff, spindle, and sharp shears. The air was dense with noisome influence, And shadowy apparitions seemed to float Athwart the dusk. But on the infernal throne Conspicuous in beauty, by her lord, Persephone was seated. Wonderment 146 Looked from her eyes, in seeing him, no god, Who came before his time among the dead, Unarmed with spear or shield, a glistening lyre Nigh slipping from the loose grasp of his hands. 'Who comes unsummoned to my realm?' began The baleful godhead in discordant tones, Widely reverberant; and the low, clear voice Of Orpheus answered: 'One who would remain, If but the impotent body could be free To follow the desires of the soul,— Orpheus, an unskilled singer.' 'Birth and death Are preordained for thee, presumptuous man. What narrow space of time the Fates accord, 'Twould best become thee to bear worthily, With dignity, and leave the rest to them, The end as the beginning.' 'Plead for me, O beautiful Persephone, — behold! Eurydice was snatched with violent hand From out mine eager arms, and I have sought Her image o'er the peopled earth in vain.' Then she: 'I may not summon her, nor hope To swerve the haughty purpose of my lord. With influence of thy familiar voice, If thou canst touch her spirit, she is thine.' But Ades: 'Who recalls the dead by prayer? They whose calm souls are once possessed by death, Find such a solid joy in grasping firm, After life's phantasms, this reality, That wisdom, grief, nor love persuadeth them Their liberated spirits to confine With fleshly limitations. Nathless sing,— And prove life's glittering evanescence vain, Outweighed by death's sublime security.' ORPHEUS. I render thanks, eternal gods, that ye Empower myself to call Eurydice. Man only can fulfill his own desire; And if I fail, the sorrow rests with me. Ye give what we deserve; I pray alone Ne'er to be cursed with what I have not won. And to whom else would I intrust my lyre, This supreme invocation to intone? 147 But in myself I feel the love, the power, The lyric inspiration, while the flower Of all my life brings forth its proper fruit, In this my loftiest, most godlike hour. If I could make ye feel the agony Of the strong man, O gods, condemned to see The light fail from dear eyes, the white lips mute, The elusive soul take flight eternally To where we cannot follow it nor find, With the most subtle searchings of the mind, With the most passionate longings of the soul, Deaf, unresponsive as the empty wind; Then would your pity as your power be, 'Twould crown us all with immortality, And grace us with completeness, make us whole, Worthy to be the peers of deity. For we are mighty now to slay and bless, Yea, gifted with strange strength of steadfastness, To conquer bodiless and viewless foes Within ourselves, yet in our helplessness, As children, in the presence of this Death, Whom nor revolt nor patience conquereth, Implacable, with grim mouth fastened close, That with no hope our anguish answereth. Resound with wildest utterance, O my lyre; Let each note be a living flame of fire, To reach her, to burn through her, to compel, Strong with the infinite strength of my desire. I am no god, yet Fate, Eurydice, A goddess for my slave hath given me,— Immortal Music, pure, ineffable; And I send her, my handmaid, after thee. If all wherein I put my faith as sure, Be not delusions vain which death will cure; If the sublime reliance of the soul On her own powers be no empty lure, Whereat the high gods laugh in bitter scorn; If what I have achieved and what forborne, Will lead me nearer to a worthy goal, If all life's promises be not forsworn,— Eurydice, appear! Before mine eyes, O gods, I see a formless essence rise, 148 That moulds itself unto the music's beat, Appareled in the glory of the skies. Now, while I ring a more celestial tone, The spirit more divinely bright hath grown, To larger modulations, strains complete, The white limbs from the shapeless mist are won, As from the bosom of a summer cloud, Wherewith a goddess would her semblance shroud. Is this mine own creation? Is it truth, That with warm life I have blank air endowed? The soft cloud parts asunder,— yea, 'tis she! Once more the face that was my star I see, Crowned with the beauty of immortal youth, Eurydice, my lost Eurydice! Silent beside his silent, fallen lyre, The singer stood, and clasped her in his arms, Gazing upon this pale, fair face as one Whose heart's supreme desire is satisfied. 'Is not this hour the hour I have foreseen, Through all obstructions and infirmities Of my mortality, and is it not More glorious in fruition than I dreamed! Yea, I have dreamed it all, eternal gods, Even as now have pressed her to my heart With the same clinging effort to retain, And seen this breathing form, these lucent eyes Vivid as now, instinct with life and love. Yet have I waked to chill discouragement, To vacant disappointment, and the sense Of aching, unassuaged desire. O speak, For in my dreams I never hear thy voice, Save veiled and indistinct, a mockery Of the old limpid music. Speak to me: Thy flesh is warm, thy heart beats close to mine, Thine upturned face is wet with human tears; O speak to me,— lest I should wake again To barren fields and empty skies of Thrace.' Then in low, natural tones, Eurydice: 'Thy voice hath reached me in the farthest spheres, And waked me out of silence.' 'Follow me,— It is thyself,— if I must wake from this, 'Twill be to death or madness. Follow me, 149 From darkness palpable, to earth, to light Of ample skies, and freshness of blown grass And rolling waters.' 'Hold!' the jarring voice Of Ades interposed: ''Tis excellent The attribute we gave thee, to convert To such a weapon as may overcome The old hereditary foes of man, Sleep, death, corruption, and necessity. But to reveal thyself the peer of gods, Not only through inspired ecstasy, But through a continent persistency, This never was accomplished by thy race, And thou must yet be tried. This soul is thine, For thou hast won her from the jaws of Hell; Yea, she may follow thee as free as light,— Lead thou the way and charm the hostile fiends. Look forward ever; if thine eyes revert But once to gaze on her, to reassure Unworthy fears, or sate a mean desire, Thou art not mate for us. She will dissolve To empty air —never to be recalled. ORPHEUS. Back to the vital earth, O follow me, Regained Eurydice. To rippling well-heads and to sunlit plains, Greened by soft wash of rains. See orchards rosy with prolific bloom, And vineyards' purple gloom. Lulled by the languid flow of lilied streams, There will I sing my dreams. Behold! I chant a hymn of adoration, Triumphant exultation, For I can see, in all the universe, No error and no curse. The gods have naught withheld, in power and sway, From him who will obey Their own divine and everlasting laws. Above the world's applause, As vigorous as morning, he can rise, Wrest the desired prize From the clenched hands of Nemesis and Fate. With victory elate, 150 I chant unmitigated prayer and praise To gods who part our ways, Seeing 'midst clamorous change incredible, That all is ordered well. In more harmonious strains, O lyre, express My twice-born happiness; Yea, utter and translate with larger sense My rich experience, That makes complete life's solemn threnody Joy unalloyed and free, Grief unexampled, victory at last, When strife is overpast. Through pathways hedged with horrors still they fared Invulnerable. Darkness stayed them not, Nor yet more dreadful light, revealing oft The hideous fiends who rose on every side, Huge shapes of ill, to gaze upon the twain. A Greek, who, fleeing, smote a vibrant lyre, That chimed to carols more divinely quired Than those that fill with ravishment a grove, Misty with moonlight, where the plain brown bird Makes midnight vocal. Closely following him, A woman with grave aspect, parted lips, Upraising, in enthralléd ecstasy, Large eyes serene, fulfilled with holier light For having pierced beyond the boundaries Of time and of mortality. The day Shone through the murk at last, and filled their path With dusky sunbeams; and far-stretching fields Of soft, delicious green, and crystal skies, Encouraged them; all perils past save one. But a black, stagnant river crawled along, Spanned by no bridge, and ferried by no sail, With muddy tide between the day and them. And Orpheus with enamored eyes passed on, And saw not how the loathsome waters crept, Nor how his magic song enchanted them To solid substance; but he missed at once The footsteps light that had inspired his lay. Impetuous he turned to reassure His fearful soul, and sate his hungry eyes; But as he turned, the inspiration fled, 151 His lips refused to frame the fruitless words, His eyes beheld,—O gods! Eurydice Removed already far away from him, By all the wide-expanded space, between Our loftiest dream and our unworthy deed. She gazed with no reproachful glance nor tears, And Orpheus felt himself beneath her, fall, Momently down from empyreal heights, And lo! he stood within the fields of Thrace, On earth familiar, 'neath familiar skies, And heard a voice float through the shining air, From unimaginable distances, Faint as a dream, — 'Farewell, farewell, farewell.' 'Woe! woe! what lamentations may express The fullness of my new calamity! I, overbearing, who presumed to reach The lordly and severe stability Of the immortals, — whom may I invoke? To whom may man appeal when he hath failed Unto himself? What god will interpose To thwart invincible necessity? Lost, lost forever! I stood elevate, For one brief moment dreaming I had won The skill and power of true divinity. Gods! with what lofty and superb disdain Ye must look down on mine unworthy haste,— Ye, who with grandeur of sublime repose, And majesty of patience, still abide Invariable through eternity! Alas! my mighty visions were to me Auspicious omens, and they fed my heart With vigor and encouragement; but now, This was no dream; for Hope, full-flushed and fair, Born, like the freshness of auroral dew, From unseen air, and traceless vanishing, Consorts not with this mighty goddess, Truth, With solemn and unfathomable eyes, For Truth is one with Death and Destiny. With what a depth of meaning didst thou turn, For the last time, to me, Eurydice, A glory 'midst the darkness, with that glance Of infinite compassion, hands outstretched, 152 As if to save the from mine own defect. With what humiliation and despair I saw thee rising unattainably!— The vault, the stream accursed had disappeared; I was in Thrace uplooking to the sky. O, to what harmonies I might have wed The blessed tidings which all men await! Now I can only make my song express A distant echo, a suggestion vague, Of the serene contentment of thy voice. Sing this, my lyre, that all who hark to thee With an attentive and a gentle ear, May hear the promise, faint and yet assured, Recall the grace and the deliciousness Of immortality, and strive anew Towards the ideal unattained by me, Yet still accessible to stronger souls.' Thus Orpheus, when the first wild burst of woe Had passed; no need to seek her now; No need to wander o'er the peopled earth. Was he in truth a victim of the gods, Or rather with a fairer fortune blest Than happier men, selected for a fate Divinely tragical, that he might know The fullness of a life's experience, And find expression adequate for all, Simple as wisdom, and as dignified As silence? From his kind he lived apart, As one who cherishes a grief, nor seeks Forgetfulness nor comfort; elevate To glittering eminence by destiny, And lonely through the privacy of woe Beyond the reaches of man's sympathy. Where lucid Hebrus bathes its golden sands, He sat discoursing gracious harmonies, Amidst the morning fields, when on his ears Sounded with horrid dissonance the clang Of smitten cymbals and the throb of drums. But still the revelers remained unseen, Till, rounding suddenly a neighboring hill, The whole mad troop came dancing into sight. First marched a jovial bacchanal, who bore 153 A crystal vessel, decked with branching vine, Then youth and nymphs with ivy chapleted, In purfled raiment of hues delicate, With mitres, thyrsi, cymbals, drums and flutes, Some balancing upon their graceful heads, Regal with crisp-curled gold, their burdens light Of baskets heaped with figs and dusky grapes. And 'midst them all the sacrificial goat, Adorned with berries. Thus the festal throng, With wanton gestures, and with antic bounds, And wild embracings, mad with wine, approached, With peals of laughter, echoing faintly back From jocund hill to hill, and lusty shouts Of 'Bacché, Bacché!' SONG. With wassail all the night, Celestial Bacchus, we have worshipped thee! With riotous revel and with festal wine. Still on the hills in early morning light, With frolic dances and brisk jollity, Our hymns of praise are thine. For we have seen thee, god! The fawn-skin slipping from thy shoulder bare, Thy gestures lithe and loose, thine eyes that shine, Thy rosy hands that waved a clustered rod Of uncrushed grapes, and thine ambrosial hair, Dripping with myrrh and wine. Thou art not strict, severe, Like loftier gods and ruthless goddesses, Implacable like Pallas, Zeus, or Truth; But to humanity akin and near, Eager for folly, and the luxuries Of lustful health and youth. This crystal-vialed balm, Divinely brewed, soothing as Lethe's streams, Is the most generous gift of Deity, Informing us with soft oblivion calm Of Death and Fate, with joys beyond the dreams Of grave sobriety. Come, let us drink again. Resound, O timbrels, and thou bird-voiced flute; Thyrsus and pipes make shrill and dear acclaim, 154 To Bacchus, who impurples hill and plain With vineyards bursting with increase of fruit, Subtle as liquid flame. Œoë! quaff and sing! Who drinks no more, offends the deity Of Bacchus! lo on Hebrus' grassy brink, A minstrel sits, with gold lute glistening, Marring our rites with stern solemnity, Who doth not chant nor drink. Ho! Orpheus, laugh again, From mirthful heart, and join our happy throng; Cease to lament with unappeased desire. We bring a cordial for all grief and pain. Add to the choral strain thy siren song, And thine enchanted lyre. For Fate hath answered thee With cold derision; Death respondeth not. Here is a god who soothes tire soul and sense With sweet nepenthe,—thy Eurydice Thou wilt not lure to earthly grove nor grot With suasive eloquence. Here, nymphs no whit less fair Are waiting thee, with warm, caressing arms And loving eyes, lips fit for gods to kiss, And rosy shoulders, dimpling white and bare,— Pliant and graceful, with innumerous Charms, To sate thy heart with bliss. ORPHEUS. Hence, thou ignoble throng! Dare ye profane the splendid purity, The high nobility of morn, with rites Lewd and disgusting, and delirious song, Completing in dear sunshine, shamelessly, Rude orgies of wild nights? BACCHANTES. Ha! he insults the god, With his presumptuous and impious scorn. Avenge, O bacchanals, the cause divine; Compel him with the sacred cup and rod, To quaff his salutation to the morn, In frothing, Massic wine! ORPHEUS. 155 Mad bacchanals, begone! I honor all the gods and Nemesis. They favor not such frantic revelry, But blameless lives, and deeds most like their own, The service of a patient heart submiss, And staunch integrity. Behold the morning hills, Sky-kissed Libethra, delicate as air; The fragile grasses gray with wreaths of dew. Hark to the tumbling of the mountain rills To Eos and Athene your first prayer And sacrifice are due. BACCHANTES. With shameless blasphemy, He dares proscribe, O god, thy rank and fame. Enough! enough! he hath despised us long, Bewailing his beloved Eurydice. O nymphs, avenge yourselves in Liber's name, Slay him 'midst dance and song. Your deadly javelins fling With flinty missiles at the singer proud, Who deems himself an equal of the gods, Because he hath the skill to pipe and sing, With facile fluency of speech endowed. Smite him with spears and rods. ORPHEUS. Ring forth, my lyre, again,— With magic harmonies my doom avert, In tones as plaintive and as rich as life. BACCHANTES. Our stones and javelins we have hurled in vain; His lyre enchants them, he remains unhurt, 'Midst all the wrath and strife. Toss the loud tambourine, Its tight-drawn skin with noisy fingers smite; Clash ye the cymbals, sing with fatal art; Cast ye his sundered limbs the stream within,— They irritate us, soft and bare and white; Rend them, O nymphs, apart. ORPHEUS. Sweet Death, deliver me Out of the reach of envy, lust, and hate; 156 Enfold me in thy large-embracing arms. BACCHANTES. Ah! will he now invoke Eurydice, Madly resisting his allotted fate With vile, unhallowed charms? So with a clamorous swell Of drums and timbrels, we o'erpower the breath Of dulcet and persuasive melody. ORPHEUS. The maniacs conquer! O my lyre, farewell! Approach, thou beautiful and welcome Death, With lost Eurydice. ~ Emma Lazarus,

206:Rose Mary Of her two fights with the Beryl-stone Lost the first, but the second won. PART I “MARY mine that art Mary's Rose Come in to me from the garden-close. The sun sinks fast with the rising dew, And we marked not how the faint moon grew; But the hidden stars are calling you. “Tall Rose Mary, come to my side, And read the stars if you'd be a bride. In hours whose need was not your own, While you were a young maid yet ungrown You've read the stars in the Beryl-stone. “Daughter, once more I bid you read; But now let it be for your own need: Because to-morrow, at break of day, To Holy Cross he rides on his way, Your knight Sir James of Heronhaye. “Ere he wed you, flower of mine, For a heavy shrift he seeks the shrine. Now hark to my words and do not fear; Ill news next I have for your ear; But be you strong, and our help is here. “On his road, as the rumour's rife, An ambush waits to take his life. He needs will go, and will go alone; Where the peril lurks may not be known; But in this glass all things are shown.” Pale Rose Mary sank to the floor:— “The night will come if the day is o'er!” “Nay, heaven takes counsel, star with star, And help shall reach your heart from afar: A bride you'll be, as a maid you are.” The lady unbound her jewelled zone And drew from her robe the Beryl-stone. Shaped it was to a shadowy sphere,— World of our world, the sun's compeer, 219 That bears and buries the toiling year. With shuddering light 'twas stirred and strewn Like the cloud-nest of the wading moon: Freaked it was as the bubble's ball, Rainbow-hued through a misty pall Like the middle light of the waterfall. Shadows dwelt in its teeming girth Of the known and unknown things of earth; The cloud above and the wave around,— The central fire at the sphere's heart bound, Like doomsday prisoned underground. A thousand years it lay in the sea With a treasure wrecked from Thessaly; Deep it lay 'mid the coiled sea-wrack, But the ocean-spirits found the track: A soul was lost to win it back. The lady upheld the wondrous thing:— “Ill fare”(she said) “with a fiend's-faring: But Moslem blood poured forth like wine Can hallow Hell, 'neath the Sacred Sign; And my lord brought this from Palestine. “Spirits who fear the Blessed Rood Drove forth the accursed multitude That heathen worship housed herein,— Never again such home to win, Save only by a Christian's sin. “All last night at an altar fair I burnt strange fires and strove with prayer; Till the flame paled to the red sunrise, All rites I then did solemnize; And the spell lacks nothing but your eyes.” Low spake maiden Rose Mary:— “O mother mine, if I should not see!” “Nay, daughter, cover your face no more, But bend love's heart to the hidden lore, And you shall see now as heretofore.” Paler yet were the pale cheeks grown As the grey eyes sought the Beryl-stone: Then over her mother's lap leaned she, And stretched her thrilled throat passionately, And sighed from her soul, and said, “I see.” Even as she spoke, they two were 'ware 220 Of music-notes that fell through the air; A chiming shower of strange device, Drop echoing drop, once, twice, and thrice, As rain may fall in Paradise. An instant come, in an instant gone, No time there was to think thereon. The mother held the sphere on her knee:— “Lean this way and speak low to me, And take no note but of what you see.” “I see a man with a besom grey That sweeps the flying dust away.” “Ay, that comes first in the mystic sphere; But now that the way is swept and clear, Heed well what next you look on there.” “Stretched aloft and adown I see Two roads that part in waste-country: The glen lies deep and the ridge stands tall; What's great below is above seen small, And the hill-side is the valley-wall.” “Stream-bank, daughter, or moor and moss, Both roads will take to Holy Cross. The hills are a weary waste to wage; But what of the valley-road's presage? That way must tend his pilgrimage.” “As 'twere the turning leaves of a book, The road runs past me as I look; Or it is even as though mine eye Should watch calm waters filled with sky While lights and clouds and wings went by.” “In every covert seek a spear; They'll scarce lie close till he draws near.” “The stream has spread to a river now; The stiff blue sedge is deep in the slough, But the banks are bare of shrub or bough.’ “Is there any roof that near at hand Might shelter yield to a hidden band?” “On the further bank I see but one, And a herdsman now in the sinking sun Unyokes his team at the threshold-stone.” “Keep heedful watch by the water's edge,— Some boat might lurk 'neath the shadowed sedge.” “One slid but now 'twixt the winding shores, 221 But a peasant woman bent to the oars And only a young child steered its course. “Mother, something flashed to my sight!— Nay, it is but the lapwing's flight.— What glints there like a lance that flees?— Nay, the flags are stirred in the breeze, And the water's bright through the dart-rushes. “Ah! vainly I search from side to side:— Woe's me! and where do the foemen hide? Woe's me! and perchance I pass them by, And under the new dawn's blood-red sky Even where I gaze the dead shall lie.” Said the mother: “For dear love's sake, Speak more low, lest the spell should break.” Said the daughter: “By love's control, My eyes, my words, are strained to the goal; But oh! the voice that cries in my soul!” “Hush, sweet, hush! be calm and behold.” “I see two floodgates broken and old: The grasses wave o'er the ruined weir, But the bridge still leads to the breakwater; And—mother, mother, O mother dear!” The damsel clung to her mother's knee, And dared not let the shriek go free; Low she crouched by the lady's chair, And shrank blindfold in her fallen hair, And whispering said, “The spears are there!” The lady stooped aghast from her place, And cleared the locks from her daughter's face. “More's to see, and she swoons, alas! Look, look again, ere the moment pass! One shadow comes but once to the glass. “See you there what you saw but now?” “I see eight men 'neath the willow bough. All over the weir a wild growth's spread: Ah me! it will hide a living head As well as the water hides the dead. “They lie by the broken water-gate As men who have a while to wait. The chief's high lance has a blazoned scroll,— He seems some lord of tithe and toll With seven squires to his bannerole. 222 “The little pennon quakes in the air, I cannot trace the blazon there:— Ah! now I can see the field of blue, The spurs and the merlins two and two;— It is the Warden of Holycleugh!” “God be thanked for the thing we know! You have named your good knight's mortal foe. Last Shrovetide in the tourney-game He sought his life by treasonous shame; And this way now doth he seek the same. “So, fair lord, such a thing you are! But we too watch till the morning star. Well, June is kind and the moon is clear: Saint Judas send you a merry cheer For the night you lie in Warisweir! “Now, sweet daughter, but one more sight, And you may lie soft and sleep to-night. We know in the vale what perils be: Now look once more in the glass, and see If over the hills the road lies free.” Rose Mary pressed to her mother's cheek, And almost smiled but did not speak; Then turned again to the saving spell, With eyes to search and with lips to tell The heart of things invisible. “Again the shape with the besom grey Comes back to sweep the clouds away. Again I stand where the roads divide; But now all's near on the steep hillside, And a thread far down is the rivertide.” “Ay, child, your road is o'er moor and moss, Past Holycleugh to Holy Cross. Our hunters lurk in the valley's wake, As they knew which way the chase would take: Yet search the hills for your true love's sake.” “Swift and swifter the waste runs by, And nought I see but the heath and the sky; No brake is there that could hide a spear, And the gaps to a horseman's sight lie clear; Still past it goes, and there's nought to fear.” “Fear no trap that you cannot see,— They'd not lurk yet too warily. 223 Below by the weir they lie in sight, And take no heed how they pass the night Till close they crouch with the morning light.” “The road shifts ever and brings in view Now first the heights of Holycleugh: Dark they stand o'er the vale below, And hide that heaven which yet shall show The thing their master's heart doth know. “Where the road looks to the castle steep, There are seven hill-clefts wide and deep: Six mine eyes can search as they list, But the seventh hollow is brimmed with mist: If aught were there, it might not be wist.” “Small hope, my girl, for a helm to hide In mists that cling to a wild moorside: Soon they melt with the wind and sun, And scarce would wait such deeds to be done God send their snares be the worst to shun.” “Still the road winds ever anew As it hastens on towards Holycleugh; And ever the great walls loom more near, Till the castle-shadow, steep and sheer, Drifts like a cloud, and the sky is clear.” “Enough, my daughter,” the mother said, And took to her breast the bending head; “Rest, poor head, with my heart below, While love still lulls you as long ago: For all is learnt that we need to know. “Long the miles and many the hours From the castle-height to the abbey-towers; But here the journey has no more dread; Too thick with life is the whole road spread For murder's trembling foot to tread.” She gazed on the Beryl-stone full fain Ere she wrapped it close in her robe again: The flickering shades were dusk and dun And the lights throbbed faint in unison Like a high heart when a race is run. As the globe slid to its silken gloom, Once more a music rained through the room; Low it splashed like a sweet star-spray, And sobbed like tears at the heart of May, 224 And died as laughter dies away. The lady held her breath for a space, And then she looked in her daughter's face: But wan Rose Mary had never heard; Deep asleep like a sheltered bird She lay with the long spell minister'd. “Ah! and yet I must leave you, dear, For what you have seen your knight must hear. Within four days, by the help of God, He comes back safe to his heart's abode: Be sure he shall shun the valley-road.” Rose Mary sank with a broken moan, And lay in the chair and slept alone, Weary, lifeless, heavy as lead: Long it was ere she raised her head And rose up all discomforted. She searched her brain for a vanished thing, And clasped her brows, remembering; Then knelt and lifted her eyes in awe, And sighed with a long sigh sweet to draw:— “Thank God, thank God, thank God I saw!” The lady had left her as she lay, To seek the Knight of Heronhaye. But first she clomb by a secret stair, And knelt at a carven altar fair, And laid the precious Beryl there. Its girth was graved with a mystic rune In a tongue long dead 'neath sun and moon: A priest of the Holy Sepulchre Read that writing and did not err; And her lord had told its sense to her. She breathed the words in an undertone:— “None sees here but the pure alone.” “And oh!” she said, “what rose may be In Mary's bower more pure to see Than my own sweet maiden Rose Mary?” BERYL-SONG We whose home is the Beryl, Fire-spirits of dread desire, 225 Who entered in By a secret sin, 'Gainst whom all powers that strive with ours are sterile,— We cry, Woe to thee, mother! What hast thou taught her, the girl thy daughter, That she and none other Should this dark morrow to her deadly sorrow imperil? What were her eyes But the fiend's own spies, O mother, And shall We not fee her, our proper prophet and seër? Go to her, mother, Even thou, yea thou and none other, Thou, from the Beryl: Her fee must thou take her, Her fee that We send, and make her, Even in this hour, her sin's unsheltered avower. Whose steed did neigh, Riderless, bridleless, At her gate before it was day? Lo! where doth hover The soul of her lover? She sealed his doom, she, she was the sworn approver,— Whose eyes were so wondrous wise, Yet blind, ah! blind to his peril! For stole not We in Through a love-linked sin, 'Gainst whom all powers at war with ours are sterile,— Fire-spirits of dread desire, We whose home is the Beryl? PART II “PALE Rose Mary, what shall be done With a rose that Mary weeps upon?” “Mother, let it fall from the tree, And never walk where the strewn leaves be Till winds have passed and the path is free.” “Sad Rose Mary, what shall be done With a cankered flower beneath the sun?” “Mother, let it wait for the night; 226 Be sure its shame shall be out of sight Ere the moon pale or the east grow light.” “Lost Rose Mary, what shall be done With a heart that is but a broken one?” “Mother, let it lie where it must; The blood was drained with the bitter thrust, And dust is all that sinks in the dust.” “Poor Rose Mary, what shall I do,— I, your mother, that lovèd you?” “O my mother, and is love gone? Then seek you another love anon: Who cares what shame shall lean upon?” Low drooped trembling Rose Mary, Then up as though in a dream stood she. “Come, my heart, it is time to go; This is the hour that has whispered low When thy pulse quailed in the nights we know. “Yet O my heart, thy shame has a mate Who will not leave thee desolate. Shame for shame, yea and sin for sin: Yet peace at length may our poor souls win If love for love be found therein. “O thou who seek'st our shrift to-day,” She cried, “O James of Heronhaye— Thy sin and mine was for love alone; And oh! in the sight of God 'tis known How the heart has since made heavy moan. “Three days yet!” she said to her heart; “But then he comes, and we will not part. God, God be thanked that I still could see! Oh! he shall come back assuredly, But where, alas! must he seek for me? “O my heart, what road shall we roam Till my wedding-music fetch me home? For love's shut from us and bides afar, And scorn leans over the bitter bar And knows us now for the thing we are.” Tall she stood with a cheek flushed high And a gaze to burn the heart-strings by. 'Twas the lightning-flash o'er sky and plain Ere labouring thunders heave the chain From the floodgates of the drowning rain. 227 The mother looked on the daughter still As on a hurt thing that's yet to kill. Then wildly at length the pent tears came; The love swelled high with the swollen shame, And their hearts' tempest burst on them. Closely locked, they clung without speech, And the mirrored souls shook each to each, As the cloud-moon and the water-moon Shake face to face when the dim stars swoon In stormy bowers of the night's mid-noon. They swayed together, shuddering sore, Till the mother's heart could bear no more. 'Twas death to feel her own breast shake Even to the very throb and ache Of the burdened heart she still must break. All her sobs ceased suddenly, And she sat straight up but scarce could see. “O daughter, where should my speech begin? Your heart held fast its secret sin: How think you, child, that I read therein?” “Ah me! but I thought not how it came When your words showed that you knew my shame: And now that you call me still your own, I half forget you have ever known. Did you read my heart in the Beryl-stone?” The lady answered her mournfully:— “The Beryl-stone has no voice for me: But when you charged its power to show The truth which none but the pure may know, Did naught speak once of a coming woe?” Her hand was close to her daughter's heart, And it felt the life-blood's sudden start: A quick deep breath did the damsel draw, Like the struck fawn in the oakenshaw: “O mother,” she cried, “but still I saw!” “O child, my child, why held you apart From my great love your hidden heart? Said I not that all sin must chase From the spell's sphere the spirits of grace, And yield their rule to the evil race? “Ah! would to God I had clearly told How strong those powers, accurst of old: 228 Their heart is the ruined house of lies; O girl, they can seal the sinful eyes, Or show the truth by contraries!” The daughter sat as cold as a stone, And spoke no word but gazed alone, Nor moved, though her mother strove a space To clasp her round in a close embrace, Because she dared not see her face. “Oh!” at last did the mother cry, “Be sure, as he loved you, so will I! Ah! still and dumb is the bride, I trow; But cold and stark as the winter snow Is the bridegroom's heart, laid dead below! “Daughter, daughter, remember you That cloud in the hills by Holycleugh? 'Twas a Hell-screen hiding truth away: There, not i' the vale, the ambush lay, And thence was the dead borne home to-day.” Deep the flood and heavy the shock When sea meets sea in the riven rock: But calm is the pulse that shakes the sea To the prisoned tide of doom set free In the breaking heart of Rose Mary. Once she sprang as the heifer springs With the wolf's teeth at its red heart-strings. First 'twas fire in her breast and brain, And then scarce hers but the whole world's pain, As she gave one shriek and sank again. In the hair dark-waved the face lay white As the moon lies in the lap of night; And as night through which no moon may dart Lies on a pool in the woods apart, So lay the swoon on the weary heart. The lady felt for the bosom's stir, And wildly kissed and called on her; Then turned away with a quick footfall, And slid the secret door in the wall, And clomb the strait stair's interval. There above in the altar-cell A little fountain rose and fell: She set a flask to the water's flow, And, backward hurrying, sprinkled now 229 The still cold breast and the pallid brow. Scarce cheek that warmed or breath on the air, Yet something told that life was there. “Ah! not with the heart the body dies!” The lady moaned in a bitter wise; Then wrung her hands and hid her eyes. “Alas! and how may I meet again In the same poor eyes the selfsame pain? What help can I seek, such grief to guide? Ah! one alone might avail,” she cried— “The priest who prays at the dead man's side.” The lady arose, and sped down all The winding stairs to the castle-hall. Long-known valley and wood and stream, As the loopholes passed, naught else did seem Than the torn threads of a broken dream. The hall was full of the castle-folk; The women wept, but the men scarce spoke. As the lady crossed the rush-strewn floor, The throng fell backward, murmuring sore, And pressed outside round the open door. A stranger shadow hung on the hall Than the dark pomp of a funeral. 'Mid common sights that were there alway, As 'twere a chance of the passing day, On the ingle-bench the dead man lay. A priest who passed by Holycleugh The tidings brought when the day was new. He guided them who had fetched the dead; And since that hour, unwearièd, He knelt in prayer at the low bier's head. Word had gone to his own domain That in evil wise the knight was slain: Soon the spears must gather apace And the hunt be hard on the hunters' trace; But all things yet lay still for a space. As the lady's hurried step drew near, The kneeling priest looked up to her. “Father, death is a grievous thing; But oh! the woe has a sharper sting That craves by me your ministering. “Alas for the child that should have wed 230 This noble knight here lying dead! Dead in hope, with all blessed boon Of love thus rent from her heart ere noon, I left her laid in a heavy swoon. “O haste to the open bower-chamber That's topmost as you mount the stair: Seek her, father, ere yet she wake; Your words, not mine, be the first to slake This poor heart's fire, for Christ's sweet sake! “God speed!” she said as the priest passed through, “And I ere long will be with you.” Then low on the hearth her knees sank prone; She signed all folk from the threshold-stone, And gazed in the dead man's face alone. The fight for life found record yet In the clenched lips and the teeth hard-set; The wrath from the bent brow was not gone, And stark in the eyes the hate still shone Of that they last had looked upon. The blazoned coat was rent on his breast Where the golden field was goodliest; But the shivered sword, close-gripped, could tell That the blood shed round him where he fell Was not all his in the distant dell. The lady recked of the corpse no whit, But saw the soul and spoke to it: A light there was in her steadfast eyes,— The fire of mortal tears and sighs That pity and love immortalize. “By thy death have I learnt to-day Thy deed, O James of Heronhaye! Great wrong thou hast done to me and mine; And haply God hath wrought for a sign By our blind deed this doom of thine. “Thy shrift, alas! thou wast not to win; But may death shrive thy soul herein! Full well do I know thy love should be Even yet—had life but stayed with thee— Our honour's strong security.” She stooped, and said with a sob's low stir,— “Peace be thine,—but what peace for her?” But ere to the brow her lips were press'd, 231 She marked, half-hid in the riven vest, A packet close to the dead man's breast. 'Neath surcoat pierced and broken mail It lay on the blood-stained bosom pale. The clot hung round it, dull and dense, And a faintness seized her mortal sense As she reached her hand and drew it thence. 'Twas steeped in the heart's flood welling high From the heart it there had rested by: 'Twas glued to a broidered fragment gay,— A shred by spear-thrust rent away From the heron-wings of Heronhaye. She gazed on the thing with piteous eyne:— “Alas, poor child, some pledge of thine! Ah me! in this troth the hearts were twain, And one hath ebbed to this crimson stain, And when shall the other throb again?” She opened the packet heedfully; The blood was stiff, and it scarce might be. She found but a folded paper there, And round it, twined with tenderest care, A long bright tress of golden hair. Even as she looked, she saw again That dark-haired face in its swoon of pain: It seemed a snake with a golden sheath Crept near, as a slow flame flickereth, And stung her daughter's heart to death. She loosed the tress, but her hand did shake As though indeed she had touched a snake; And next she undid the paper's fold, But that too trembled in her hold, And the sense scarce grasped the tale it told. “My heart's sweet lord,” ('twas thus she read,) “At length our love is garlanded. At Holy Cross, within eight days' space, I seek my shrift; and the time and place Shall fit thee too for thy soul's good grace. “From Holycleugh on the seventh day My brother rides, and bides away: And long or e'er he is back, mine own, Afar where the face of fear's unknown We shall be safe with our love alone. 232 “Ere yet at the shrine my knees I bow, I shear one tress for our holy vow. As round these words these threads I wind, So, eight days hence, shall our loves be twined, Says my lord's poor lady, JOCELIND.” She read it twice, with a brain in thrall, And then its echo told her all. O'er brows low-fall'n her hands she drew:— “O God!” she said, as her hands fell too,— “The Warden's sister of Holycleugh!” She rose upright with a long low moan, And stared in the dead man's face new-known. Had it lived indeed? She scarce could tell: 'Twas a cloud where fiends had come to dwell,— A mask that hung on the gate of Hell. She lifted the lock of gleaming hair And smote the lips and left it there. “Here's gold that Hell shall take for thy toll! Full well hath thy treason found its goal, O thou dead body and damnèd soul!” She turned, sore dazed, for a voice was near, And she knew that some one called to her. On many a column fair and tall A high court ran round the castle-hall; And thence it was that the priest did call. “I sought your child where you bade me go, And in rooms around and rooms below; But where, alas! may the maiden be? Fear nought,—we shall find her speedily,— But come, come hither, and seek with me.” She reached the stair like a lifelorn thing, But hastened upward murmuring, “Yea, Death's is a face that's fell to see; But bitterer pang Life hoards for thee, Thou broken heart of Rose Mary!” BERYL-SONG We whose throne is the Beryl, Dire-gifted spirits of fire, Who for a twin 233 Leash Sorrow to Sin, Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril,— We cry,—O desolate daughter! Thou and thy mother share newer shame with each other Than last night's slaughter. Awake and tremble, for our curses assemble! What more, that thou know'st not yet,— That life nor death shall forget? No help from Heaven,—thy woes heart-riven are sterile! O once a maiden, With yet worse sorrow can any morrow be laden? It waits for thee, It looms, it must be, O lost among women,— It comes and thou canst not flee. Amen to the omen, Says the voice of the Beryl. Thou sleep'st? Awake,— What dar'st thou yet for his sake, Who each for other did God's own Future imperil? Dost dare to live `Mid the pangs each hour must give? Nay, rather die,— With him thy lover 'neath Hell's cloud-cover to fly,— Hopeless, yet not apart, Cling heart to heart, And beat through the nether storm-eddying winds together? Shall this be so? There thou shalt meet him, but mayst thou greet him? ah no ! He loves, but thee he hoped nevermore to see,— He sighed as he died, But with never a thought for thee. Alone! Alone, for ever alone,— Whose eyes were such wondrous spies for the fate foreshown! Lo! have not We leashed the twin Of endless Sorrow to Sin,— Who on no flower refrain to lour with peril,— Dire-gifted spirits of fire, We whose throne is the Beryl? 234 PART III A SWOON that breaks is the whelming wave When help comes late but still can save. With all blind throes is the instant rife,— Hurtling clangour and clouds at strife,— The breath of death, but the kiss of life. The night lay deep on Rose Mary's heart, For her swoon was death's kind counterpart: The dawn broke dim on Rose Mary's soul,— No hill-crown's heavenly aureole, But a wild gleam on a shaken shoal. Her senses gasped in the sudden air, And she looked around, but none was there. She felt the slackening frost distil Through her blood the last ooze dull and chill: Her lids were dry and her lips were still. Her tears had flooded her heart again; As after a long day's bitter rain, At dusk when the wet flower-cups shrink, The drops run in from the beaded brink, And all the close-shut petals drink. Again her sighs on her heart were rolled; As the wind that long has swept the wold,— Whose moan was made with the moaning sea,— Beats out its breath in the last torn tree, And sinks at length in lethargy. She knew she had waded bosom-deep Along death's bank in the sedge of sleep: All else was lost to her clouded mind; Nor, looking back, could she see defin'd O'er the dim dumb waste what lay behind. Slowly fades the sun from the wall Till day lies dead on the sun-dial: And now in Rose Mary's lifted eye 'Twas shadow alone that made reply To the set face of the soul's dark sky. Yet still through her soul there wandered past Dread phantoms borne on a wailing blast,— Death and sorrow and sin and shame; And, murmured still, to her lips there came Her mother's and her lover's name. 235 How to ask, and what thing to know? She might not stay and she dared not go. From fires unseen these smoke-clouds curled; But where did the hidden curse lie furled? And how to seek through the weary world? With toiling breath she rose from the floor And dragged her steps to an open door: 'Twas the secret panel standing wide, As the lady's hand had let it bide In hastening back to her daughter's side. She passed, but reeled with a dizzy brain And smote the door which closed again. She stood within by the darkling stair, But her feet might mount more freely there,— 'Twas the open light most blinded her. Within her mind no wonder grew At the secret path she never knew: All ways alike were strange to her now,— One field bare-ridged from the spirit's plough, One thicket black with the cypress-bough. Once she thought that she heard her name; And she paused, but knew not whence it came. Down the shadowed stair a faint ray fell That guided the weary footsteps well Till it led her up to the altar-cell. No change there was on Rose Mary's face As she leaned in the portal's narrow space: Still she stood by the pillar's stem, Hand and bosom and garment's hem, As the soul stands by at the requiem. The altar-cell was a dome low-lit, And a veil hung in the midst of it: At the pole-points of its circling girth Four symbols stood of the world's first birth,— Air and water and fire and earth. To the north, a fountain glittered free; To the south, there glowed a red fruit-tree; To the east, a lamp flamed high and fair; To the west, a crystal casket rare Held fast a cloud of the fields of air. The painted walls were a mystic show Of time's ebb-tide and overflow; 236 His hoards long-locked and conquering key, His service-fires that in heaven be, And earth-wheels whirled perpetually. Rose Mary gazed from the open door As on idle things she cared not for,— The fleeting shapes of an empty tale; Then stepped with a heedless visage pale, And lifted aside the altar-veil. The altar stood from its curved recess In a coiling serpent's life-likeness: Even such a serpent evermore Lies deep asleep at the world's dark core Till the last Voice shake the sea and shore. From the altar-cloth a book rose spread And tapers burned at the altar-head; And there in the altar-midst alone, 'Twixt wings of a sculptured beast unknown, Rose Mary saw the Beryl-stone. Firm it sat 'twixt the hollowed wings, As an orb sits in the hand of kings: And lo! for that Foe whose curse far-flown Had bound her life with a burning zone, Rose Mary knew the Beryl-stone. Dread is the meteor's blazing sphere When the poles throb to its blind career; But not with a light more grim and ghast Thereby is the future doom forecast, Than now this sight brought back the past. The hours and minutes seemed to whirr In a clanging swarm that deafened her; They stung her heart to a writhing flame, And marshalled past in its glare they came,— Death and sorrow and sin and shame. Round the Beryl's sphere she saw them pass And mock her eyes from the fated glass: One by one in a fiery train The dead hours seemed to wax and wane, And burned till all was known again. From the drained heart's fount there rose no cry, There sprang no tears, for the source was dry. Held in the hand of some heavy law, Her eyes she might not once withdraw, 237 Nor shrink away from the thing she saw. Even as she gazed, through all her blood The flame was quenched in a coming flood: Out of the depth of the hollow gloom On her soul's bare sands she felt it boom,— The measured tide of a sea of doom. Three steps she took through the altar-gate, And her neck reared and her arms grew straight: The sinews clenched like a serpent's throe, And the face was white in the dark hair's flow, As her hate beheld what lay below. Dumb she stood in her malisons,— A silver statue tressed with bronze: As the fabled head by Perseus mown, It seemed in sooth that her gaze alone Had turned the carven shapes to stone. O'er the altar-sides on either hand There hung a dinted helm and brand: By strength thereof, 'neath the Sacred Sign, That bitter gift o'er the salt sea-brine Her father brought from Palestine. Rose Mary moved with a stern accord And reached her hand to her father's sword; Nor did she stir her gaze one whit From the thing whereon her brows were knit; But gazing still, she spoke to it. “O ye, three times accurst,” she said, “By whom this stone is tenanted! Lo! here ye came by a strong sin's might; Yet a sinner's hand that's weak to smite Shall send you hence ere the day be night. “This hour a clear voice bade me know My hand shall work your overthrow: Another thing in mine ear it spake,— With the broken spell my life shall break. I thank Thee, God, for the dear death's sake! “And he Thy heavenly minister Who swayed erewhile this spell-bound sphere,— My parting soul let him haste to greet, And none but he be guide for my feet To where Thy rest is made complete.” Then deep she breathed, with a tender moan:— 238 “My love, my lord, my only one! Even as I held the cursed clue, When thee, through me, these foul ones slew,— By mine own deed shall they slay me too! “Even while they speed to Hell, my love, Two hearts shall meet in Heaven above. Our shrift thou sought'st, but might'st not bring: And oh! for me 'tis a blessed thing To work hereby our ransoming. “One were our hearts in joy and pain, And our souls e'en now grow one again. And O my love, if our souls are three, O thine and mine shall the third soul be,— One threefold love eternally.” Her eyes were soft as she spoke apart, And the lips smiled to the broken heart: But the glance was dark and the forehead scored With the bitter frown of hate restored, As her two hands swung the heavy sword. Three steps back from her Foe she trod:— “Love, for thy sake! In Thy Name, O God!” In the fair white hands small strength was shown; Yet the blade flashed high and the edge fell prone, And she cleft the heart of the Beryl-stone. What living flesh in the thunder-cloud Hath sat and felt heaven cry aloud? Or known how the levin's pulse may beat? Or wrapped the hour when the whirlwinds meet About its breast for a winding-sheet? Who hath crouched at the world's deep heart While the earthquake rends its loins apart? Or walked far under the seething main While overhead the heavens ordain The tempest-towers of the hurricane? Who hath seen or what ear hath heard The secret things unregister'd Of the place where all is past and done, And tears and laughter sound as one In Hell's unhallowed unison? Nay, is it writ how the fiends despair In earth and water and fire and air? Even so no mortal tongue may tell 239 How to the clang of the sword that fell The echoes shook the altar-cell. When all was still on the air again The Beryl-stone lay cleft in twain; The veil was rent from the riven dome; And every wind that's winged to roam Might have the ruined place for home. The fountain no more glittered free; The fruit hung dead on the leafless tree; The flame of the lamp had ceased to flare; And the crystal casket shattered there Was emptied now of its cloud of air. And lo! on the ground Rose Mary lay, With a cold brow like the snows ere May, With a cold breast like the earth till Spring, With such a smile as the June days bring When the year grows warm with harvesting. The death she had won might leave no trace On the soft sweet form and gentle face: In a gracious sleep she seemed to lie; And over her head her hand on high Held fast the sword she triumphed by. 'Twas then a clear voice said in the room:— “Behold the end of the heavy doom. O come,—for thy bitter love's sake blest; By a sweet path now thou journeyest, And I will lead thee to thy rest. “Me thy sin by Heaven's sore ban Did chase erewhile from the talisman: But to my heart, as a conquered home, In glory of strength thy footsteps come Who hast thus cast forth my foes therefrom. “Already thy heart remembereth No more his name thou sought'st in death: For under all deeps, all heights above,— So wide the gulf in the midst thereof,— Are Hell of Treason and Heaven of Love. “Thee, true soul, shall thy truth prefer To blessed Mary's rose-bower: Warmed and lit is thy place afar With guerdon-fires of the sweet Love-star Where hearts of steadfast lovers are:— 240 “Though naught for the poor corpse lying here Remain to-day but the cold white bier, But burial-chaunt and bended knee, But sighs and tears that heaviest be, But rent rose-flower and rosemary.” BERYL-SONG We, cast forth from the Beryl, Gyre-circling spirits of fire, Whose pangs begin With God's grace to sin, For whose spent powers the immortal hours are sterile,— Woe! must We behold this mother Find grace in her dead child's face, and doubt of none other But that perfect pardon, alas! hath assured her guerdon? Woe! must We behold this daughter, Made clean from the soil of sin wherewith We had fraught her, Shake off a man's blood like water? Write up her story On the Gate of Heaven's glory, Whom there We behold so fair in shining apparel, And beneath her the ruin Of our own undoing! Alas, the Beryl! We had for a foeman But one weak woman; In one day's strife, Her hope fell dead from her life; And yet no iron, Her soul to environ, Could this manslayer, this false soothsayer imperil! Lo, where she bows In the Holy House! Who now shall dissever her soul from its joy for ever While every ditty Of love and plentiful pity Fills the White City, And the floor of Heaven to her feet for ever is given? Hark, a voice cries “Flee!” Woe! woe! what shelter have We, 241 Whose pangs begin With God's grace to sin, For whose spent powers the immortal hours are sterile, Gyre-circling spirits of fire, We, cast forth from the Beryl? ~ Dante Gabriel Rossetti,

207:There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen Their baaing vanities, to browse away The comfortable green and juicy hay From human pastures; or, O torturing fact! Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight Able to face an owl's, they still are dight By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests, And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts, Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount To their spirit's perch, their being's high account, Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones Amid the fierce intoxicating tones Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums, And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this hums, In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon, And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. Are then regalities all gilded masks? No, there are throned seats unscalable But by a patient wing, a constant spell, Or by ethereal things that, unconfin'd, Can make a ladder of the eternal wind, And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents To watch the abysm-birth of elements. Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate A thousand Powers keep religious state, In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne; And, silent as a consecrated urn, Hold sphery sessions for a season due. Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few! Have bared their operations to this globe Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe Our piece of heavenwhose benevolence Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every sense Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude, As bees gorge full their cells. And, by the feud 'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, Eterne Apollo! that thy Sister fair Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. When thy gold breath is misting in the west, She unobserved steals unto her throne, And there she sits most meek and most alone; As if she had not pomp subservient; As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent Towards her with the Muses in thine heart; As if the ministring stars kept not apart, Waiting for silver-footed messages. O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees Feel palpitations when thou lookest in: O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din The while they feel thine airy fellowship. Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine: Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes; And yet thy benediction passeth not One obscure hiding-place, one little spot Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps Within its pearly house.The mighty deeps, The monstrous sea is thinethe myriad sea! O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee, And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load. Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost bewail His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh? Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye, Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo! How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe! She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees, Dancing upon the waves, as if to please The curly foam with amorous influence. O, not so idle: for down-glancing thence She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about O'erwhelming water-courses; scaring out The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning. Where will the splendor be content to reach? O love! how potent hast thou been to teach Strange journeyings! Wherever beauty dwells, In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun, Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won. Amid his toil thou gav'st Leander breath; Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death; Thou madest Pluto bear thin element; And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent A moon-beam to the deep, deep water-world, To find Endymion.          On gold sand impearl'd With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, Poor Cynthia greeted him, and sooth'd her light Against his pallid face: he felt the charm To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm Of his heart's blood: 'twas very sweet; he stay'd His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds, To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. And so he kept, until the rosy veils Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came Meekly through billows:when like taper-flame Left sudden by a dallying breath of air, He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare Along his fated way.            Far had he roam'd, With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd Above, around, and at his feet; save things More dead than Morpheus' imaginings: Old rusted anchors, helmets, breast-plates large Of gone sea-warriors; brazen beaks and targe; Rudders that for a hundred years had lost The sway of human hand; gold vase emboss'd With long-forgotten story, and wherein No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin But those of Saturn's vintage; mouldering scrolls, Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls Who first were on the earth; and sculptures rude In ponderous stone, developing the mood Of ancient Nox;then skeletons of man, Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan, And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe These secrets struck into him; and unless Dian had chaced away that heaviness, He might have died: but now, with cheered feel, He onward kept; wooing these thoughts to steal About the labyrinth in his soul of love. "What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move My heart so potently? When yet a child I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smil'd. Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went From eve to morn across the firmament. No apples would I gather from the tree, Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously: No tumbling water ever spake romance, But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance: No woods were green enough, no bower divine, Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine: In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take, Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake; And, in the summer tide of blossoming, No one but thee hath heard me blithly sing And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. No melody was like a passing spright If it went not to solemnize thy reign. Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end; And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen; Thou wast the mountain-topthe sage's pen The poet's harpthe voice of friendsthe sun; Thou wast the riverthou wast glory won; Thou wast my clarion's blastthou wast my steed My goblet full of winemy topmost deed: Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon! O what a wild and harmonized tune My spirit struck from all the beautiful! On some bright essence could I lean, and lull Myself to immortality: I prest Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss My strange love cameFelicity's abyss! She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway Has been an under-passion to this hour. Now I begin to feel thine orby power Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind, Keep back thine influence, and do not blind My sovereign vision.Dearest love, forgive That I can think away from thee and live! Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize One thought beyond thine argent luxuries! How far beyond!" At this a surpris'd start Frosted the springing verdure of his heart; For as he lifted up his eyes to swear How his own goddess was past all things fair, He saw far in the concave green of the sea An old man sitting calm and peacefully. Upon a weeded rock this old man sat, And his white hair was awful, and a mat Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet; And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans Of ambitious magic: every ocean-form Was woven in with black distinctness; storm, And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar Were emblem'd in the woof; with every shape That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape. The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell, Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell To its huge self; and the minutest fish Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish, And show his little eye's anatomy. Then there was pictur'd the regality Of Neptune; and the sea nymphs round his state, In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. Beside this old man lay a pearly wand, And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd So stedfastly, that the new denizen Had time to keep him in amazed ken, To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe. The old man rais'd his hoary head and saw The wilder'd strangerseeming not to see, His features were so lifeless. Suddenly He woke as from a trance; his snow-white brows Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large, Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge, Till round his wither'd lips had gone a smile. Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage, Who had not from mid-life to utmost age Eas'd in one accent his o'er-burden'd soul, Even to the trees. He rose: he grasp'd his stole, With convuls'd clenches waving it abroad, And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw'd Echo into oblivion, he said: "Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head In peace upon my watery pillow: now Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow. O Jove! I shall be young again, be young! O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierc'd and stung With new-born life! What shall I do? Where go, When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe? I'll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten; Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be, That writhes about the roots of Sicily: To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail, And mount upon the snortings of a whale To some black cloud; thence down I'll madly sweep On forked lightning, to the deepest deep, Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl'd With rapture to the other side of the world! O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three, I bow full hearted to your old decree! Yes, every god be thank'd, and power benign, For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. Thou art the man!" Endymion started back Dismay'd; and, like a wretch from whom the rack Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, Mutter'd: "What lonely death am I to die In this cold region? Will he let me freeze, And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas? Or will he touch me with his searing hand, And leave a black memorial on the sand? Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw, And keep me as a chosen food to draw His magian fish through hated fire and flame? O misery of hell! resistless, tame, Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout, Until the gods through heaven's blue look out! O Tartarus! but some few days agone Her soft arms were entwining me, and on Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves: Her lips were all my own, andah, ripe sheaves Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop, But never may be garner'd. I must stoop My head, and kiss death's foot. Love! love, farewel! Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell Would melt at thy sweet breath.By Dian's hind Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind I see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan, I care not for this old mysterious man!" He spake, and walking to that aged form, Look'd high defiance. Lo! his heart 'gan warm With pity, for the grey-hair'd creature wept. Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept? Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought, Convulsion to a mouth of many years? He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears. The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt About his large dark locks, and faultering spake: "Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake! I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel A very brother's yearning for thee steal Into mine own: for why? thou openest The prison gates that have so long opprest My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not, Thou art commission'd to this fated spot For great enfranchisement. O weep no more; I am a friend to love, to loves of yore: Aye, hadst thou never lov'd an unknown power I had been grieving at this joyous hour But even now most miserable old, I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid, For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd, Now as we speed towards our joyous task." So saying, this young soul in age's mask Went forward with the Carian side by side: Resuming quickly thus; while ocean's tide Hung swollen at their backs, and jewel'd sands Took silently their foot-prints. "My soul stands Now past the midway from mortality, And so I can prepare without a sigh To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. I was a fisher once, upon this main, And my boat danc'd in every creek and bay; Rough billows were my home by night and day, The sea-gulls not more constant; for I had No housing from the storm and tempests mad, But hollow rocks,and they were palaces Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease: Long years of misery have told me so. Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago. One thousand years!Is it then possible To look so plainly through them? to dispel A thousand years with backward glance sublime? To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime From off a crystal pool, to see its deep, And one's own image from the bottom peep? Yes: now I am no longer wretched thrall, My long captivity and moanings all Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum, The which I breathe away, and thronging come Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures. "I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures: I was a lonely youth on desert shores. My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars, And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes unseen Would let me feel their scales of gold and green, Nor be my desolation; and, full oft, When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe My life away like a vast sponge of fate, Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state, Has dived to its foundations, gulph'd it down, And left me tossing safely. But the crown Of all my life was utmost quietude: More did I love to lie in cavern rude, Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice, And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice! There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep, Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep: And never was a day of summer shine, But I beheld its birth upon the brine: For I would watch all night to see unfold Heaven's gates, and Aethon snort his morning gold Wide o'er the swelling streams: and constantly At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea, My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. The poor folk of the sea-country I blest With daily boon of fish most delicate: They knew not whence this bounty, and elate Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach. "Why was I not contented? Wherefore reach At things which, but for thee, O Latmian! Had been my dreary death? Fool! I began To feel distemper'd longings: to desire The utmost privilege that ocean's sire Could grant in benediction: to be free Of all his kingdom. Long in misery I wasted, ere in one extremest fit I plung'd for life or death. To interknit One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff Might seem a work of pain; so not enough Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt, And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt Whole days and days in sheer astonishment; Forgetful utterly of self-intent; Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. Then, like a new fledg'd bird that first doth shew His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 'Twas freedom! and at once I visited The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. No need to tell thee of them, for I see That thou hast been a witnessit must be For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth, By the melancholy corners of that mouth. So I will in my story straightway pass To more immediate matter. Woe, alas! That love should be my bane! Ah, Scylla fair! Why did poor Glaucus everever dare To sue thee to his heart? Kind stranger-youth! I lov'd her to the very white of truth, And she would not conceive it. Timid thing! She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing, Round every isle, and point, and promontory, From where large Hercules wound up his story Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew The more, the more I saw her dainty hue Gleam delicately through the azure clear: Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear; And in that agony, across my grief It flash'd, that Circe might find some relief Cruel enchantress! So above the water I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughter. Aeaea's isle was wondering at the moon: It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. "When I awoke, 'twas in a twilight bower; Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees, Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees. How sweet, and sweeter! for I heard a lyre, And over it a sighing voice expire. It ceasedI caught light footsteps; and anon The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry Jove! With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did fall The dew of her rich speech: "Ah! Art awake? O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake! I am so oppress'd with joy! Why, I have shed An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead; And now I find thee living, I will pour From these devoted eyes their silver store, Until exhausted of the latest drop, So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop Here, that I too may live: but if beyond Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme; If thou art ripe to taste a long love dream; If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute, Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit, O let me pluck it for thee." Thus she link'd Her charming syllables, till indistinct Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd soul; And then she hover'd over me, and stole So near, that if no nearer it had been This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. "Young man of Latmos! thus particular Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how far This fierce temptation went: and thou may'st not Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot? "Who could resist? Who in this universe? She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse My fine existence in a golden clime. She took me like a child of suckling time, And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn'd, The current of my former life was stemm'd, And to this arbitrary queen of sense I bow'd a tranced vassal: nor would thence Have mov'd, even though Amphion's harp had woo'd Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. For as Apollo each eve doth devise A new appareling for western skies; So every eve, nay every spendthrift hour Shed balmy consciousness within that bower. And I was free of haunts umbrageous; Could wander in the mazy forest-house Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer, And birds from coverts innermost and drear Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow To me new born delights!              "Now let me borrow, For moments few, a temperament as stern As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell How specious heaven was changed to real hell. "One morn she left me sleeping: half awake I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake My greedy thirst with nectarous camel-draughts; But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts Of disappointment stuck in me so sore, That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er. Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom Damp awe assail'd me; for there 'gan to boom A sound of moan, an agony of sound, Sepulchral from the distance all around. Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled That fierce complain to silence: while I stumbled Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd. I came to a dark valley.Groanings swell'd Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew, The nearer I approach'd a flame's gaunt blue, That glar'd before me through a thorny brake. This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, Bewitch'd me towards; and I soon was near A sight too fearful for the feel of fear: In thicket hid I curs'd the haggard scene The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen, Seated upon an uptorn forest root; And all around her shapes, wizard and brute, Laughing, and wailing, groveling, serpenting, Shewing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting! O such deformities! Old Charon's self, Should he give up awhile his penny pelf, And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, It could not be so phantasied. Fierce, wan, And tyrannizing was the lady's look, As over them a gnarled staff she shook. Oft-times upon the sudden she laugh'd out, And from a basket emptied to the rout Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick And roar'd for more; with many a hungry lick About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow, Anon she took a branch of mistletoe, And emptied on't a black dull-gurgling phial: Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. She lifted up the charm: appealing groans From their poor breasts went sueing to her ear In vain; remorseless as an infant's bier She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil. Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, Increasing gradual to a tempest rage, Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage; Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat: Then was appalling silence: then a sight More wildering than all that hoarse affright; For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen, Went through the dismal air like one huge Python Antagonizing Boreas,and so vanish'd. Yet there was not a breath of wind: she banish'd These phantoms with a nod. Lo! from the dark Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark, With dancing and loud revelry,and went Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud In human accent: "Potent goddess! chief Of pains resistless! make my being brief, Or let me from this heavy prison fly: Or give me to the air, or let me die! I sue not for my happy crown again; I sue not for my phalanx on the plain; I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife; I sue not for my ruddy drops of life, My children fair, my lovely girls and boys! I will forget them; I will pass these joys; Ask nought so heavenward, so tootoo high: Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh, From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh, And merely given to the cold bleak air. Have mercy, Goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!" That curst magician's name fell icy numb Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had come Naked and sabre-like against my heart. I saw a fury whetting a death-dart; And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright, Fainted away in that dark lair of night. Think, my deliverer, how desolate My waking must have been! disgust, and hate, And terrors manifold divided me A spoil amongst them. I prepar'd to flee Into the dungeon core of that wild wood: I fled three dayswhen lo! before me stood Glaring the angry witch. O Dis, even now, A clammy dew is beading on my brow, At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse. "Ha! ha! Sir Dainty! there must be a nurse Made of rose leaves and thistledown, express, To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee: yes, I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch: My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch. So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies Unheard of yet; and it shall still its cries Upon some breast more lily-feminine. Oh, noit shall not pine, and pine, and pine More than one pretty, trifling thousand years; And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt! Young dove of the waters! truly I'll not hurt One hair of thine: see how I weep and sigh, That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. And must we part? Ah, yes, it must be so. Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe, Let me sob over thee my last adieus, And speak a blessing: Mark me! thou hast thews Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race: But such a love is mine, that here I chase Eternally away from thee all bloom Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast; And there, ere many days be overpast, Disabled age shall seize thee; and even then Thou shalt not go the way of aged men; But live and wither, cripple and still breathe Ten hundred years: which gone, I then bequeath Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. Adieu, sweet love, adieu!"As shot stars fall, She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung And poisoned was my spirit: despair sung A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. A hand was at my shoulder to compel My sullen steps; another 'fore my eyes Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam I found me; by my fresh, my native home. Its tempering coolness, to my life akin, Came salutary as I waded in; And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave Large froth before me, while there yet remain'd Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drain'd. "Young lover, I must weepsuch hellish spite With dry cheek who can tell? While thus my might Proving upon this element, dismay'd, Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid; I look'd'twas Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe! O vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy? Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, But thou must nip this tender innocent Because I lov'd her?Cold, O cold indeed Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she was I clung about her waist, nor ceas'd to pass Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine, Until there shone a fabric crystalline, Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. Headlong I darted; at one eager swirl Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold! 'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold; And all aroundBut wherefore this to thee Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see? I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread Met palsy half way: soon these limbs became Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame. "Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space, Without one hope, without one faintest trace Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble Of colour'd phantasy; for I fear 'twould trouble Thy brain to loss of reason: and next tell How a restoring chance came down to quell One half of the witch in me.        On a day, Sitting upon a rock above the spray, I saw grow up from the horizon's brink A gallant vessel: soon she seem'd to sink Away from me again, as though her course Had been resum'd in spite of hindering force So vanish'd: and not long, before arose Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose. Old Eolus would stifle his mad spleen, But could not: therefore all the billows green Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds. The tempest came: I saw that vessel's shrouds In perilous bustle; while upon the deck Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck; The final gulphing; the poor struggling souls: I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls. O they had all been sav'd but crazed eld Annull'd my vigorous cravings: and thus quell'd And curb'd, think on't, O Latmian! did I sit Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone, By one and one, to pale oblivion; And I was gazing on the surges prone, With many a scalding tear and many a groan, When at my feet emerg'd an old man's hand, Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand. I knelt with painreached out my handhad grasp'd These treasurestouch'd the knucklesthey unclasp'd I caught a finger: but the downward weight O'erpowered meit sank. Then 'gan abate The storm, and through chill aguish gloom outburst The comfortable sun. I was athirst To search the book, and in the warming air Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on My soul page after page, till well-nigh won Into forgetfulness; when, stupefied, I read these words, and read again, and tried My eyes against the heavens, and read again. O what a load of misery and pain Each Atlas-line bore off!a shine of hope Came gold around me, cheering me to cope Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend! For thou hast brought their promise to an end. "In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, Doom'd with enfeebled carcase to outstretch His loath'd existence through ten centuries, And then to die alone. Who can devise A total opposition? No one. So One million times ocean must ebb and flow, And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die, These things accomplish'd:If he utterly Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds; If he explores all forms and substances Straight homeward to their symbol-essences; He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief, He must pursue this task of joy and grief Most piously;all lovers tempest-tost, And in the savage overwhelming lost, He shall deposit side by side, until Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil: Which done, and all these labours ripened, A youth, by heavenly power lov'd and led, Shall stand before him; whom he shall direct How to consummate all. The youth elect Must do the thing, or both will be destroy'd." "Then," cried the young Endymion, overjoy'd, "We are twin brothers in this destiny! Say, I intreat thee, what achievement high Is, in this restless world, for me reserv'd. What! if from thee my wandering feet had swerv'd, Had we both perish'd?""Look!" the sage replied, "Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide, Of divers brilliances? 'tis the edifice I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies; And where I have enshrined piously All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd to die Throughout my bondage." Thus discoursing, on They went till unobscur'd the porches shone; Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enter'd straight. Sure never since king Neptune held his state Was seen such wonder underneath the stars. Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars Has legion'd all his battle; and behold How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold His even breast: see, many steeled squares, And rigid ranks of ironwhence who dares One step? Imagine further, line by line, These warrior thousands on the field supine: So in that crystal place, in silent rows, Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. The stranger from the mountains, breathless, trac'd Such thousands of shut eyes in order plac'd; Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips All ruddy,for here death no blossom nips. He mark'd their brows and foreheads; saw their hair Put sleekly on one side with nicest care; And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence, Put cross-wise to its heart.                "Let us commence, Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, even now." He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough, Began to tear his scroll in pieces small, Uttering the while some mumblings funeral. He tore it into pieces small as snow That drifts unfeather'd when bleak northerns blow; And having done it, took his dark blue cloak And bound it round Endymion: then struck His wand against the empty air times nine. "What more there is to do, young man, is thine: But first a little patience; first undo This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. Ah, gentle! 'tis as weak as spider's skein; And shouldst thou break itWhat, is it done so clean? A power overshadows thee! Oh, brave! The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. Here is a shell; 'tis pearly blank to me, Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery Canst thou read aught? O read for pity's sake! Olympus! we are safe! Now, Carian, break This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal." 'Twas done: and straight with sudden swell and fall Sweet music breath'd her soul away, and sigh'd A lullaby to silence."Youth! now strew These minced leaves on me, and passing through Those files of dead, scatter the same around, And thou wilt see the issue."'Mid the sound Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, Endymion from Glaucus stood apart, And scatter'd in his face some fragments light. How lightning-swift the change! a youthful wight Smiling beneath a coral diadem, Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem, Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous corse, Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest force Press'd its cold hand, and weptand Scylla sigh'd! Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied The nymph arose: he left them to their joy, And onward went upon his high employ, Showering those powerful fragments on the dead. And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head, As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. Death felt it to his inwards; 'twas too much: Death fell a weeping in his charnel-house. The Latmian persever'd along, and thus All were re-animated. There arose A noise of harmony, pulses and throes Of gladness in the airwhile many, who Had died in mutual arms devout and true, Sprang to each other madly; and the rest Felt a high certainty of being blest. They gaz'd upon Endymion. Enchantment Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent. Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers, Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed full showers Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine. The two deliverers tasted a pure wine Of happiness, from fairy-press ooz'd out. Speechless they eyed each other, and about The fair assembly wander'd to and fro, Distracted with the richest overflow Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven.                   "Away!" Shouted the new-born god; "Follow, and pay Our piety to Neptunus supreme!" Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream, They led on first, bent to her meek surprise, Through portal columns of a giant size, Into the vaulted, boundless emerald. Joyous all follow'd, as the leader call'd, Down marble steps; pouring as easily As hour-glass sandand fast, as you might see Swallows obeying the south summer's call, Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor far, Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar, Just within ken, they saw descending thick Another multitude. Whereat more quick Moved either host. On a wide sand they met, And of those numbers every eye was wet; For each their old love found. A murmuring rose, Like what was never heard in all the throes Of wind and waters: 'tis past human wit To tell; 'tis dizziness to think of it. This mighty consummation made, the host Mov'd on for many a league; and gain'd, and lost Huge sea-marks; vanward swelling in array, And from the rear diminishing away, Till a faint dawn surpris'd them. Glaucus cried, "Behold! behold, the palace of his pride! God Neptune's palaces!" With noise increas'd, They shoulder'd on towards that brightening east. At every onward step proud domes arose In prospect,diamond gleams, and golden glows Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring, Still onward; still the splendour gradual swell'd. Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts Each gazer drank; and deeper drank more near: For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere As marble was there lavish, to the vast Of one fair palace, that far far surpass'd, Even for common bulk, those olden three, Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. As large, as bright, as colour'd as the bow Of Iris, when unfading it doth shew Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch Through which this Paphian army took its march, Into the outer courts of Neptune's state: Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate, To which the leaders sped; but not half raught Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought, And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze, And then, behold! large Neptune on his throne Of emerald deep: yet not exalt alone; At his right hand stood winged Love, and on His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. Far as the mariner on highest mast Can see all round upon the calmed vast, So wide was Neptune's hall: and as the blue Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew Their doming curtains, high, magnificent, Aw'd from the throne aloof;and when storm-rent Disclos'd the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air; But sooth'd as now, flash'd sudden everywhere, Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering Death to a human eye: for there did spring From natural west, and east, and south, and north, A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's head. Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe Of feather'd Indian darts about, as through The delicatest air: air verily, But for the portraiture of clouds and sky: This palace floor breath-air,but for the amaze Of deep-seen wonders motionless,and blaze Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, Globing a golden sphere.              They stood in dreams Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang; The Nereids danc'd; the Syrens faintly sang; And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping head. Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed On all the multitude a nectarous dew. The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew Fair Scylla and her guides to conference; And when they reach'd the throned eminence She kist the sea-nymph's cheek,who sat her down A toying with the doves. Then,"Mighty crown And sceptre of this kingdom!" Venus said, "Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid: Behold!"Two copious tear-drops instant fell From the God's large eyes; he smil'd delectable, And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. "Endymion! Ah! still wandering in the bands Of love? Now this is cruel. Since the hour I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet Escap'd from dull mortality's harsh net? A little patience, youth! 'twill not be long, Or I am skilless quite: an idle tongue, A humid eye, and steps luxurious, Where these are new and strange, are ominous. Aye, I have seen these signs in one of heaven, When others were all blind; and were I given To utter secrets, haply I might say Some pleasant words:but Love will have his day. So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon, Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, Visit my Cytherea: thou wilt find Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind; And pray persuade with theeAh, I have done, All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son!" Thus the fair goddess: while Endymion Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. Meantime a glorious revelry began Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran In courteous fountains to all cups outreach'd; And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, pleach'd New growth about each shell and pendent lyre; The which, in disentangling for their fire, Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure, Flutter'd and laugh'd, and oft-times through the throng Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song, And garlanding grew wild; and pleasure reign'd. In harmless tendril they each other chain'd, And strove who should be smother'd deepest in Fresh crush of leaves.              O 'tis a very sin For one so weak to venture his poor verse In such a place as this. O do not curse, High Muses! let him hurry to the ending. All suddenly were silent. A soft blending Of dulcet instruments came charmingly; And then a hymn.           "KING of the stormy sea! Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor Of elements! Eternally before Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock, At thy fear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. All mountain-rivers lost, in the wide home Of thy capacious bosom ever flow. Thou frownest, and old Eolus thy foe Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff complaint Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team Gulphs in the morning light, and scuds along To bring thee nearer to that golden song Apollo singeth, while his chariot Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art not For scenes like this: an empire stern hast thou; And it hath furrow'd that large front: yet now, As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit To blend and interknit Subdued majesty with this glad time. O shell-borne King sublime! We lay our hearts before thee evermore We sing, and we adore! "Breathe softly, flutes; Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes; Nor be the trumpet heard! O vain, O vain; Not flowers budding in an April rain, Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow, No, nor the Eolian twang of Love's own bow, Can mingle music fit for the soft ear Of goddess Cytherea! Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes On our souls' sacrifice. "Bright-winged Child! Who has another care when thou hast smil'd? Unfortunates on earth, we see at last All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions. O sweetest essence! sweetest of all minions! God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair, And panting bosoms bare! Dear unseen light in darkness! eclipser Of light in light! delicious poisoner! Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until We fillwe fill! And by thy Mother's lips"             Was heard no more For clamour, when the golden palace door Opened again, and from without, in shone A new magnificence. On oozy throne Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old, To take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold, Before he went into his quiet cave To muse for everThen a lucid wave, Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea, Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty Of Doris, and the Egean seer, her spouse Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, Theban Amphion leaning on his lute: His fingers went across itAll were mute To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls, And Thetis pearly too.              The palace whirls Around giddy Endymion; seeing he Was there far strayed from mortality. He could not bear itshut his eyes in vain; Imagination gave a dizzier pain. "O I shall die! sweet Venus, be my stay! Where is my lovely mistress? Well-away! I dieI hear her voiceI feel my wing" At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife To usher back his spirit into life: But still he slept. At last they interwove Their cradling arms, and purpos'd to convey Towards a crystal bower far away. Lo! while slow carried through the pitying crowd, To his inward senses these words spake aloud; Written in star-light on the dark above: Dearest Endymion! my entire love! How have I dwelt in fear of fate: 'tis done Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. Arise then! for the hen-dove shall not hatch Her ready eggs, before I'll kissing snatch Thee into endless heaven. Awake! awake! The youth at once arose: a placid lake Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green, Cooler than all the wonders he had seen, Lull'd with its simple song his fluttering breast. How happy once again in grassy nest! (line 1): Woodhouse notes that "Keats said, with much simplicity, 'It will be easily seen what I think of the present ministers, by the beginning of the third Book.'" (line 407): Whether the reference is to the Pillars of Hercules, the confluence of the Mediterranean and Atlantic, or to the scene of the Death of Hercules, is not very clear; but probably "wound up his story" refers rather to his last labour than to his death on Mount ta. (lines 863-65): This simile must surely be a reminiscence of Perrin's Fables Amusantes or some similar book used in Mr. Clarke's School. I remember the Fable of the old eagle and her young stood first in the book I used at school. The draft gives line 860 thus -- 'But soon like eagles natively their gaze...' At the end of this Book Keats wrote in the draft, "Oxf: Sept. 26." ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ John Keats, Endymion - Book III ,

208:Tannhauser The Landgrave Hermann held a gathering Of minstrels, minnesingers, troubadours, At Wartburg in his palace, and the knight, Sir Tannhauser of France, the greatest bard, Inspired with heavenly visions, and endowed With apprehension and rare utterance Of noble music, fared in thoughtful wise Across the Horsel meadows. Full of light, And large repose, the peaceful valley lay, In the late splendor of the afternoon, And level sunbeams lit the serious face Of the young knight, who journeyed to the west, Towards the precipitous and rugged cliffs, Scarred, grim, and torn with savage rifts and chasms, That in the distance loomed as soft and fair And purple as their shadows on the grass. The tinkling chimes ran out athwart the air, Proclaiming sunset, ushering evening in, Although the sky yet glowed with yellow light. The ploughboy, ere he led his cattle home, In the near meadow, reverently knelt, And doffed his cap, and duly crossed his breast, Whispering his 'Ave Mary,' as he heard The pealing vesper-bell. But still the knight, Unmindful of the sacred hour announced, Disdainful or unconscious, held his course. 'Would that I also, like yon stupid wight, Could kneel and hail the Virgin and believe!' He murmured bitterly beneath his breath. 'Were I a pagan, riding to contend For the Olympic wreath, O with what zeal, What fire of inspiration, would I sing The praises of the gods! How may my lyre Glorify these whose very life I doubt? The world is governed by one cruel God, Who brings a sword, not peace. A pallid Christ, Unnatural, perfect, and a virgin cold, They give us for a heaven of living gods, Beautiful, loving, whose mere names were song; 207 A creed of suffering and despair, walled in On every side by brazen boundaries, That limit the soul's vision and her hope To a red hell or and unpeopled heaven. Yea, I am lost already,-even now Am doomed to flaming torture for my thoughts. O gods! O gods! where shall my soul find peace?' He raised his wan face to the faded skies, Now shadowing into twilight; no response Came from their sunless heights; no miracle, As in the ancient days of answering gods. With a long, shuddering sigh he glanced to earth, Finding himself among the Horsel cliffs. Gray, sullen, gaunt, they towered on either side; Scant shrubs sucked meagre life between the rifts Of their huge crags, and made small darker spots Upon their wrinkled sides; the jaded horse Stumbled upon loose, rattling, fallen stones, Amidst the gathering dusk, and blindly fared Through the weird, perilous pass. As darkness waxed, And an oppressive mystery enwrapped The roadstead and the rocks, Sir Tannhauser Fancied he saw upon the mountain-side The fluttering of white raiment. With a sense Of wild joy and horror, he gave pause, For his sagacious horse that reeked of sweat, Trembling in every limb, confirmed his thought, That nothing human scaled that haunted cliff. The white thing seemed descending,-now a cloud It looked, and now a rag of drifted mist, Torn in the jagged gorge precipitous, And now an apparition clad in white, Shapely and real,-then he lost it quite, Gazing on nothing with blank, foolish face. As with wide eyes he stood, he was aware Of a strange splendor at his very side, A presence and a majesty so great, That ere he saw, he felt it was divine. He turned, and, leaping from his horse, fell prone, In speechless adoration, on the earth, Before the matchless goddess, who appeared With no less freshness of immortal youth 208 Than when first risen from foam of Paphian seas. He heard delicious strains of melody, Such as his highest muse had ne'er attained, Float in the air, while in the distance rang, Harsh and discordant, jarring with those tones, The gallop of his frightened horse's hoofs, Clattering in sudden freedom down the pass. A voice that made all music dissonance Then thrilled through heart and flesh of that prone knight, Triumphantly: 'The gods need but appear, And their usurped thrones are theirs again!' Then tenderly: 'Sweet knight, I pray thee, rise; Worship me not, for I desire thy love. Look on me, follow me, for I am fain Of thy fair, human face.' He rose and looked, Stirred by that heavenly flattery to the soul. Her hair, unbraided and unfilleted, Rained in a glittering shower to the ground, And cast forth lustre. Round her zone was clasped The scintillant cestus, stiff with flaming gold, Thicker with restless gems than heaven with stars. She might have flung the enchanted wonder forth; Her eyes, her slightest gesture would suffice To bind all men in blissful slavery. She sprang upon the mountain's dangerous side, With feet that left their print in flowers divine,Flushed amaryllis and blue hyacinth, Impurpled amaranth and asphodel, Dewy with nectar, and exhaling scents Richer than all the roses of mid-June. The knight sped after her, with wild eyes fixed Upon her brightness, as she lightly leapt From crag to crag, with flying auburn hair, Like a gold cloud, that lured him ever on, Higher and higher up the haunted cliff. At last amidst a grove of pines she paused, Until he reached her, breathing hard with haste, Delight, and wonder. Then upon his hand She placed her own, and all his blood at once Tingled and hotly rushed to brow and cheek, At the supreme caress; but the mere touch Infused fresh life, and when she looked at him 209 With gracious tenderness, he felt himself Strong suddenly to bear the blinding light Of those great eyes. 'Dear knight,' she murmured low, 'For love of me, wilt thou accord this boon,To grace my weary home in banishment?' His hungry eyes gave answer ere he spoke, In tones abrupt that startled his own ears With their strange harshness; but with thanks profuse She guided him, still holding his cold hand In her warm, dainty palm, unto a cave, Whence a rare glory issued, and a smell Of spice and roses, frankincense and balm. They entering stood within a marble hall, With straight, slim pillars, at whose farther end The goddess led him to a spiral flight Of stairs, descending always 'midst black gloom Into the very bowels of the earth. Down these, with fearful swiftness, they made way, The knight's feet touching not the solid stair, But sliding down as in a vexing dream, Blind, feeling but that hand divine that still Empowered him to walk on empty air. Then he was dazzled by a sudden blaze, In vast palace filled with reveling folk. Cunningly pictured on the ivory walls Were rolling hills, cool lakes, and boscage green, And all the summer landscape's various pomp. The precious canopy aloft was carved In semblance of the pleached forest trees, Enameled with the liveliest green, wherethrough A light pierced, more resplendent than the day. O'er the pale, polished jasper of the floor Of burnished metal, fretted and embossed With all the marvelous story of her birth Painted in prodigal splendor of rich tincts, And carved by heavenly artists,-crystal seas, And long-haired Nereids in their pearly shells, And all the wonder of her lucent limbs Sphered in a vermeil mist. Upon the throne She took her seat, the knight beside her still, Singing on couches of fresh asphodel, And the dance ceased, and the flushed revelers came 210 In glittering phalanx to adore their queen. Beautiful girls, with shining delicate heads, Crested with living jewels, fanned the air With flickering wings from naked shoulders soft. Then with preluding low, a thousand harps, And citherns, and strange nameless instruments, Sent through the fragrant air sweet symphonies, And the winged dancers waved in mazy rounds, With changing lustres like a summer sea. Fair boys, with charming yellow hair crisp-curled, And frail, effeminate beauty, the knight saw, But of strong, stalwart men like him were none. He gazed thereon bewitched, until the hand Of Venus, erst withdrawn, now fell again Upon his own, and roused him from his trance. He looked on her, and as he looked, a cloud Auroral, flaming as at sunrising, Arose from nothing, floating over them In luminous folds, like that vermilion mist Penciled upon the throne, and as it waxed In density and brightness, all the throng Of festal dancers, less and less distinct, Grew like pale spirits in a vague, dim dream, And vanished altogether; and these twain, Shut from the world in that ambrosial cloud, Now with a glory inconceivable, Vivid and conflagrant, looked each on each. All hours came laden with their own delights In that enchanted place, wherein Time Knew no divisions harsh of night and day, But light was always, and desire of sleep Was satisfied at once with slumber soft, Desire of food with magical repast, By unseen hands on golden tables spread. But these the knight accepted like a god, All less was lost in that excess of joy, The crowning marvel of her love for him, Assuring him of his divinity. Meanwhile remembrance of the earth appeared Like the vague trouble of a transient dream,The doubt, the scruples, the remorse for thoughts 211 Beyond his own control, the constant thirst For something fairer than his life, more real Than airy revelations of his Muse. Here was his soul's desire satisfied. All nobler passions died; his lyre he flung Recklessly forth, with vows to dedicate His being to herself. She knew and seized The moment of her mastery, and conveyed The lyre beyond his sight and memory. With blandishment divine she changed for him, Each hour, her mood; a very woman now, Fantastic, voluble, affectionate, And jealous of the vague, unbodied air, Exacting, penitent, and pacified, All in a breath. And often she appeared Majestic with celestial wrath, with eyes That shot forth fire, and a heavy brow, Portentous as the lowering front of heaven, When the reverberant, sullen thunder rolls Among the echoing clouds. Thus she denounced Her ancient, fickle worshippers, who left Her altars desecrate, her fires unfed, Her name forgotten. 'But I reign, I reign!' She would shrill forth, triumphant; 'yea, I reign. Men name me not, but worship me unnamed, Beauty and Love within their heart of hearts; Not with bent knees and empty breath of words, But with devoted sacrifice of lives.' Then melting in a moment, she would weep Ambrosial tears, pathetic, full of guile, Accusing her own base ingratitude, In craving worship, when she had his heart, Her priceless knight, her peerless paladin, Her Tannhauser; then, with an artful glance Of lovely helplessness, entreated him Not to desert her, like the faithless world, For these unbeautiful and barbarous gods, Or she would never cease her prayers to Jove, Until he took from her the heavy curse Of immortality. With closer vows, The knight then sealed his worship and forswore All other aims and deeds to serve her cause. 212 Thus passed unnoted seven barren years Of reckless passion and voluptuous sloth, Undignified by any lofty thought In his degraded mind, that sometime was Endowed with noble capability. From revelry to revelry he passed, Craving more pungent pleasure momently, And new intoxications, and each hour The siren goddess answered his desires. Once when she left him with a weary sense Of utter lassitude, he sat alone, And, raising listless eyes, he saw himself In a great burnished mirror, wrought about With cunning imagery of twisted vines. He scarcely knew those sunken, red-rimmed eyes, For his who in the flush of manhood rode Among the cliffs, and followed up the crags The flying temptress; and there fell on him A horror of her beauty, a disgust For his degenerate and corrupted life, With irresistible, intense desire, To feel the breath of heaven on his face. Then as Fate willed, who rules above the gods, He saw, within the glass, behind him glide The form of Venus. Certain of her power, She had laid by, in fond security, The enchanted cestus, and Sir Tannhauser, With surfeited regard, beheld her now, No fairer than the women of the earth, Whom with serenity and health he left, Duped by a lovely witch. Before he moved, She knew her destiny; and when he turned, He seemed to drop a mask, disclosing thus An alien face, and eyes with vision true, That for long time with glamour had been blind. Hiding the hideous rage within her breast, With girlish simpleness of folded hands, Auroral blushes, and sweet, shamefast mien, She spoke: 'Behold, my love, I have cast forth All magic, blandishments and sorcery, For I have dreamed a dream so terrible, That I awoke to find my pillow stained 213 With tears as of real woe. I thought my belt, By Vulcan wrought with matchless skill and power, Was the sole bond between us; this being doffed, I seemed to thee an old, unlovely crone, Wrinkled by every year that I have seen. Thou turnedst from me with a brutal sneer, So that I woke with weeping. Then I rose, And drew the glittering girdle from my zone, Jealous thereof, yet full of fears, and said, 'If it be this he loves, then let him go! I have no solace as a mortal hath, No hope of change or death to comfort me Through all eternity; yet he is free, Though I could hold him fast with heavy chains, Bound in perpetual imprisonment.' Tell me my vision was a baseless dream; See, I am kneeling, and kiss thy hands,In pity, look on me, before thy word Condemns me to immortal misery!' As she looked down, the infernal influence Worked on his soul again; for she was fair Beyond imagination, and her brow Seemed luminous with high self-sacrifice. He bent and kissed her head, warm, shining, soft, With its close-curling gold, and love revived. But ere he spoke, he heard the distant sound Of one sweet, smitten lyre, and a gleam Of violent anger flashed across the face Upraised to his in feigned simplicity And singleness of purpose. Then he sprang, Well-nigh a god himself, with sudden strength to vanquish and resist, beyond her reach, Crying, 'My old Muse calls me, and I hear! Thy fateful vision is no baseless dream; I will be gone from this accursed hall!' Then she, too, rose, dilating over him, And sullen clouds veiled all her rosy limbs, Unto her girdle, and her head appeared Refulgent, and her voice rang wrathfully: 'Have I cajoled and flattered thee till now, To lose thee thus! How wilt thou make escape? 214 ONCE BEING MINE THOU ART FOREVER MINE: Yea, not my love, but my poor slave and fool.' But he, with both hands pressed upon his eyes, Against that blinding lustre, heeded not Her thundered words, and cried in sharp despair, 'Help me, O Virgin Mary! and thereat, The very bases of the hall gave way, The roof was rived, the goddess disappeared, And Tannhauser stood free upon the cliff, Amidst the morning sunshine and fresh air. Around him were the tumbled blocks and crags, Huge ridges and sharp juts of flinty peaks, Black caves, and masses of the grim, bald rock. The ethereal, unfathomable sky, Hung over him, the valley lay beneath, Dotted with yellow hayricks, that exhaled Sweet, healthy odors to the mountain-top. He breathed intoxicate the infinite air, And plucked the heather blossoms where they blew, Reckless with light and dew, in crannies green, And scarcely saw their darling bells for tears. No sounds of labor reached him from the farms And hamlets trim, nor from the furrowed glebe; But a serene and sabbath stillness reigned, Till broken by the faint, melodious chimes Of the small village church that called to prayer. He hurried down the rugged, scarped cliff, And swung himself from shelving granite slopes To narrow foot-holds, near wide-throated chasms, Tearing against the sharp stones his bleeding hands, With long hair flying from his dripping brow, Uncovered head, and white, exalted face. No memory had he of his smooth ascent, No thought of fear upon those dreadful hills; He only heard the bell, inviting him To satisfy the craving of his heart, For worship 'midst his fellow men. He reached The beaten, dusty road, and passed thereon The pious peasants faring towards the church, And scarce refrained from greeting them like friends Dearly beloved, after long absence met. 215 How more than fair the sunburnt wenches looked, In their rough, homespun gowns and coifs demure, After the beauty of bare, rosy limbs, And odorous, loose hair! He noted not Suspicious glances on his garb uncouth, His air extravagant and face distraught, With bursts of laughter from the red-cheeked boys, And prudent crossings of the women's breasts. He passed the flowering close about the church, And trod the well worn-path, with throbbing heart, The little heather-bell between his lips, And his eyes fastened on the good green grass. Thus entered he the sanctuary, lit With frequent tapers, and with sunbeams stained Through painted glass. How pure and innocent The waiting congregation seemed to him, Kneeling, or seated with calm brows upraised! With faltering strength, he cowered down alone, And held sincere communion with the Lord, For one brief moment, in a sudden gush Of blessed tears. The minister of God Rose to invoke a blessing on his flock, And then began the service,-not in words To raise the lowly, and to heal the sick, But an alien tongue, with phrases formed, And meaningless observances. The knight, Unmoved, yet thirsting for the simple word That might have moved him, held his bitter thoughts, But when in his own speech a new priest spake, Looked up with hope revived, and heard the text: 'Go, preach the Gospel unto all the world. He that believes and is baptized, is saved. He that believeth not, is damned in hell!' He sat with neck thrust forth and staring eyes; The crowded congregation disappeared; He felt alone in some black sea of hell, While a great light smote one exalted face, Vivid already with prophetic fire, Whose fatal mouth now thundered forth his doom. He longed in that void circle to cry out, With one clear shriek, but sense and voice seemed bound, And his parched tongue clave useless to his mouth. 216 As the last words resounded through the church, And once again the pastor blessed his flock, Who, serious and subdued, passed slowly down The arrow aisle, none noted, near the wall, A fallen man with face upon his knees, A heap of huddled garments and loose hair, Unconscious 'mid the rustling, murmurous stir, 'Midst light and rural smell of grass and flowers, Let in athwart the doorway. One lone priest, Darkening the altar lights, moved noiselessly, Now with the yellow glow upon his face, Now a black shadow gliding farther on, Amidst the smooth, slim pillars of hewn ash. But from the vacant aisles he heard at once A hollow sigh, heaved from a depth profound. Upholding his last light above his head, And peering eagerly amidst the stalls, He cried, 'Be blest who cometh in God's name.' Then the gaunt form of Tannhauser arose. 'Father, I am a sinner, and I seek Forgiveness and help, by whatso means I can regain the joy of peace with God.' 'The Lord hath mercy on the penitent. 'Although thy sins be scarlet,' He hath said, 'Will I not make them white as wool?' Confess, And I will shrive you.' Thus the good priest moved Towards the remorseful knight and pressed his hand. But shrinking down, he drew his fingers back From the kind palm, and kissed the friar's feet. 'Thy pure hand is anointed, and can heal. The cool, calm pressure brings back sanity, And what serene, past joys! yet touch me not, My contact is pollution,-hear, O hear, While I disburden my charged soul.' He lay, Casting about for words and strength to speak. 'O father, is there help for such a one,' In tones of deep abasement he began, 'Who hath rebelled against the laws of God, With pride no less presumptuous than his Who lost thereby his rank in heaven?' 'My son, There is atonement for all sins,-or slight Or difficult, proportioned to the crime. 217 Though this may be the staining of thy hands With blood of kinsmen or of fellow-men.' 'My hands are white,-my crime hath found no name, This side of hell; yet though my heart-strings snap To live it over, let me make the attempt. I was a knight and bard, with such a gift Of revelation that no hour of life Lacked beauty and adornment, in myself The seat and centre of all happiness. What inspiration could my lofty Muse Draw from those common and familiar themes, Painted upon the windows and the walls Of every church,-the mother and her child, The miracle and mystery of the birth, The death, the resurrection? Fool and blind! That saw not symbols of eternal truth In that grand tragedy and victory, Significant and infinite as life. What tortures did my skeptic soul endure, At war against herself and all mankind! The restless nights of feverish sleeplessness, With balancing of reasons nicely weighed; The dawn that brought no hope nor energy, The blasphemous arraignment of the Lord, Taxing His glorious divinity With all the grief and folly of the world. Then came relapses into abject fear, And hollow prayer and praise from craven heart. Before a sculptured Venus I would kneel, Crown her with flowers, worship her, and cry, 'O large and noble type of our ideal, At least my heart and prayer return to thee, Amidst a faithless world of proselytes. Madonna Mary, with her virgin lips, And eyes that look perpetual reproach, Insults and is a blasphemy on youth. Is she to claim the worship of a man Hot with the first rich flush of ripened life?' Realities, like phantoms, glided by, Unnoted 'midst the torment and delights Of my conflicting spirit, and I doffed the modest Christian weeds of charity 218 And fit humility, and steeled myself In pagan panoply of stoicism And self-sufficing pride. Yet constantly I gained men's charmed attention and applause, With the wild strains I smote from out my lyre, To me the native language of my soul, To them attractive and miraculous, As all things whose solution and whose source Remain a mystery. Then came suddenly The summons to attend the gathering Of minstrels at the Landgrave Hermann's court. Resolved to publish there my pagan creed In harmonies so high and beautiful That all the world would share my zeal and faith, I journeyed towards the haunted Horsel cliffs. O God! how may I tell you how SHE came, The temptress of a hundred centuries, Yet fresh as April? She bewitched my sense, Poisoned my judgment with sweet flatteries, And for I may not guess how many years Held me a captive in degrading bonds. There is no sin of lust so lewd and foul, Which I learned not in that alluring hell, Until this morn, I snapped the ignoble tie, By calling on the Mother of our Lord. O for the power to stand again erect, And look men in the eyes! What penitence, What scourging of the flesh, what rigid fasts, What terrible privations may suffice To cleanse me in the sight of God and man?' Ill-omened silence followed his appeal. Patient and motionless he lay awhile, Then sprang unto his feet with sudden force, Confronting in his breathless vehemence, With palpitating heart, the timid priest. 'Answer me, as you hope for a response, One day, at the great judgment seat yourself.' 'I cannot answer,' said the timid priest, 'I have not understood.' 'Just God! is this The curse Thou layest upon me? I outstrip The sympathy and brotherhood of men, So far removed is my experience 219 From their clean innocence. Inspire me, Prompt me to words that bring me near to them! Father,' in gentler accents he resumed, 'Thank Heaven at your every orison That sin like mine you cannot apprehend. More than the truth perchance I have confessed, But I have sinned, and darkly,-this is true; And I have suffered, and am suffering now. Is there no help in your great Christian creed Of liberal charity, for such a one?' 'My son,' the priest replied, 'your speech distraught Hath quite bewildered me. I fain would hope That Christ's large charity can reach your sin, But I know naught. I cannot but believe That the enchantress who first tempted you Must be the Evil one,-your early doubt Was the possession of your soul by him. Travel across the mountain to the town, The first cathedral town upon the road That leads to Rome,-a sage and reverend priest, The Bishop Adrian, bides there. Say you have come From his leal servant, Friar Lodovick; He hath vast lore and great authority, And may absolve you freely of your sin.' Over the rolling hills, through summer fields, By noisy villages and lonely lanes, Through glowing days, when all the landscape stretched Shimmering in the heat, a pilgrim fared Towards the cathedral town. Sir Tannhauser Had donned the mournful sackcloth, girt his loins With a coarse rope that ate into his flesh, Muffled a cowl about his shaven head, Hung a great leaden cross around his neck; And bearing in his hands a knotty staff, With swollen, sandaled feet he held his course. He snatched scant rest at twilight or at dawn, When his forced travel was least difficult. But most he journeyed when the sky, o'ercast, Uprolled its threatening clouds of dusky blue, And angry thunder grumbled through the hills, And earth grew dark at noonday, till the flash 220 Of the thin lightning through the wide sky leapt. And tumbling showers scoured along the plain. Then folk who saw the pilgrim penitent, Drenched, weird, and hastening as as to some strange doom, Swore that the wandering Jew had crossed their land, And the Lord Christ had sent the deadly bolt Harmless upon his cursed, immortal head. At length the hill-side city's spires and roofs, With all its western windows smitten red By a rich sunset, and with massive towers Of its cathedral overtopping all, greeted his sight. Some weary paces more, And as the twilight deepened in the streets, He stood within the minster. How serene, In sculptured calm of centuries, it seemed! How cool and spacious all the dim-lit aisles, Still hazy with fumes of frankincense! The vesper had been said, yet here and there A wrinkled beldam, or mourner veiled, Or burly burgher on the cold floor knelt, And still the organist, with wandering hands, Drew from the keys mysterious melodies, And filled the church with flying waifs of song, That with ethereal beauty moved the soul To a more tender prayer and gentler faith Than choral anthems and the solemn mass. A thousand memories, sweet to bitterness, Rushed on the knight and filled his eyes with tears; Youth's blamelessness and faith forever lost, The love of his neglected lyre, his art, Revived by these aerial harmonies. He was unworthy now to touch the strings, Too base to stir men's soul to ecstasy And high resolves, as in the days agone; And yet, with all his spirit's earnestness, He yearned to feel the lyre between his hands, To utter all the trouble of his life Unto the Muse who understands and helps. Outworn with travel, soothed to drowsiness By dying music and sweet-scented air, His limbs relaxed, and sleep possessed his frame. Auroral light the eastern oriels touched, 221 When with delicious sense of rest he woke, Amidst the cast and silent empty aisles. 'God's peace hath fallen upon me in this place; This is my Bethel; here I feel again A holy calm, if not of innocence, Yet purest after that, the calm serene Of expiation and forgiveness.' He spake, and passed with staff and wallet forth Through the tall portal to the open square, And turning, paused to look upon the pile. The northern front against the crystal sky Loomed dark and heavy, full of sombre shade, With each projecting buttress, carven cross, Gable and mullion, tipped with laughing light By the slant sunbeams of the risen morn. The noisy swallows wheeled above their nests, Builded in hidden nooks about the porch. No human life was stirring in the square, Save now and then a rumbling market-team, Fresh from the fields and farms without the town. He knelt upon the broad cathedral steps, And kissed the moistened stone, while overhead The circling swallows sang, and all around The mighty city lay asleep and still. To stranger's ears must yet again be made The terrible confession; yet again A deathly chill, with something worse than fear, Seized the knight's heart, who knew his every word Widened the gulf between his kind and him. The Bishop sat with pomp of mitred head, In pride of proven virtue, hearkening to all With cold, official apathy, nor made A sign of pity nor encouragement. The friar understood the pilgrim's grief, The language of his eyes; his speech alone Was alien to these kind, untutored ears. But this was truly to be misconstrued, To tear each palpitating word alive From out the depths of his remorseful soul, And have it weighed with the precision cool And the nice logic of a reasoning mind. 222 This spiritual Father judged his crime As the mad mischief of a reckless boy, That call for strict, immediate punishment. But Tannhauser, who felt himself a man, Though base, yet fallen through passions and rare gifts Of an exuberant nature rankly rich, And knew his weary head was growing gray With a life's terrible experience, Found his old sense of proper worth revive; But modestly he ended: 'Yet I felt, O holy Father, in the church, this morn, A strange security, a peace serene, As though e'en yet the Lord regarded me With merciful compassion; yea, as though Even so vile a worm as I might work Mine own salvation, through repentant prayers.' 'Presumptuous man, it is no easy task To expiate such sin; a space of prayer That deprecates the anger of the Lord, A pilgrimage through pleasant summer lands, May not atone for years of impious lust; Thy heart hath lied to thee in offering hope.' 'Is there no hope on earth?' the pilgrim sighed. 'None through thy penance,' said the saintly man. 'Yet there may be through mediation, help. There is a man who by a blameless life Hath won the right to intercede with God. No sins of his own flesh hath he to purge,The Cardinal Filippo,-he abides, Within the Holy City. Seek him out; This is my only counsel,-through thyself Can be no help and no forgiveness.' How different from the buoyant joy of morn Was this discouraged sense of lassitude, The Bishop's words were ringing in his ears, Measured and pitiless, and blent with these, The memory of the goddess' last wild cry,'ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE.' Was it the truth, despite his penitence, And the dedication of his thought to God, That still some portion of himself was hers, 223 Some lust survived, some criminal regret, For her corrupted love? He searched his heart: All was remorse, religious and sincere, And yet her dreadful curse still haunted him; For all men shunned him, and denied him help, Knowing at once in looking on his face, Ploughed with deep lines and prematurely old, That he had struggled with some deadly fiend, And that he was no longer kin to them. Just past the outskirts of the town, he stopped, To strengthen will and courage to proceed. The storm had broken o'er the sultry streets, But now the lessening clouds were flying east, And though the gentle shower still wet his face, The west was cloudless while the sun went down, And the bright seven-colored arch stood forth, Against the opposite dull gray. There was A beauty in the mingled storm and peace, Beyond clear sunshine, as the vast, green fields Basked in soft light, though glistening yet with rain. The roar of all the town was now a buzz Less than the insects' drowsy murmuring That whirred their gauzy wings around his head. The breeze that follows on the sunsetting Was blowing whiffs of bruised and dripping grass Into the heated city. But he stood, Disconsolate with thoughts of fate and sin, Still wrestling with his soul to win it back From her who claimed it to eternity. Then on the delicate air there came to him The intonation of the minster bells, Chiming the vespers, musical and faint. He knew not what of dear and beautiful There was in those familiar peals, that spake Of his first boyhood and his innocence, Leading him back, with gracious influence, To pleasant thoughts and tender memories, And last, recalling the fair hour of hope He passed that morning in the church. Again, The glad assurance of God's boundless love Filled all his being, and he rose serene, And journeyed forward with a calm content. 224 Southward he wended, and the landscape took A warmer tone, the sky a richer light. The gardens of the graceful, festooned with hops, With their slight tendrils binding pole to pole, Gave place to orchards and the trellised grape, The hedges were enwreathed with trailing vines, With clustering, shapely bunches, 'midst the growth Of tangled greenery. The elm and ash Less frequent grew than cactus, cypresses, And golden-fruited or large-blossomed trees. The far hills took the hue of the dove's breast, Veiled in gray mist of olive groves. No more He passed dark, moated strongholds of grim knights, But terraces with marble-paven steps, With fountains leaping in the sunny air, And hanging gardens full of sumptuous bloom. Then cloisters guarded by their dead gray walls, Where now and then a golden globe of fruit Or full-flushed flower peered out upon the road, Nodding against the stone, and where he heard Sometimes the voices of the chanting monks, Sometimes the laugh of children at their play, Amidst the quaint, old gardens. But these sights Were in the suburbs of the wealthy towns. For many a day through wildernesses rank, Or marshy, feverous meadow-lands he fared, The fierce sun smiting his close-muffled head; Or 'midst the Alpine gorges faced the storm, That drave adown the gullies melted snow And clattering boulders from the mountain-tops. At times, between the mountains and the sea Fair prospects opened, with the boundless stretch Of restless, tideless water by his side, And their long wash upon the yellow sand. Beneath this generous sky the country-folk Could lead a freer life,-the fat, green fields Offered rich pasturage, athwart the air Rang tinkling cow-bells and the shepherds' pipes. The knight met many a strolling troubadour, Bearing his cithern, flute, or dulcimer; And oft beneath some castle's balcony, 225 At night, he heard their mellow voices rise, Blent with stringed instruments or tambourines, Chanting some lay as natural as a bird's. Then Nature stole with healthy influence Into his thoughts; his love of beauty woke, His Muse inspired dreams as in the past. But after this came crueler remorse, And he would tighten round his loins the rope, And lie for hours beside some wayside cross, And feel himself unworthy to enjoy The splendid gift and privilege of life. Then forth he hurried, spurred by his desire To reach the City of the Seven Hills, And gain his absolution. Some leagues more Would bring him to the vast Campagna land, When by a roadside well he paused to rest. 'T was noon, and reapers in the field hard by Lay neath the trees upon the sun-scorched grass. But from their midst one came towards the well, Not trudging like a man forespent with toil, But frisking like a child at holiday, With light steps. The pilgrim watched him come, And found him scarcely older than a child, A large-mouthed earthen pitcher in his hand, And a guitar upon his shoulder slung. A wide straw hat threw all his face in shade, But doffing this, to catch whatever breeze Might stir among the branches, he disclosed A charming head of rippled, auburn hair, A frank, fair face, as lovely as a girls, With great, soft eyes, as mild and grave as kine's. Above his head he slipped the instrument, And laid it with his hat upon the turf, Lowered his pitcher down the well-head cool, And drew it dripping upward, ere he saw The watchful pilgrim, craving (as he thought) The precious draught. 'Your pardon, holy sir, Drink first,' he cried, 'before I take the jar Unto my father in the reaping-field.' Touched by the cordial kindness of the lad, The pilgrim answered,-'Thanks, my thirst is quenched From mine own palm.' The stranger deftly poised 226 The brimming pitcher on his head, and turned Back to the reaping-folk, while Tannhauser Looked after him across the sunny fields, Clasping each hand about his waist to bear The balanced pitcher; then, down glancing, found The lad's guitar near by, and fell at once To striking its tuned string with wandering hands, And pensive eyes filled full of tender dreams. 'Yea, holy sir, it is a worthless thing, And yet I love it, for I make it speak.' The boy again stood by him and dispelled His train of fantasies half sweet, half sad. 'That was not in my thought,' the knight replied. 'Its worth is more than rubies; whoso hath The art to make this speak is raised thereby Above all loneliness or grief or fear.' More to himself than to the lad he spake, Who, understanding not, stood doubtfully At a loss for answer; but the knight went on: 'How came it in your hands, and who hath tuned your voice to follow it.' 'I am unskilled, Good father, but my mother smote its strings To music rare.' Diverted from one theme, Pleased with the winsome candor of the boy, The knight encouraged him to confidence; Then his own gift of minstrelsy revealed, And told bright tales of his first wanderings, When in lords' castles and kings' palaces Men still made place for him, for in his land The gift was rare and valued at its worth, And brought great victory and sounding fame. Thus, in retracing all his pleasant youth, His suffering passed as though it had not been. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed the boy gave ear, His fair face flushing with the sudden thoughts That went and came,-then, as the pilgrim ceased, Drew breath and spake: 'And where now is your lyre?' The knight with both hands hid his changed, white face, Crying aloud, 'Lost! lost! forever lost!' Then, gathering strength, he bared his face again Unto the frightened, wondering boy, and rose With hasty fear. 'Ah, child, you bring me back 227 Unwitting to remembrance of my grief, For which I donned eternal garb of woe; And yet I owe you thanks for one sweet hour Of healthy human intercourse and peace. 'T is not for me to tarry by the way. Farewell!' The impetuous, remorseful boy, Seeing sharp pain on that kind countenance, Fell at his feet and cried, 'Forgive my words, Witless but innocent, and leave me not Without a blessing.' Moved unutterably, The pilgrim kissed with trembling lips his head, And muttered, 'At this moment would to God That I were worthy!' Then waved wasted hands Over the youth in act of blessing him, But faltered, 'Cleanse me through his innocence, O heavenly Father!' and with quickening steps Hastened away upon the road to Rome. The noon was past, the reapers drew broad swaths With scythes sun-smitten 'midst the ripened crop. Thin shadows of the afternoon slept soft On the green meadows as the knight passed forth. He trudged amidst the sea of poisonous flowers On the Campagna's undulating plain, With Rome, the many-steepled, many-towered, Before him regnant on her throne of hills. A thick blue cloud of haze o'erhung the town, But the fast-sinking sun struck fiery light From shining crosses, roofs, and flashing domes. Across his path an arching bridge of stone Was raised above a shrunken yellow stream, Hurrying with the light on every wave Towards the great town and outward to the sea. Upon the bridge's crest he paused, and leaned Against the barrier, throwing back his cowl, And gazed upon the dull, unlovely flood That was the Tiber. Quaggy banks lay bare, Muddy and miry, glittering in the sun, And myriad insects hovered o'er the reeds, Whose lithe, moist tips by listless airs were stirred. When the low sun had dropped behind the hills, He found himself within the streets of Rome, 228 Walking as in a sleep, where naught seemed real. The chattering hubbub of the market-place Was over now; but voices smote his ear Of garrulous citizens who jostled past. Loud cries, gay laughter, snatches of sweet song, The tinkling fountains set in gardens cool About the pillared palaces, and blent With trickling of the conduits in the squares, The noisy teams within the narrow streets,All these the stranger heard and did not hear, While ringing bells pealed out above the town, And calm gray twilight skies stretched over it. Wide open stood the doors of every church, And through the porches pressed a streaming throng. Vague wonderment perplexed him, at the sight Of broken columns raised to Jupiter Beside the cross, immense cathedrals reared Upon a dead faith's ruins; all the whirl And eager bustle of the living town Filling the storied streets, whose very stones Were solemn monuments, and spake of death. Although he wrestled with himself, the thought Of that poor, past religion smote his heart With a huge pity and deep sympathy, Beyond the fervor which the Church inspired. Where was the noble race who ruled the world, Moulded of purest elements, and stuffed With sternest virtues, every man a king, Wearing the purple native in his heart? These lounging beggars, stealthy monks and priests, And womanish patricians filled their place. Thus Tannhauser, still half an infidel, Pagan through mind and Christian through the heart, Fared thoughtfully with wandering, aimless steps, Till in the dying glimmer of the day He raised his eyes and found himself alone Amid the ruined arches, broken shafts, And huge arena of the Coliseum. He did not see it as it was, dim-lit By something less than day and more than night, With wan reflections of the rising moon Rather divined than seen on ivied walls, 229 And crumbled battlements, and topless columnsBut by the light of all the ancient days, Ringed with keen eager faces, living eyes, Fixed on the circus with a savage joy, Where brandished swords flashed white, and human blood Streamed o'er the thirsty dust, and Death was king. He started, shuddering, and drew breath to see The foul pit choked with weeds and tumbled stones, The cross raised midmost, and the peaceful moon Shining o'er all; and fell upon his knees, Restored to faith in one wise, loving God. Day followed day, and still he bode in Rome, Waiting his audience with the Cardinal, And from the gates, on pretext frivolous, Passed daily forth,-his Eminency slept,Again, his Eminency was fatigued By tedious sessions of the Papal court, And thus the patient pilgrim was referred Unto a later hour. At last the page Bore him a missive with Filippo's seal, That in his name commended Tannhauser Unto the Pope. The worn, discouraged knight Read the brief scroll, then sadly forth again, Along the bosky alleys of the park, Passed to the glare and noise of summer streets. 'Good God!' he muttered, 'Thou hast ears for all, And sendest help and comfort; yet these men, Thy saintly ministers, must deck themselves With arrogance, and from their large delight In all the beauty of the beauteous earth, And peace of indolent, untempted souls, Deny the hungry outcast a bare word.' Yet even as he nourished bitter thoughts, He felt a depth of clear serenity, Unruffled in his heart beneath it all. No outward object now had farther power To wound him there, for the brooding o'er those deeps Of vast contrition was boundless hope. Yet not to leave a human chance untried, He sought the absolution of the Pope. In a great hall with airy galleries, 230 Thronged with high dignitaries of the Church, He took his seat amidst the humblest friars. Through open windows came sweet garden smells, Bright morning light, and twittered song of birds. Around the hall flashed gold and sunlit gems, And splendid wealth of color,-white-stoled priests, And scarlet cardinals, and bishops clad In violet vestments,-while beneath the shade Of the high gallery huddled dusky shapes, With faded, travel-tattered, sombre smocks, And shaven heads, and girdles of coarse hemp; Some, pilgrims penitent like Tannhauser; Some, devotees to kiss the sacred feet. The brassy blare of trumpets smote the air, Shrill pipes and horns with swelling clamor came, And through the doorway's wide-stretched tapestries Passed the Pope's trumpeters and mace-bearers, His vergers bearing slender silver wands, Then mitred bishops, red-clad cardinals, The stalwart Papal Guard with halberds raised, And then, with white head crowned with gold ingemmed, The vicar of the lowly Galilean, Holding his pastoral rod of smooth-hewn wood, With censer swung before and peacock fans Waved constantly by pages, either side. Attended thus, they bore him to his throne, And priests and laymen fell upon their knees. Then, after pause of brief and silent prayer, The pilgrims singly through the hall defiled, To kiss the borders of the papal skirts, Smiting their foreheads on the paven stone; Some silent, abject, some accusing them Of venial sins in accents of remorse, Craving his grace, and passing pardoned forth. Sir Tannhauser came last, no need for him To cry 'Peccavi,' and crook suppliant knees. His gray head rather crushed than bowed, his face Livid and wasted, his deep thoughtful eyes, His tall gaunt form in those unseemly weeds, Spake more than eloquence. His hollow voice Brake silence, saying, 'I am Tannhauser. For seven years I lived apart from men, 231 Within the Venusberg.' A horror seized The assembled folk; some turbulently rose; Some clamored, 'From the presence cast him forth!' But the knight never ceased his steady gaze Upon the Pope. At last,-'I have not spoken To be condemned,' he said, 'by such as these. Thou, spiritual Father, answer me. Look thou upon me with the eyes of Christ. Can I through expiation gain my shrift, And work mine own redemption?' 'Insolent man!' Thundered the outraged Pope, 'is this the tone Wherewith thou dost parade thy loathsome sin? Down on thy knees, and wallow on the earth! Nay, rather go! there is no ray of hope, No gleam, through cycles of eternity, For the redemption of a soul like thine. Yea, sooner shall my pastoral rod branch forth In leaf and blossom, and green shoots of spring, Than Christ will pardon thee.' And as he spoke, He struck the rod upon the floor with force That gave it entrance 'twixt two loosened tiles, So that it stood, fast-rooted and alone. The knight saw naught, he only heard his judge Ring forth his curses, and the court cry out 'Anathema!' and loud, and blent therewith, Derisive laughter in the very hall, And a wild voice that thrilled through flesh and heart: 'ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE!' Half-mad he clasped both hands upon his brow, Amidst the storm of voices, till they died, And all was silence, save the reckless song Of a young bird upon a twig without. Then a defiant, ghastly face he raised, And shrieked, ''T is false! I am no longer thine!' And through the windows open to the park, Rushed forth, beyond the sight and sound of men. By church nor palace paused he, till he passed All squares and streets, and crossed the bridge of stone, And stood alone amidst the broad expanse Of the Campagna, twinkling in the heat. He knelt upon a knoll of turf, and snapped 232 The cord that held the cross about his neck, And far from him the leaden burden flung. 'O God! I thank Thee, that my faith in Thee Subsists at last, through all discouragements. Between us must no type nor symbol stand, No mediator, were he more divine Than the incarnate Christ. All forms, all priests, I part aside, and hold communion free Beneath the empty sky of noon, with naught Between my nothingness and thy high heavensSpirit with spirit. O, have mercy, God! Cleanse me from lust and bitterness and pride, Have mercy in accordance with my faith.' Long time he lay upon the scorching grass, With his face buried in the tangled weeds. Ah! who can tell the struggles of his soul Against its demons in that sacred hour, The solitude, the anguish, the remorse? When shadows long and thin lay on the ground, Shivering with fever, helpless he arose, But with a face divine, ineffable, Such as we dream the face of Israel, When the Lord's wrestling angel, at gray dawn, Blessed him, and disappeared. Upon the marsh, All night, he wandered, striving to emerge From the wild, pathless plain,-now limitless And colorless beneath the risen moon; Outstretching like a sea, with landmarks none, Save broken aqueducts and parapets, And ruined columns glinting 'neath the moon. His dress was dank and clinging with the dew; A thousand insects fluttered o'er his head, With buzz and drone; unseen cicadas chirped Among the long, rank grass, and far and near The fire-flies flickered through the summer air. Vague thoughts and gleams prophetic filled his brain. 'Ah, fool!' he mused, 'to look for help from men. Had they the will to aid, they lack the power. In mine own flesh and soul the sin had birth, Through mine own anguish it must be atoned. Our saviours are not saints and ministers, 233 But tear-strung women, children soft of heart, Or fellow-sufferers, who, by some chance word, Some glance of comfort, save us from despair. These I have found, thank heaven! to strengthen trust In mine own kind, when all the world grew dark. Make me not proud in spirit, O my God! Yea, in thy sight I am one mass of sin, One black and foul corruption, yet I know My frailty is exceeded by thy love. Neither is this the slender straw of hope, Whereto I, drowning, cling, but firm belief, That fills my inmost soul with vast content. As surely as the hollow faiths of old Shriveled to dust before one ray of Truth, So will these modern temples pass away, Piled upon rotten doctrines, baseless forms, And man will look in his own breast for help, Yea, search for comfort his own inward reins, Revere himself, and find the God within. Patience and patience!' Through the sleepless night He held such thoughts; at times before his eyes Flashed glimpses of the Church that was to be, Sublimely simple in the light serene Of future ages; then the vision changed To the Pope's hall, thronged with high priests, who hurled Their curses on him. Staggering, he awoke Unto the truth, and found himself alone, Beneath the awful stars. When dawn's first chill Crept though the shivering grass and heavy leaves, Giddy and overcome, he fell and slept Upon the dripping weeds, nor dreamed nor stirred, Until the wide plain basked in noon's broad light. He dragged his weary frame some paces more, Unto a solitary herdsman's hut, Which, in the vagueness of the moonlit night, Was touched with lines of beauty, till it grew Fair as the ruined works of ancient art, Now squat and hideous with its wattled roof, Decaying timbers, and loose door wide oped, Half-fallen from the hinge. A drowsy man, Bearded and burnt, in shepherd habit lay, Stretched on the floor, slow-munching, half asleep, 234 His frugal fare; for thus, at blaze of noon, The shepherds sought a shelter from the sun, Leaving their vigilant dogs beside their flock. The knight craved drink and bread, and with respect For pilgrim weeds, the Roman herdsman stirred His lazy length, and shared with him his meal. Refreshed and calm, Sir Tannhauser passed forth, Yearning with morbid fancy once again To see the kind face of the minstrel boy He met beside the well. At set of sun He reached the place; the reaping-folk were gone, The day's toil over, yet he took his seat. A milking-girl with laden buckets full, Came slowly from the pasture, paused and drank. From a near cottage ran a ragged boy, And filled his wooden pail, and to his home Returned across the fields. A herdsman came, And drank and gave his dog to drink, and passed, Greeting the holy man who sat there still, Awaiting. But his feeble pulse beat high When he descried at last a youthful form, Crossing the field, a pitcher on his head, Advancing towards the well. Yea, this was he, The same grave eyes, and open, girlish face. But he saw not, amidst the landscape brown, The knight's brown figure, who, to win his ear, Asked the lad's name. 'My name is Salvator, To serve you, sir,' he carelessly replied, With eyes and hands intent upon his jar, Brimming and bubbling. Then he cast one glance Upon his questioner, and left the well, Crying with keen and sudden sympathy, 'Good Father, pardon me, I knew you not. Ah! you have travelled overmuch: your feet Are grimed with mud and wet, your face is changed, Your hands are dry with fever.' But the knight: 'Nay, as I look on thee, I think the Lord Wills not that I should suffer any more.' 'Then you have suffered much,' sighed Salvator, With wondering pity. 'You must come with me; My father knows of you, I told him all. A knight and minstrel who cast by his lyre, 235 His health and fame, to give himself to God,Yours is a life indeed to be desired! If you will lie with us this night, our home Will verily be blessed.' By kindness crushed, Wandering in sense and words, the broken knight Resisted naught, and let himself be led To the boy's home. The outcast and accursed Was welcomed now by kindly human hands; Once more his blighted spirit was revived By contact with refreshing innocence. There, when the morning broke upon the world, The humble hosts no longer knew their guest. His fleshly weeds of sin forever doffed, Tannhauser lay and smiled, for in the night The angel came who brings eternal peace. __________ Far into Wartburg, through all Italy, In every town the Pope sent messengers, Riding in furious haste; among them, one Who bore a branch of dry wood burst in bloom; The pastoral rod had borne green shoots of spring, And leaf and blossom. God is merciful. ~ Emma Lazarus,

209:1. Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill. 2. When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes. All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony - and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea. I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence. I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach. Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord. 3. I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement. The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on. My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled. Ah, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my master! 4. Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that thy living touch is upon all my limbs. I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing that thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my mind. I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love in flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart. And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is thy power gives me strength to act. 5. I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards. Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure. 6. Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust. I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and the time of offering go by. Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time. 7. My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers. My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music. 8. The child who is decked with prince's robes and who has jewelled chains round his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his dress hampers him at every step. In fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself from the world, and is afraid even to move. Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keeps one shut off from the healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of the right of entrance to the great fair of common human life. 9. O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders! O beggar, to come beg at thy own door! Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look behind in regret. Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath. It is unholy - take not thy gifts through its unclean hands. Accept only what is offered by sacred love. 10. Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. When I try to bow to thee, my obeisance cannot reach down to the depth where thy feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. Pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the humble among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. My heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the companionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost. 11. Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee! He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the pathmaker is breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and his garment is covered with dust. Put of thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil! Deliverance? Where is this deliverance to be found? Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all for ever. Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense! What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained? Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow. 12. The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long. I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet. It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune. The traveller has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end. My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said 'Here art thou!' The question and the cry 'Oh, where?' melt into tears of a thousand streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance 'I am!' 13. The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day. I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument. The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart. The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by. I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house. The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house. I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet. 14. My desires are many and my cry is pitiful, but ever didst thou save me by hard refusals; and this strong mercy has been wrought into my life through and through. Day by day thou art making me worthy of the simple, great gifts that thou gavest to me unasked - this sky and the light, this body and the life and the mind - saving me from perils of overmuch desire. There are times when I languidly linger and times when I awaken and hurry in search of my goal; but cruelly thou hidest thyself from before me. Day by day thou art making me worthy of thy full acceptance by refusing me ever and anon, saving me from perils of weak, uncertain desire. 15. I am here to sing thee songs. In this hall of thine I have a corner seat. In thy world I have no work to do; my useless life can only break out in tunes without a purpose. When the hour strikes for thy silent worship at the dark temple of midnight, command me, my master, to stand before thee to sing. When in the morning air the golden harp is tuned, honour me, commanding my presence. 16. I have had my invitation to this world's festival, and thus my life has been blessed. My eyes have seen and my ears have heard. It was my part at this feast to play upon my instrument, and I have done all I could. Now, I ask, has the time come at last when I may go in and see thy face and offer thee my silent salutation? 17. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. That is why it is so late and why I have been guilty of such omissions. They come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast; but I evade them ever, for I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. People blame me and call me heedless; I doubt not they are right in their blame. The market day is over and work is all done for the busy. Those who came to call me in vain have gone back in anger. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. 18. Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside at the door all alone? In the busy moments of the noontide work I am with the crowd, but on this dark lonely day it is only for thee that I hope. If thou showest me not thy face, if thou leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I am to pass these long, rainy hours. I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind. 19. If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its head bent low with patience. The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky. Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves. 20. On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded. Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind. That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion. I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart. 21. I must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the shore - Alas for me! The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger. The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall. What emptiness do you gaze upon! Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air with the notes of the far-away song floating from the other shore? 22. In the deep shadows of the rainy July, with secret steps, thou walkest, silent as night, eluding all watchers. Today the morning has closed its eyes, heedless of the insistent calls of the loud east wind, and a thick veil has been drawn over the ever-wakeful blue sky. The woodlands have hushed their songs, and doors are all shut at every house. Thou art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street. Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house - do not pass by like a dream. 23. Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? The sky groans like one in despair. I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend! I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path! By what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading thy course to come to me, my friend? 24. If the day is done, if birds sing no more, if the wind has flagged tired, then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me, even as thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep and tenderly closed the petals of the drooping lotus at dusk. From the traveller, whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage is ended, whose garment is torn and dustladen, whose strength is exhausted, remove shame and poverty, and renew his life like a flower under the cover of thy kindly night. 25. In the night of weariness let me give myself up to sleep without struggle, resting my trust upon thee. Let me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy worship. It is thou who drawest the veil of night upon the tired eyes of the day to renew its sight in a fresher gladness of awakening. 26. He came and sat by my side but I woke not. What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me! He came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my dreams became resonant with its melodies. Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep? 27. Light, oh where is the light? Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame - is such thy fate, my heart? Ah, death were better by far for thee! Misery knocks at thy door, and her message is that thy lord is wakeful, and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night. The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless. I know not what this is that stirs in me - I know not its meaning. A moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight, and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me. Light, oh where is the light! Kindle it with the burning fire of desire! It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void. The night is black as a black stone. Let not the hours pass by in the dark. Kindle the lamp of love with thy life. 28. Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them. Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed. I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room. The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love. My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted. 29. He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow. I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being. 30. I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the silent dark? I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not. He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter. He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company. 31. 'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?' 'It was my master,' said the prisoner. 'I thought I could outdo everybody in the world in wealth and power, and I amassed in my own treasure-house the money due to my king. When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bad that was for my lord, and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.' 'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?' 'It was I,' said the prisoner, 'who forged this chain very carefully. I thought my invincible power would hold the world captive leaving me in a freedom undisturbed. Thus night and day I worked at the chain with huge fires and cruel hard strokes. When at last the work was done and the links were complete and unbreakable, I found that it held me in its grip.' 32. By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free. Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou art not seen. If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love. 33. When it was day they came into my house and said, 'We shall only take the smallest room here.' They said, 'We shall help you in the worship of your God and humbly accept only our own share in his grace'; and then they took their seat in a corner and they sat quiet and meek. But in the darkness of night I find they break into my sacred shrine, strong and turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed the offerings from God's altar. 34. Let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all. Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on every side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love every moment. Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee. Let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy will, and thy purpose is carried out in my life - and that is the fetter of thy love. 35. Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action- Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. 36. This is my prayer to thee, my lord - strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart. Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows. Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service. Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might. Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles. And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love. 37. I thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my power, - that the path before me was closed, that provisions were exhausted and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity. But I find that thy will knows no end in me. And when old words die out on the tongue, new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the old tracks are lost, new country is revealed with its wonders. 38. That I want thee, only thee - let my heart repeat without end. All desires that distract me, day and night, are false and empty to the core. As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry - 'I want thee, only thee'. As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace with all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and still its cry is - 'I want thee, only thee'. 39. When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song. When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest. When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder. 40. The rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid heart. The horizon is fiercely naked - not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower. Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with lashes of lightning startle the sky from end to end. But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and keen and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair. Let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look of the mother on the day of the father's wrath. 41. Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly empty. The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not. Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart. I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden splendour of thy coming - all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze. But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? And only I who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing? 42. Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat, only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our pilgrimage to no country and to no end. In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words. Is the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the evening has come down upon the shore and in the fading light the seabirds come flying to their nests. Who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night? 43. The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee; and entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment of my life. And today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature, I find they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of joys and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten. Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and the steps that I heard in my playroom are the same that are echoing from star to star. 44. This is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer. Messengers, with tidings from unknown skies, greet me and speed along the road. My heart is glad within, and the breath of the passing breeze is sweet. From dawn till dusk I sit here before my door, and I know that of a sudden the happy moment will arrive when I shall see. In the meanwhile I smile and I sing all alone. In the meanwhile the air is filling with the perfume of promise. 45. Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes. Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes. Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes have always proclaimed, 'He comes, comes, ever comes.' In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes, comes, ever comes. In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he comes, comes, ever comes. In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine. - 46. I know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet me. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye. In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret. I know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart. It is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence. 47. The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest in the morning he suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep wearied out. Oh friends, leave the way open to him - forbid him not. If the sounds of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I pray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of birds, by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me sleep undisturbed even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door. Ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish. Ah, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his smile when he stands before me like a dream emerging from darkness of sleep. Let him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all forms. The first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his glance. And let my return to myself be immediate return to him. 48. The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our way and paid no heed. We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We quickened our pave more and more as the time sped by. The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid myself down by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass. My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distant blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through strange, far-away countries. All honour to you, heroic host of the interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation - in the shadow of a dim delight. The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my heart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs. At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard! 49. You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door. I was singing all alone in a corner, and the melody caught your ear. You came down and stood at my cottage door. Masters are many in your hall, and songs are sung there at all hours. But the simple carol of this novice struck at your love. One plaintive little strain mingled with the great music of the world, and with a flower for a prize you came down and stopped at my cottage door. 50. I had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy golden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I wondered who was this King of all kings! My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I stood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on all sides in the dust. The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou camest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at last. Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say 'What hast thou to give to me?' Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I was confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took out the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee. But how great my surprise when at the day's end I emptied my bag on the floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. I bitterly wept and wished that I had had the heart to give thee my all. 51. The night darkened. Our day's works had been done. We thought that the last guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were all shut. Only some said the king was to come. We laughed and said 'No, it cannot be!' It seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but the wind. We put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. Only some said, 'It is the messenger!' We laughed and said 'No, it must be the wind!' There came a sound in the dead of the night. We sleepily thought it was the distant thunder. The earth shook, the walls rocked, and it troubled us in our sleep. Only some said it was the sound of wheels. We said in a drowsy murmur, 'No, it must be the rumbling of clouds!' The night was still dark when the drum sounded. The voice came 'Wake up! delay not!' We pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with fear. Some said, 'Lo, there is the king's flag!' We stood up on our feet and cried 'There is no time for delay!' The king has come - but where are lights, where are wreaths? Where is the throne to seat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame! Where is the hall, the decorations? Someone has said, 'Vain is this cry! Greet him with empty hands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!' Open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of the night has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The thunder roars in the sky. The darkness shudders with lightning. Bring out thy tattered piece of mat and spread it in the courtyard. With the storm has come of a sudden our king of the fearful night. 52. I thought I should ask of thee - but I dared not - the rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two. Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes through the window and spread itself upon thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, 'Woman, what hast thou got?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water - it is thy dreadful sword. I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine. From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world. From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment. No more doll's decorations for me! 53. Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset. It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning up earty sense with one fierce flash. Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold or think of. 54. I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. When thou took'st thy leave I stood silent. I was alone by the well where the shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with their brown earthen pitchers full to the brim. They called me and shouted, 'Come with us, the morning is wearing on to noon.' But I languidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings. I heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thine eyes were sad when they fell on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low - 'Ah, I am a thirsty traveller.' I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my jar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang from the unseen dark, and perfume of babla flowers came from the bend of the road. I stood speecess with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed, what had I done for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that I could give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and enfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings in weary notes, neem leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and think. 55. Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes. Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour among thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass in vain! At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude, my friend is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh awaken! What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun - what if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst - Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours, will not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain? 56. Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast come down to me. O thou lord of all heavens, where would be thy love if I were not? Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my heart is the endless play of thy delight. In my life thy will is ever taking shape. And for this, thou who art the King of kings hast decked thyself in beauty to captivate my heart. And for this thy love loses itself in the love of thy lover, and there art thou seen in the perfect union of two. 57. Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light! Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth. The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light. The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion. Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. The heaven's river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad. 58. Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song - the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word. 59. Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, O beloved of my heart - this golden light that dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds sailing across the sky, this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead. The morning light has flooded my eyes - this is thy message to my heart. Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my heart has touched thy feet. 60. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances. They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. they seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the patess sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children. 61. The sleep that flits on baby's eyes - does anybody know from where it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two timid buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss baby's eyes. The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps - does anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning - the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps. The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs - does anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love - the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs. 62. When I bring to you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints - when I give coloured toys to you, my child. When I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth - when I sing to make you dance. When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice - when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands. When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body - when I kiss you to make you smile. 63. Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest. Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the one in the play of many. 64. On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her, 'Maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle? My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light!' she raised her dark eyes for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk. 'I have come to the river,' she said, 'to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.' I stood alone among tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide. In the silence of gathering night I asked her, 'Maiden, your lights are all lit - then where do you go with your lamp? My house is all dark and lonesome - lend me your light.' She raised her dark eyes on my face and stood for a moment doubtful. 'I have come,' she said at last, 'to dedicate my lamp to the sky.' I stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void. In the moonless gloom of midnight I ask her, 'Maiden, what is your quest, holding the lamp near your heart? My house is all dark and lonesome- - lend me your light.' She stopped for a minute and thought and gazed at my face in the dark. 'I have brought my light,' she said, 'to join the carnival of lamps.' I stood and watched her little lamp uselessly lost among lights. 65. What divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of my life? My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal harmony? Thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to them. Thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own entire sweetness in me. 66. She who ever had remained in the depth of my being, in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her veils in the morning light, will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song. Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain. I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life. Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart. many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in despair. There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition. 67. Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the soul with colours and sounds and odours. There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest. But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word. 68. Thy sunbeam comes upon this earth of mine with arms outstretched and stands at my door the livelong day to carry back to thy feet clouds made of my tears and sighs and songs. With fond delight thou wrappest about thy starry breast that mantle of misty cloud, turning it into numberless shapes and folds and colouring it with hues everchanging. It is so light and so fleeting, tender and tearful and dark, that is why thou lovest it, O thou spotless and serene. And that is why it may cover thy awful white light with its pathetic shadows. 69. The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment. 70. Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy? All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can hold them back, they rush on. Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and pass away - colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment. 71. That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus casting coloured shadows on thy radiance - such is thy maya. Thou settest a barrier in thine own being and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes. This thy self-separation has taken body in me. The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloured tears and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again, dreams break and form. In me is thy own defeat of self. This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures with the brush of the night and the day. Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves, casting away all barren lines of straightness. The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky. With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant, and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me. 72. He it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches. He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain. He it is who weaves the web of this maya in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green, and lets peep out through the folds his feet, at whose touch I forget myself. Days come and ages pass, and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow. 73. Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight. Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim. My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and place them before the altar of thy temple. No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight. Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my desires ripen into fruits of love. 74. The day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill my pitcher. The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river. I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his lute. 75. Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee undiminished. The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and hamlets; yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy feet. The flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last service is to offer itself to thee. Thy worship does not impoverish the world. From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them; yet their last meaning points to thee. 76. Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to face. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before thee face to face. Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face. In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with struggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to face. And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings, alone and speecess shall I stand before thee face to face. 77. I know thee as my God and stand apart - I do not know thee as my own and come closer. I know thee as my father and bow before thy feet- I do not grasp thy hand as my friend's. I stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine, there to clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade. Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers, but I heed them not, I divide not my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee. In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus stand by thee. I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the great waters of life. 78. When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang 'Oh, the picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!' But one cried of a sudden - 'It seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.' The golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and they cried in dismay - 'Yes, that lost star was the best, she was the glory of all heavens!' From that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes on from one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy! Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among themselves - 'Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!' 79. If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained nothing - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me - let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house - let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. 80. I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and years separated from thee. If this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders. And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent. 81. On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands. Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness. I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers. 82. Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait. Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower. We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chances. We are too poor to be late. And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I find that yet there is time. 83. Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow. The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine will hang upon thy breast. Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to withhold them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace. 84. It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky. It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July. It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet's heart. 85. When the warriors came out first from their master's hall, where had they hid their power? Where were their armour and their arms? They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them on the day they came out from their master's hall. When the warriors marched back again to their master's hall where did they hide their power? They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow; peace was on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind them on the day they marched back again to their master's hall. 86. Death, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and brought thy call to my home. The night is dark and my heart is fearful - yet I will take up the lamp, open my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who stands at my door. I will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart. He will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my morning; and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my last offering to thee. 87. In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I find her not. My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained. But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have to come to thy door. I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy face. I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish - no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears. Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe. 88. Deity of the ruined temple! The broken strings of Vina sing no more your praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of worship. The air is still and silent about you. In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings the tidings of flowers - the flowers that for your worship are offered no more. Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused. In the eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust, he wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart. Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple. Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit. Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the holy stream of oblivion when their time is come. Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deatess neglect. 89. No more noisy, loud words from me - such is my master's will. Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song. Men hasten to the King's market. All the buyers and sellers are there. But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work. Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time; and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum. Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence! 90. On the day when death will knock at thy door what wilt thou offer to him? Oh, I will set before my guest the full vessel of my life - I will never let him go with empty hands. All the sweet vintage of all my autumn days and summer nights, all the earnings and gleanings of my busy life will I place before him at the close of my days when death will knock at my door. 91. O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, my death, come and whisper to me! Day after day I have kept watch for thee; for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life. All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy. One final glance from thine eyes and my life will be ever thine own. The flowers have been woven and the garland is ready for the bridegroom. After the wedding the bride shall leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night. 92. I know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost, and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes. Yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains. When I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments breaks and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures. Rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives. Things that I longed for in vain and things that I got - let them pass. Let me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked. 93. I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door - and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words from you. We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons has come and I am ready for my journey. 94. At this time of my parting, wish me good luck, my friends! The sky is flushed with the dawn and my path lies beautiful. Ask not what I have with me to take there. I start on my journey with empty hands and expectant heart. I shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is not the red-brown dress of the traveller, and though there are dangers on the way I have no fear in mind. The evening star will come out when my voyage is done and the plaintive notes of the twilight melodies be struck up from the King's gateway. 95. I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight! When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well. The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away, in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation. 96. When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable. I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean of light, and thus am I blessed - let this be my parting word. In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I caught sight of him that is formless. My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch; and if the end comes here, let it come - let this be my parting word. 97. When my play was with thee I never questioned who thou wert. I knew nor shyness nor fear, my life was boisterous. In the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own comrade and lead me running from glade to glade. On those days I never cared to know the meaning of songs thou sangest to me. Only my voice took up the tunes, and my heart danced in their cadence. Now, when the playtime is over, what is this sudden sight that is come upon me? The world with eyes bent upon thy feet stands in awe with all its silent stars. 98. I will deck thee with trophies, garlands of my defeat. It is never in my power to escape unconquered. I surely know my pride will go to the wall, my life will burst its bonds in exceeding pain, and my empty heart will sob out in music like a hollow reed, and the stone will melt in tears. I surely know the hundred petals of a lotus will not remain closed for ever and the secret recess of its honey will be bared. From the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon me and summon me in silence. Nothing will be left for me, nothing whatever, and utter death shall I receive at thy feet. 99. When I give up the helm I know that the time has come for thee to take it. What there is to do will be instantly done. Vain is this struggle. Then take away your hands and silently put up with your defeat, my heart, and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still where you are placed. These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, and trying to light them I forget all else again and again. But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark, spreading my mat on the floor; and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, come silently and take thy seat here. 100. I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless. No more sailing from harbour to harbour with this my weather-beaten boat. The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves. And now I am eager to die into the deatess. Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music of toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life. I shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its last utterance, lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent. 101. Ever in my life have I sought thee with my songs. It was they who led me from door to door, and with them have I felt about me, searching and touching my world. It was my songs that taught me all the lessons I ever learnt; they showed me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the horizon of my heart. They guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of pleasure and pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have the brought me in the evening at the end of my journey? 102. I boasted among men that I had known you. They see your pictures in all works of mine. They come and ask me, 'Who is he?' I know not how to answer them. I say, 'Indeed, I cannot tell.' They blame me and they go away in scorn. And you sit there smiling. I put my tales of you into lasting songs. The secret gushes out from my heart. They come and ask me, 'Tell me all your meanings.' I know not how to answer them. I say, 'Ah, who knows what they mean!' They smile and go away in utter scorn. And you sit there smiling. 103. In one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet. Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee. Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee. Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one salutation to thee. In the introduction to Gitanjali, W.B Yeats says of Tagores poetry. At every moment the heart of this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it has known that they will understand; and it has filled itself with the circumstance of their lives. An innocence, a simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the changes of the seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them and us. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali ,

210:The Door Of Humility ENGLAND We lead the blind by voice and hand, And not by light they cannot see; We are not framed to understand The How and Why of such as He; But natured only to rejoice At every sound or sign of hope, And, guided by the still small voice, In patience through the darkness grope; Until our finer sense expands, And we exchange for holier sight The earthly help of voice and hands, And in His light behold the Light. Let there be Light! The self-same Power That out of formless dark and void Endued with life's mysterious dower Planet, and star, and asteroid; That moved upon the waters' face, And, breathing on them His intent, Divided, and assigned their place To, ocean, air, and firmament; That bade the land appear, and bring Forth herb and leaf, both fruit and flower, Cattle that graze, and birds that sing, Ordained the sunshine and the shower; That, moulding man and woman, breathed In them an active soul at birth In His own image, and bequeathed To them dominion over Earth; That, by whatever is, decreed 418 His Will and Word shall be obeyed, From loftiest star to lowliest seed;The worm and me He also made. And when, for nuptials of the Spring With Summer, on the vestal thorn The bridal veil hung flowering, A cry was heard, and I was born. II To be by blood and long descent A member of a mighty State, Whose greatness, sea-girt, but unpent By ocean, makes the world more great; That, ranging limitless, hath won A Rule more wide than that of Rome, And, journeying onward with the sun, In every zone hath found a home; That, keeping old traditions fast, Still hails the things that are to be, And, firmly rooted in the Past, On Law hath grafted Liberty;That is a birthright nobler far Than princely claim or Right Divine From far-off rapine, wanton war, And I could feel this birthright mine. And not the lowliest hand that drives Or share or loom, if so it be Of British strain, but thence derives A patent of nobility. III The guiding of the infant years Onward to good, away from guile, A mother's humanising tears, A father's philosophic smile; 419 Refining beauty, gentle ways, The admonitions of the wise, The love that watches, helps, and prays, And pities, but doth ne'er despise; An ancient Faith, abiding hope, The charity that suffers long, But flames with sacred zeal to cope With man's injustice, nature's wrong; Melodious leisure, learnëd shelf, Discourse of earnest, temperate mind, The playful wit that of itself Flashes, but leaves no wound behind; The knowledge gleaned from Greece and Rome, From studious Teuton, sprightly Gaul, The lettered page, the mellow tome, And poets' wisdom more than all;These, when no lips severe upbraid, But counsel rather than control, In budding boyhood lend their aid To sensibility of soul. IV But, more than mentor, mother, sire, Can lend to shape the future man With help of learning or of lyre, Of ancient rule, or modern plan, Is that which with our breath we bring Into the world, we know not whence, That needs nor care nor fostering, Because an instinct and a sense. And days and years are all forgot When Nature's aspect, growth, and grace, And veering moods, to me were not The features of the Loved One's face. 420 The The The The cloud whose shadow skims the lake, shimmering haze of summer noon, voice of April in the brake, silence of the mounting moon, Swaying of bracken on the hill, The murmur of the vagrant stream, These motions of some unseen Will, These babblings of some heavenly dream, Seemed tokens of divine desire To hold discourse with me, and so To touch my lips with hallowed fire, And tell me things I ought to know. I gazed and listened, all intent, As to the face and voice of Fate, But what they said, or what they meant, I could surmise not, nor translate. They did but lure me to unrest, Unanswered questioning, longings vain, As when one scans some palimpsest No erudition can explain; But left me with a deep distaste For common speech, that still did seem More meaningless than mountain waste, Less human than the far-off stream. So that a stranger in the land Wherein I moved, where'er I went, I dwelt, whom none could understand, Or exorcise my discontent. And I to them, and they to me Seemed from two different planets come, And, save to flower and wild-bird's glee, My heart was deaf, my soul was dumb. 421 But slowly dawned a happier time When I began to apprehend, And catch, as in some poet's rhyme, The intimations of a friend; When Nature spake no unknown tongue, But language kindred to my thought, Till everything She said, I sung, In notes unforced, in words unsought. And I to Her so closely drew, The seasons round, in mind and mood, I felt at length as if we knew Self-same affection, self-same feud: That both alike scorned worldly aim, Profit, applause, parade, and pride, Whereby the love of generous fame And worthy deeds grows petrified. I did as yet not understand Nature is far more vast than I, Deep as the ocean, wide as land, And overarching as the sky; And but responded to my call, And only felt and fed my need, Because She doth the same for all Who to her pity turn and plead. VI Shall man have mind, and Nature none, Shall I, not she, have soul and heart? Nay, rather, if we be not one, Each is of each the counterpart. She too may have within her breast A conscience, if not like to yours, A sense of rightness ill at rest, Long as her waywardness endures. 422 And hence her thunder, earthquakes, hail, Her levin bolts, her clouds' discharge: She sins upon a larger scale, Because She is herself more large. Hence, too, when She hath pierced with pain The heart of man, and wrecked his years, The pity of the April rain, And late repentance of her tears. She is no better, worse, than we; We can but say she seems more great, That half her will, like ours, is free, And half of it is locked in Fate. Nor need we fear that we should err Beyond our scope in reasoning thus,That there must be a God for Her, If that there be a God for us. VII The chiming of the Sabbath bell, The silence of the Sabbath fields, Over the hamlet cast a spell To which the gracious spirit yields. Sound is there none of wheel or wain, Husht stands the anvil, husht the forge, No shout is heard in rustic lane, No axe resounds in timbered gorge. No flail beats time on granary floor, The windmill's rushing wings are stayed, And children's glee rings out no more From hedgerow bank or primrose glade. The big-boned team that firm and slow Draw yoked, are free to couch or stray; The basking covey seem to know None will invade their peace to-day. 423 And speckless swains, and maidens neat, Through rustic porch, down cottage stair, Demurely up the village street Stream onward to the House of Prayer. They kneel as they were taught to kneel In childhood, and demand not why, But, as they chant or answer, feel A vague communion with the sky. VIII But when the impetuous mind is spurred To range through epochs great but gone, And, heedless of dogmatic word, With fearless ardour presses on, Confronting pulpit, sceptre, shrine, With point by Logic beaten out, And, questioning tenets deemed divine With human challenge, human doubt, Hoists Reason's sail, and for the haze Of ocean quits Tradition's shore, Awhile he comes, and kneels, and prays, Then comes and kneels, but prays no more; And only for the love he bears To those who love him, and who reared His frame to genuflexion, shares In ritual, vain, if still revered. His Gods are many or are none, Saturn and Mithra, Christ and Jove, Consorting, as the Ages run, With Vestal choir or Pagan drove. Abiding still by Northern shores, He sees far off on Grecian coast Veiled Aphrodite, but adores Minerva and Apollo most. 424 Beauty of vision, voice, and mind, Enthrall him so, that unto him All Creeds seem true, if he but find Siren, or saint, or seraphim. And thus once more he dwells apart, His inward self enswathed in mist, Blending with poet's pious heart The dreams of pagan Hedonist. IX If Beauty be the Spirit's quest, Its adoration, creed, and shrine, Wherein its restlessness finds rest, And earthly type of the Divine, Must there for such not somewhere be A blending of all beauteous things In some one form wherein we see The sum of our imaginings? The smile on mountain's musing brow, Sunrise and sunset, moon and star, Wavelets around the cygnet's prow, Glamour anear and charm afar; The silence of the silvery pool, Autumn's reserve and Summer's fire, Slow vanishings of Winter's rule To free full voice of April's choir;The worshippers of Beauty find In maiden form, and face, and tress; Faint intimations of her mind And undulating loveliness. Bound, runnels, bound, bound on, and flow! Sing, merle and mavis, pair and sing! 425 Gone is the Winter, fled the snow, And all that lives is flushed with Spring. Harry the woods, young truant folk, For flowers to deck your cottage sills, And, underneath my orchard oak, Cluster, ye golden daffodils! Unfettered by domestic vow, Cuckoo, proclaim your vagrant loves, And coo upon the self-same bough, Inseparable turtle-doves. Soar, laverock, soar on song to sky, And with the choir of Heaven rejoice! You cannot be more glad than I, Who feel Her gaze, and hear Her voice: Who see Her cheek more crimson glow, And through Her veins love's current stream, And feel a fear She doth but know Is kin to joy and dawning dream. Bound, rivulets, bound, bound on, and flow! Sing, merle and mavis, pair and sing! Gone from the world are want and woe, And I myself am one with Spring. XI They err who say that Love is blind, Or, if it be, 'tis but in part, And that, if for fair face it find No counterpart in mind and heart, It dwells on that which it beholds, Fair fleshly vision void of soul, Deeming, illusioned, this enfolds, Longing's fulfilment, end, and whole. Were such my hapless carnal lot, I too might evanescent bliss 426 Embrace, fierce-fancied, fast forgot, Then leave for some fresh loveliness. But April gaze, and Summer tress, With something of Autumnal thought, In Her seem blent to crown and bless A bond I long in dreams have sought. She looks as though She came to grace The earth, from world less soiled than this, Around her head and virgin face Halo of heavenly holiness. XII He who hath roamed through various lands, And, wheresoe'er his steps are set, The kindred meaning understands Of spire, and dome, and minaret; By Roman river, Stamboul's sea, In Peter's or Sophia's shrine, Acknowledges with reverent knee The presence of the One Divine; Who, to the land he loves so well Returning, towards the sunset hour Wends homeward, feels yet stronger spell In lichened roof and grey church-tower; Round whose foundations, side by side, Sleep hamlet wit and village sage, While loud the blackbird cheers his bride Deep in umbrageous Vicarage. XIII Was it that sense which some aver Foreshadows Fate it doth not see, That gave unwittingly to Her The name, for ever dear to me, 427 Borne by that tearful Mother whom, Nigh unto Ostia's shelving sand, Augustine laid in lonely tomb, Ere sailing for his Afric land? But I at least should have foreseen, When Monica to me had grown Familiar word, that names may mean More than by word and name is shown; That nought can keep two lives apart More than divorce 'twixt mind and mind, Even though heart be one with heart;Alas! Alas! Yes, Love is blind. XIV How could I think of jarring Creeds, And riddles that unread remain, Or ask if Heaven's indulgence heeds Broils born of man's polemic brain, And pause because my venturous mind Had roamed through tracks of polar thought, Whence mightiest spirits turn back blind, Since finding not the thing they sought, When Love, with luring gifts in hand, Beauty, refinement, smile, caress, Heart to surmise and understand, And crowning grace of holiness, Stood there before me, and, with gaze I had been purblind not to see, Said, ``I to you will, all my days, Give what you yearn to give to me''? Must both then sorrow, while we live, Because, rejoicing, I forgot Something there was I could not give, Because, alas! I had it not. 428 XV She comes from Vicarage Garden, see! Radiant as morning, lithe and tall, Fresh lilies in her hand, but She The loveliest lily of them all. The thrushes in their fluting pause, The bees float humming round her head, Earth, air, and heaven shine out because They hear her voice, and feel her tread. Up in the fretted grey church-tower, That rustic gaze for miles can see, The belfry strikes the silvery hour, Announcing her propinquity. And I who, fearful to be late, Passed long since through the deerpark pale, And loitered by the churchyard gate, Once more exclaim, ``Hail! loved one! hail!'' We pass within, and up the nave, Husht, because Heaven seems always there, Wend choirward, where, devoutly grave, She kneels, to breathe a silent prayer. She takes the flowers I too have brought, Blending them deftly with her own, And ranges them, as quick as thought, Around the white-draped altar-throne. How could she know my gaze was not On things unseen, but fixed on Her, That, as She prayed, I all forgot The worship in the worshipper?While She beheld, as in a glass, The Light Divine, that I but sought Sight of her soul?-Alas! Alas! Love is yet blinder than I thought. 429 XVI Who hath not seen a little cloud Up from the clear horizon steal, And, mounting lurid, mutter loud Premonitory thunder-peal? Husht grows the grove, the summer leaf Trembles and writhes, as if in pain, And then the sky, o'ercharged with grief, Bursts into drenching tears of rain. I through the years had sought to hide My darkening doubts from simple sight. 'Tis sacrilegious to deride Faith of unquestioning neophyte. And what, methought, is Doubt at best? A sterile wind through seeded sedge Blowing for nought, an empty nest That lingers in a leafless hedge. Pain, too, there is we should not share With others lest it mar their joy; There is a quiet bliss in prayer None but the heartless would destroy. But just as Love is quick divined From heightened glow or visage pale, The meditations of the Mind Disclose themselves through densest veil. And 'tis the unloving and least wise Who through life's inmost precincts press, And with unsympathetic eyes Outrage our sacred loneliness. Then, when their sacrilegious gaze The mournful void hath half surmised, To some more tender soul they raise The veil of ignorance it prized. 430 XVII `What though I write farewell I could Not utter, lest your gaze should chide, 'Twill by your love be understood My love is still, dear, at your side. ``Nor must we meet to speak goodbye, Lest that my Will should lose its choice, And conscience waver, for then I Should see your face and hear your voice. ``But, when you find yourself once more, Come back, come back and look for me, Beside the little lowly door, The Doorway of Humility.'' XVIII There! Peace at last! The far-off roar Of human passion dies away. ``Welcome to our broad shade once more,'' The waning woodlands seem to say: The music of the vagrant wind, That wandered aimlessly, is stilled; The songless branches all remind That Summer's glory is fulfilled. The fluttering of the falling leaves Dimples the leaden pool awhile; So Age impassively receives Youth's tale of troubles with a smile. Thus, as the seasons steal away, How much is schemed, how little done, What splendid plans at break of day! What void regrets at set of sun! The world goes round, for you, for me, For him who sleeps, for him who strives, And the cold Fates indifferent see 431 Crowning or failure of our lives. Then fall, ye leaves, fade, summer breeze! Grow, sedges, sere on every pool! Let each old glowing impulse freeze, Let each old generous project cool! It is not wisdom, wit, nor worth, Self-sacrifice nor friendship true, Makes venal devotees of earth Prostrate themselves and worship you. The consciousness of sovran powers, The stubborn purpose, steadfast will, Have ever, in this world of ours, Achieved success, achieve it still. Farewell, ye woods! No more I sit; Great voices in the distance call. If this be peace, enough of it! I go. Fall, unseen foliage, fall! XIX Nay, but repress rebellious woe! In grief 'tis not that febrile fool, Passion, that can but overthrow, But Resignation, that should rule. In patient sadness lurks a gift To purify the life it stings, And, as the days move onward, lift The lonely heart to loftier things; Bringing within one's ripening reach The sceptre of majestic Thought, Wherefrom one slowly learns to teach The Wisdom to oneself it taught. And unto what can man aspire, On earth, more worth the striving for, Than to be Reason's loftier lyre, 432 And reconciling monitor; To strike a more resounding string And deeper notes of joy and pain, Than such as but lamenting sing, Or warble but a sensuous strain: So, when my days are nearly sped, And my last harvest labours done, That I may have around my head The halo of a setting sun. Yet even if be heard above Such selfish hope, presumptuous claim, Better one hour of perfect love Than an eternity of Fame! XX Where then for grief seek out the cure? What scenes will bid my smart to cease? High peaks should teach one to endure, And lakes secluded bring one peace. Farewell awhile, then, village bells, Autumnal wood and harvest wain! And welcome, as it sinks or swells, The music of the mighty main, That seems to say, now loud, now low, Rising or falling, sweet or shrill, ``I pace, a sentry, to and fro, To guard your Island fortress still.'' The roses falter on their stalk, The late peach reddens on the wall, The flowers along the garden walk Unheeded fade, unheeded fall. My gates unopened drip with rain, The wolf-hound wends from floor to floor, And, listening for my voice in vain, 433 Waileth along the corridor. Within the old accustomed place Where we so oft were wont to be, Kneeling She prays, while down her face The fruitless tears fall silently. SWITZERLAND XXI Rain, wind, and rain. The writhing lake Scuds to and fro to scape their stroke: The mountains veil their heads, and make Of cloud and mist a wintry cloak. Through where the arching pinewoods make Dusk cloisters down the mountain side, The loosened avalanches take Valeward their way, with death for guide, And toss their shaggy manes and fling To air their foam and tawny froth, From ledge and precipice bound and spring, With hungry roar and deepening wrath; Till, hamlet homes and orchards crushed, And, rage for further ravin stayed, They slumber, satiated, husht, Upon the ruins they have made. I rise from larch-log hearth, and, lone, Gaze on the spears of serried rain, That faster, nigher, still are blown, Then stream adown the window pane. The peasant's goatskin garments drip, As home he wends with lowered head, Shakes off the drops from lid and lip, Then slinks within his châlet shed. 434 The cattle bells sound dull and hoarse, The boats rock idly by the shore; Only the swollen torrents course With faster feet and fuller roar. Mournful, I shape a mournful song, And ask the heavens, but ask in vain, ``How long, how long?'' Ah! not so long As, in my heart, rain, wind, and rain. XXII I ask the dark, the dawn, the sun, The domeward-pointing peaks of snow, Lofty and low alike, but none Will tell me what I crave to know. My mind demands, ``Whence, Whither, Why?'' From mountain slope and green defile, And wait the answer. The replyA far-off irresponsive smile. I ask the stars, when mortals sleep, The pensive moon, the lonely winds; But, haply if they know, they keep The secret of secluded minds. Shall I in Straining Where in Where in vain, then, strive to find, towards merely fancied goal? the lily lurks the mind, the rose discern the soul? More mindless still, stream, pasture, lake, The mountains yet more heartless seem, And life's unceasing quest and ache Only a dream within a dream. We know no more, though racked with thought Than he who, in yon châlet born, Gives not the riddle, Life, a thought, But lays him down and sleeps till morn. 435 Sometimes he kneels; I cannot kneel, So suffer from a wider curse Than Eden's outcasts, for I feel An exile in the universe. The rudeness of his birth enures His limbs to every season's stings, And, never probing, so endures The sadness at the heart of things. When lauwine growls, and thunder swells, Their far-off clamour sounds to me But as the noise of clanging bells Above a silent sanctuary. It is their silence that appals, Their aspect motionless that awes, When searching spirit vainly calls On the effect to bare the Cause. I get no answer, near or far; The mountains, though they soar so high, And scale the pathless ether, are No nearer unto God than I. There dwells nor mystery nor veil Round the clear peaks no foot hath trod; I, gazing on their frontage pale, See but the waning ghost of God. Is Faith then but a drug for sleep, And Hope a fondly soothing friend That bids us, when it sees us weep, Wait for the End that hath no end? Then do I hear voice unforgot Wailing across the distance dim, ``Think, dear! If God existeth not, Why are you always seeking Him?'' XXIII 436 Like glowing furnace of the forge, How the winds rise and roar, as they Up twisting valley, craggy gorge, Seek, and still seek, to storm their way; Then, baffled, up the open slope With quickening pulses scale and pant, Indomitably bent to cope With bristling fronts of adamant. All through the day resounds the strife, Then doth at sunset hour subside: So the fierce passions of our life Slowly expire at eventide. By Nature we are ne'er misled; We see most truly when we dream. A singer wise was he who said, ``Follow the gleam! Follow the gleam!'' XXIV I dreamed, last night, again I stood, Silent, without the village shrine, While She in modest maidenhood Left, fondly clasped, her hand in mine. And, with a face as cerecloth white, And tears like those that by the bier Of loved one lost make dim the sight, She poured her sorrows in mine ear. ``I love your voice, I love your gaze, But there is something dearer still, The faith that kneels, the hope that prays, And bows before the Heavenly Will. ``Not where hills rise, or torrents roll, Seek Him, nor yet alone, apart; He dwells within the troubled soul, His home is in the human heart. 437 ``Withal, the peaceful mountains may 'Twixt doubt and yearning end the strife: So ponder, though you cannot pray, And think some meaning into life: ``Nor like to those that cross the main To wander witless through strange land, Hearing unmastered tongues, disdain The speech they do not understand. ``Firm stands my faith that they who sound The depths of doubt Faith yet will save: They are like children playing round A still remembered mother's grave; ``Not knowing, when they wax more old, And somewhat can her vision share, She will the winding-sheet unfold, And beckon them to evening prayer.'' Then, with my hand betwixt her hands, She laid her lips upon my brow, And, as to one who understands, Said, ``Take once more my vestal vow. ``No other gaze makes mine to glow, No other footstep stirs my heart, To me you only dearer grow, Dearer and nearer, more apart. ``Whene'er you come with humble mind, The little Door stands open wide, And, bending low, you still will find Me waiting on the other side.'' Her silence woke me. . . . To your breast Fold me, O sleep! and seal mine ears; That She may roam through my unrest Till all my dreams are drenched with tears! XXV 438 Why linger longer, subject, here, Where Nature sits and reigns alone, Inspiring love not, only fear, Upon her autocratic throne? Her edicts are the rigid snow, The wayward winds, the swaying branch; She hath no pity to bestow, Her law the lawless avalanche. Though soon cascades will bound and sing, That now but drip with tears of ice, And upland meadows touched by Spring Blue gentian blend with edelweiss, Hence to the Land of youthful dreams, The Land that taught me all I know. Farewell, lone mountain-peaks and streams; Yet take my thanks before I go. You gave me shelter when I fled, But sternly bade me stem my tears, Nor aimless roam with rustling tread 'Mong fallen leaves of fruitless years. ITALY XXVI Upon the topmost wheel-track steep, The parting of two nations' ways, Athwart stone cross engraven deep, The name ``Italia'' greets the gaze! I trembled, when I saw it first, With joy, my boyish longings fed, The headspring of my constant thirst, The altar of my pilgrim tread. Now once again the magic word, So faintly borne to Northern home, Sounds like a silvery trumpet heard 439 Beneath some universal dome. The forests soften to a smile, A smile the very mountains wear, Through mossy gorge and grassed defile Torrents race glad and debonair. From casement, balcony and door, Hang golden gourds, droops tear-tipped vine, And sun-bronzed faces bask before Thin straw-swathed flasks of last year's wine. Unyoked, the patient sleek-skinned steers Take, like their lords, no heed of time. Hark! now the evening star appears, Ave Maria belfries chime. The maidens knit, and glance, and sing, With glowing gaze 'neath ebon tress, And, like to copse-buds sunned by Spring, Seem burgeoning into tenderness. On waveless lake where willows weep, The Borromean Islands rest As motionless as babe asleep Upon a slumbering Mother's breast. O Land of sunshine, song, and Love! Whether thy children reap or sow, Of Love they chant on hills above, Of Love they sing in vale below. But what avail the love-linked hands, And love-lit eyes, to them that roam Passionless through impassioned lands, Since they have left their heart at home! XXVII Among my dreams, now known as dreams In this my reawakened life, I thought that by historic streams, 440 Apart from stress, aloof from strife, By rugged paths that twist and twine Through olive slope and chesnut wood Upward to mediaeval shrine, Or high conventual brotherhood, Along the mountain-curtained track Round peaceful lake where wintry bands Halt briefly but to bivouac Ere blustering on to Northern lands;Through these, through all I first did see, With me to share my raptures none, That nuptialled Monica would be My novice and companion: That we should float from mere to mere, And sleep within some windless cove, With nightingales to lull the ear, From ilex wood and orange grove; Linger at hamlets lost to fame, That still wise-wandering feet beguile, To gaze on frescoed wall or frame Lit by Luini's gracious smile. Now, but companioned by my pain, Among each well-remembered scene I can but let my Fancy feign The happiness that might have been; Imagine that I hear her voice, Imagine that I feel her hand, And I, enamoured guide, rejoice To see her swift to understand. Alack! Imagination might As lief with rustic Virgil roam, Reverent, or, welcomed guest, alight At Pliny's philosophic home; 441 Hear one majestically trace Rome's world-wide sway from wattled wall, And read upon the other's face The omens of an Empire's fall. XXVIII Like moonlight seen through forest leaves, She shines upon me from afar, What time men reap the ripened sheaves, And Heaven rains many a falling star. I gaze up to her lofty height, And feel how far we dwell apart: O if I could, this night, this night, Fold her full radiance to my heart! But She in Heaven, and I on earth, Still journey on, but each alone; She, maiden Queen of sacred birth, Who with no consort shares her throne. XXIX What if She ever thought She saw The self within myself prefer Communion with the silent awe Of far-off mountains more than Her; That Nature hath the mobile grace To make life with our moods agree, And so had grown the Loved One's face, Since it nor checked nor chided me; Or from the tasks that irk and tire I sought for comfort from the Muse, Because it grants the mind's desire All that familiar things refuse. How vain such thought! The face, the form, Of mountain summits but express, Clouded or clear, in sun or storm, 442 Feebly Her spirit's loftiness. Did I explore from pole to pole, In Nature's aspect I should find But faint reflections of Her soul, Dim adumbrations of Her mind. O come and test with lake, with stream, With mountain, which the stronger be, Thou, my divinest dearest dream, My Muse, and more than Muse, to me! XXX They tell me that Jehovah speaks In silent grove, on lonely strand, And summit of the mountain peaks; Yet there I do not understand. The stars, disdainful of my thought, Majestic march toward their goal, And to my nightly watch have brought No explanation to my soul. The truth I seek I cannot find, In air or sky, on land or sea; If the hills have their secret mind, They will not yield it up to me: Like one who lost mid lonely hills Still seeks but cannot find his way, Since guide is none save winding rills, That seem themselves, too, gone astray. And so from rise to set of sun, At glimmering dawn, in twilight haze, I but behold the face of One Who veils her face, and weeps, and prays. What know I that She doth not know? What I know not, She understands: With heavenly gifts She overflows, 443 While I have only empty hands. O weary wanderer! Best forego This questioning of wind and wave. For you the sunshine and the snow, The womb, the cradle, and the grave. XXXI How blest, when organ concords swell, And anthems are intoned, are they Who neither reason nor rebel, But meekly bow their heads and pray. And such the peasants mountain-bred, Who hail to-day with blithe accord Her Feast Who to the Angel said, ``Behold the Handmaid of the Lord!'' Downward they wind from pastoral height, Or hamlet grouped round shattered towers, To wend to shrine more richly dight, And bring their gift of wilding flowers; Their gifts, their griefs, their daily needs, And lay these at Her statue's base, Who never, deem they, intercedes Vainly before the Throne of Grace. Shall I, because I stand apart, A stranger to their pious vows, Scorn their humility of heart That pleads before the Virgin Spouse, Confiding that the Son will ne'er, If in His justice wroth with them, Refuse to harken to Her prayer Who suckled Him in Bethlehem? Of all the intercessors born By man's celestial fancy, none 444 Hath helped the sorrowing, the forlorn, Lowly and lone, as She hath done. The maiden faithful to Her shrine Bids demons of temptation flee, And mothers fruitful as the vine Retain their vestal purity. Too trustful love, by lust betrayed, And by cold worldlings unforgiven, Unto Her having wept and prayed, Faces its fate, consoled and shriven. The restless, fiercely probing mind No honey gleans, though still it stings. What comfort doth the spirit find In Reason's endless reasonings? They have no solace for my grief, Compassion none for all my pain: They toss me like the fluttering leaf, And leave me to the wind and rain. XXXII If Conscience be God's Law to Man, Then Conscience must perforce arraign Whatever falls beneath the ban Of that allotted Suzerain. And He, who bids us not to swerve, Whither the wayward passions draw, From its stern sanctions, must observe The limits of the self-same Law. Yet, if obedient Conscience scan The sum of wrongs endured and done Neither by act nor fault of Man, They rouse it to rebellion. Life seems of life by life bereft 445 Through some immitigable curse, And Man sole moral being left In a non-moral Universe. My Conscience would my Will withstand, Did Will project a world like this: Better Eternal vacuum still, Than murder, lust, and heartlessness! If Man makes Conscience, then being good Is only being worldly wise, And universal brotherhood A comfortable compromise. O smoke of War! O blood-steeped sod! O groans of fratricidal strife! Who will explain the ways of God, That I may be at peace with life! The moral riddle 'tis that haunts, Primeval and unending curse, Racking the mind when pulpit vaunts A Heaven-created Universe. Yet whence came Life, and how begin? Rolleth the globe by choice or chance? Dear Lord! Why longer shut me in This prison-house of ignorance! FLORENCE XXXIII City acclaimed ere Dante's days Fair, and baptized in field of flowers, Once more I scan with tender gaze Your glistening domes, your storied towers. I feel as if long years had flown Since first with eager heart I came, 446 And, girdled by your mountain zone, Found you yet fairer than your fame. It was the season purple-sweet When figs are plump, and grapes are pressed, And all your sons with following feet Bore a dead Poet to final rest. You seemed to fling your gates ajar, And softly lead me by the hand, Saying, ``Behold! henceforth you are No stranger in the Tuscan land.'' And though no love my love can wean From native crag and cradling sea, Yet Florence from that hour hath been More than a foster-nurse to me. When mount I terraced slopes arrayed In bridal bloom of peach and pear, While under olive's phantom shade Lupine and beanflower scent the air, The wild-bees hum round golden bay, The green frog sings on fig-tree bole, And, see! down daisy-whitened way Come the slow steers and swaying pole. The fresh-pruned vine-stems, curving, bend Over the peaceful wheaten spears, And with the glittering sunshine blend Their transitory April tears. O'er wall and trellis trailed and wound, Hang roses blushing, roses pale; And, hark! what was that silvery sound? The first note of the nightingale. Curtained, I close my lids and dream Of Beauty seen not but surmised, And, lulled by scent and song, I seem Immortally imparadised. 447 When from the deep sweet swoon I wake And gaze past slopes of grape and grain, Where Arno, like some lonely lake, Silvers the far-off seaward plain, I see celestial sunset fires That lift us from this earthly leaven, And darkly silent cypress spires Pointing the way from hill to Heaven. Then something more than mortal steals Over the wavering twilight air, And, messenger of nightfall, peals From each crowned peak a call to prayer. And now the last meek prayer is said, And, in the hallowed hush, there is Only a starry dome o'erhead, Propped by columnar cypresses. XXXIV Re-roaming through this palaced town, I suddenly, 'neath grim-barred pile, Catch sight of Dante's awful frown, Or Leonardo's mystic smile; Then, swayed by memory's fancy, stroll To where from May-day's flaming pyre Savonarola's austere soul Went up to Heaven in tongues of fire; Or Buonarroti's plastic hand Made marble block from Massa's steep Dawn into Day at his command, Then plunged it into Night and Sleep. No later wanderings can dispel The glamour of the bygone years; And, through the streets I know so well, 448 I scarce can see my way for tears. XXXV A sombre shadow seems to fall On comely altar, transept fair; The saints are still on frescoed wall, But who comes thither now for prayer? Men throng from far-off stranger land, To stare, to wonder, not to kneel, With map and guide-book in their hand To tell them what to think and feel. They scan, they prate, they marvel why The figures still expressive glow, Oblivious they were painted by Adoring Frà Angelico. Did Dante from his tomb afar Return, his wrongs redressed at last, And see you, Florence, as you are, Half alien to your gracious Past, Finding no Donatello now, No reverent Giotto 'mong the quick, To glorify ascetic vow Of Francis or of Dominic; Self-exiled by yet sterner fate Than erst, he would from wandering cease, And, ringing at monastic gate, Plead, ``I am one who craves for peace.'' And what he sought but ne'er could find, Shall I, less worthy, hope to gain, The freedom of the tranquil mind, The lordship over loss and pain? More than such peace I found when I Did first, in unbound youth, repair 449 To Tuscan shrine, Ausonian sky. I found it, for I brought it there. XXXVI Yet Art brings peace, itself is Peace, And, as I on these frescoes gaze, I feel all fretful tumults cease And harvest calm of mellower days. For Soul too hath its seasons. Time, That leads Spring, Summer, Autumn, round, Makes our ephemeral passions chime With something permanent and profound. And, as in Nature, April oft Strives to revert to wintry hours, But shortly upon garth and croft Re-sheds warm smiles and moistening showers, Or, for one day, will Autumn wear The gayer garments of the Spring, And then athwart the wheatfields bare Again her graver shadows fling; So, though the Soul hath moods that veer, And seem to hold no Rule in awe, Like the procession of the year, It too obeys the sovran Law. Nor Art itself brings settled peace, Until the mind is schooled to know That gusts subside and tumults cease Only in sunset's afterglow. Life's contradictions vanish then, Husht thought replacing clashing talk Among the windy ways of men. 'Tis in the twilight Angels walk. 450 ROME XXXVII The last warm gleams of sunset fade From cypress spire and stonepine dome, And, in the twilight's deepening shade, Lingering, I scan the wrecks of Rome. Husht the Madonna's Evening Bell; The steers lie loosed from wain and plough; The vagrant monk is in his cell, The meek nun-novice cloistered now. Pedant's presumptuous voice no more Vexes the spot where Caesar trod, And o'er the pavement's soundless floor Come banished priest and exiled God. The lank-ribbed she-wolf, couched among The regal hillside's tangled scrubs, With doting gaze and fondling tongue Suckles the Vestal's twin-born cubs. Yet once again Evander leads Æneas to his wattled home, And, throned on Tiber's fresh-cut reeds, Talks of burnt Troy and rising Rome. From out the tawny dusk one hears The half-feigned scream of Sabine maids, The rush to arms, then swift the tears That separate the clashing blades. The Lictors with their fasces throng To quell the Commons' rising roar, As Tullia's chariot flames along, Splashed with her murdered father's gore. Her tresses free from band or comb, Love-dimpled Venus, lithe and tall, 451 And fresh as Fiumicino's foam, Mounts her pentelic pedestal. With languid lids, and lips apart, And curving limbs like wave half-furled, Unarmed she dominates the heart, And without sceptre sways the world. Nerved by her smile, avenging Mars Stalks through the Forum's fallen fanes, Or, changed of mien and healed of scars, Threads sylvan slopes and vineyard plains. With waves of song from wakening lyre Apollo routs the wavering night, While, parsley-crowned, the white-robed choir Wind chanting up the Sacred Height, Where Jove, with thunder-garlands wreathed, And crisp locks frayed like fretted foam, Sits with his lightnings half unsheathed, And frowns against the foes of Rome. You cannot kill the Gods. They still Reclaim the thrones where once they reigned, Rehaunt the grove, remount the rill, And renovate their rites profaned. Diana's hounds still lead the chase, Still Neptune's Trident crests the sea, And still man's spirit soars through space On feathered heels of Mercury. No flood can quench the Vestals' Fire; The Flamen's robes are still as white As ere the Salii's armoured choir Were drowned by droning anchorite. The saint may seize the siren's seat, The shaveling frown where frisked the Faun; Ne'er will, though all beside should fleet, The Olympian Presence be withdrawn. 452 Here, even in the noontide glare, The Gods, recumbent, take their ease; Go look, and you will find them there, Slumbering behind some fallen frieze. But most, when sunset glow hath paled, And come, as now, the twilight hour, In vesper vagueness dimly veiled I feel their presence and their power. What though their temples strew the ground, And to the ruin owls repair, Their home, their haunt, is all around; They drive the cloud, they ride the air. And, when the planets wend their way Along the never-ageing skies, ``Revere the Gods'' I hear them say; ``The Gods are old, the Gods are wise.'' Build as man may, Time gnaws and peers Through marble fissures, granite rents; Only Imagination rears Imperishable monuments. Let Gaul and Goth pollute the shrine, Level the altar, fire the fane: There is no razing the Divine; The Gods return, the Gods remain. XXXVIII Christ is arisen. The place wherein They laid Him shows but cerements furled, And belfry answers belfry's din To ring the tidings round the world. Grave Hierarchs come, an endless band, In jewelled mitre, cope embossed, Who bear Rome's will to every land 453 In all the tongues of Pentecost. Majestic, along marble floor, Walk Cardinals in blood-red robe, Martyrs for Faith and Christ no more, Who gaze as though they ruled the globe. With halberds bare and doublets slashed, Emblems that war will never cease, Come martial guardians, unabashed, And march afront the Prince of Peace. Then, in his gestatorial Chair See Christ's vicegerent, bland, benign, To crowds all prostrate as in prayer Lean low, and make the Holy Sign. Then trumpets shrill, and organ peals, Throughout the mighty marble pile, Whileas a myriad concourse kneels In dense-packed nave and crowded aisle. Hark to the sudden hush! Aloft From unseen source in empty dome Swells prayerful music silvery-soft, Borne from far-off celestial Home. Then, when the solemn rite is done, The worshippers stream out to where Dance fountains glittering in the sun, While expectation fills the air. Now on high balcony He stands, And-save for the Colonna curse,Blesses with high-uplifted hands The City and the Universe. Christ is arisen! But scarce as when, On the third day of death and gloom, Came ever-loving Magdalen With tears and spices to His tomb. 454 XXXIX The Tiber winds its sluggish way Through niggard tracts whence Rome's command Once cast the shadow of her sway, O'er Asian city, Afric sand. Nor even yet doth She resign Her sceptre. Still the spell is hers, Though she may seem a rifled shrine 'Mid circumjacent sepulchres. One after one, they came, they come, Gaul, Goth, Savoy, to work their will; She answers, when She most seems dumb, ``I wore the Crown, I wear it still. ``From Jove I first received the gift, I from Jehovah wear it now, Nor shall profane invader lift The diadem from off my brow. ``The Past is mine, and on the Past The Future builds; and Time will rear The next strong structure on the last, Where men behold but shattered tier. ``The Teuton hither hies to teach, To prove, disprove, to delve and probe. Fool! Pedant! Does he think to reach The deep foundations of the globe?'' For me, I am content to tread On Sabine dust and Gothic foe. Leave me to deepening silent dread Of vanished Empire's afterglow. In this Imperial wilderness Why rashly babble and explore? O, let me know a little less, So I may feel a little more! 455 XL For upward of one thousand years, Here men and women prayed to Jove, With smiles and incense, gifts and tears, In secret shrine, or civic grove; And, when Jove did not seem to heed, Sought Juno's mediatorial power, Or begged fair Venus intercede And melt him in his amorous hour. Sages invoked Minerva's might; The Poet, ere he struck the lyre, Prayed to the God of Song and Light To touch the strings with hallowed fire. With flaming herbs were altars smoked Sprinkled with blood and perfumed must, And gods and goddesses invoked To second love or sanction lust. And did they hear and heed the prayer, Or, through that long Olympian reign, Were they divinities of air Begot of man's fantastic brain? In Roman halls their statues still Serenely stand, but no one now Ascends the Capitolian Hill, To render thanks, or urge the vow. Through now long centuries hath Rome Throned other God, preached other Creed, That here still have their central home, And feed man's hope, content his need. Against these, too, will Time prevail? No! Let whatever gestates, be, Secure will last the tender tale 456 From Bethlehem to Calvary. Throughout this world of pain and loss, Man ne'er will cease to bend his knee To Crown of Thorns, to Spear, to Cross, And Doorway of Humility. XLI If Reason be the sole safe guide In man implanted from above, Why crave we for one only face, Why consecrate the name of Love? Faces there are no whit less fair, Yet ruddier lip, more radiant eye, Same rippling smile, same auburn hair, But not for us. Say, Reason, why. Why bound our hearts when April pied Comes singing, or when hawthorn blows? Doth logic in the lily hide, And where's the reason in the rose? Why weld our keels and launch our ships, If Reason urge some wiser part, Kiss England's Flag with dying lips And fold its glories to the heart? In this gross world we touch and see, If Reason be no trusty guide, For world unseen why should it be The sole explorer justified? The homing swallow knows its nest, Sure curves the comet to its goal, Instinct leads Autumn to its rest, And why not Faith the homing soul? Is Reason so aloof, aloft, It doth not 'gainst itself rebel, 457 And are not Reason's reasonings oft By Reason proved unreasonable? He is perplexed no more, who prays, ``Hail, Mary Mother, full of grace!'' O drag me from Doubt's endless maze, And let me see my Loved One's face! XLII ``Upon this rock!'' Yet even here Where Christian God ousts Pagan wraith, Rebellious Reason whets its spear, And smites upon the shield of Faith. On sacred mount, down seven-hilled slopes, Fearless it faces foe and friend, Saying to man's immortal hopes, ``Whatso began, perforce must end.'' Not men alone, but gods too, die; Fanes are, like hearths, left bare and lone; This earth will into fragments fly, And Heaven itself be overthrown. Why then should Man immortal be? He is but fleeting form, to fade, Like momentary cloud, or sea Of waves dispersed as soon as made. Yet if 'tis Force, not Form, survives, Meseems therein that one may find Some comfort for distressful lives; For, if Force ends not, why should Mind? Is Doubt more forceful than Belief? The doctor's cap than friar's cowl? O ripeness of the falling leaf! O wisdom of the moping owl! Man's Mind will ever stand apart 458 From Science, save this have for goal The evolution of the heart, And sure survival of the Soul. XLIII The Umbilicum lonely stands Where once rose porch and vanished dome; But he discerns who understands That every road may lead to Rome. Enthroned in Peter's peaceful Chair, The spiritual Caesar sways A wider Realm of earth and air Than trembled at Octavian's gaze. His universal arms embrace The saint, the sinner, and the sage, And proffer refuge, comfort, grace To tribulation's pilgrimage. Here scientific searchers find Precursors for two thousand years, Who in a drouthy world divined Fresh springs for human doubts and fears. Here fair chaste Agnes veils her face From prowlers of the sensual den, And pity, pardon, and embrace Await repentant Magdalen. Princess and peasant-mother wend To self-same altar, self-same shrine, And Cardinal and Patriarch bend Where lepers kneel, and beggars whine. And is there then, in my distress, No road, no gate, no shrine, for me? The answer comes, ``Yes, surely, yes! The Doorway of Humility.'' 459 O rival Faiths! O clamorous Creeds! Would you but hush your strife in prayer, And raise one Temple for our needs, Then, then, we all might worship there. But dogma new with dogma old Clashes to soothe the spirit's grief, And offer to the unconsoled Polyglot Babel of Belief! XLIV The billows roll, and rise, and break, Around me; fixedly shine the stars In clear dome overhead, and take Their course, unheeding earthly jars. Yet if one's upward gaze could be But stationed where the planets are, The star were restless as the sea, The sea be tranquil as the star. Hollowed like cradle, then like grave, Now smoothly curved, now shapeless spray, Withal the undirected wave Forms, and reforms, and knows its way. Then, waters, bear me on where He, Ere death absolved at Christian font, Removed Rome's menaced majesty Eastward beyond the Hellespont. Foreseeing not what Fate concealed, But Time's caprice would there beget, That Cross would unto Crescent yield, Caesar and Christ to Mahomet. Is it then man's predestined state To search for, ne'er to find, the Light? Arise, my Star, illuminate These empty spaces of the Night! 460 XLV Last night I heard the cuckoo call Among the moist green glades of home, And in the Chase around the Hall Saw the May hawthorn flower and foam. Deep in the wood where primrose stars Paled before bluebell's dazzling reign, The nightingale's sad sobbing bars Rebuked the merle's too joyful strain. The kine streamed forth from stall and byre, The foal frisked round its mother staid, The meads, by sunshine warmed, took fire, And lambs in pasture, bleating, played. The uncurbed rivulets raced to where The statelier river curled and wound, And trout, of human step aware, Shot through the wave without a sound. Adown the village street, as clear As in one's wakeful mid-day hours, Beheld I Monica drawing near, Her vestal lap one crib of flowers. Lending no look to me, she passed By the stone path, as oft before, Between old mounds Spring newly grassed, And entered through the Little Door. Led by her feet, I hastened on, But, ere my feverish steps could get To the low porch, lo! Morning shone On Moslem dome and minaret! CONSTANTINOPLE 461 XLVI Now Vesper brings the sunset hour, And, where crusading Knighthood trod, Muezzin from his minaret tower Proclaims, ``There is no God but God!'' Male God who shares his godhead with No Virgin Mother's sacred tear, But finds on earth congenial kith In wielders of the sword and spear: Male God who on male lust bestows The ruddy lip, the rounded limb, And promises, at battle's close, Houri, not saint nor seraphim. Swift through the doubly-guarded stream, Shoots the caïque 'neath oarsmen brisk, While from its cushioned cradle gleam The eyes of yashmaked odalisque. Unchanged adown the changing years, Here where the Judas blossoms blaze, Against Sophia's marble piers The scowling Muslim lean and gaze; And still at sunset's solemn hour, Where Christ's devout Crusader trod, Defiant from the minaret's tower Proclaim, ``There is no God but God!'' XLVII Three rival Rituals. One revered In that loved English hamlet where, With flowers in Vicarage garden reared, She decks the altar set for prayer: Another, where majestic Rome, With fearless Faith and flag unfurled 462 'Gainst Doubt's ephemeral wave and foam, Demands obedience from the world. The third, where now I stand, and where Two hoary Continents have met, And Islam guards from taint and tare Monistic Creed of Mahomet. Yet older than all three, but banned To suffer still the exile's doom From shrine where Turkish sentries stand, And Christians wrangle round Christ's tomb. Where then find Creed, divine or dead, All may embrace, and none contemn?Remember Who it was that said, ``Not here, nor at Jerusalem!'' ATHENS XLVIII To Acrocorinth's brow I climb, And, lulled in retrospective bliss, Descry, as through the mists of time, Faintly the far Acropolis. Below me, rivers, mountains, vales, Wide stretch of ancient Hellas lies: Symbol of Song that never fails, Parnassus communes with the skies. I linger, dream-bound by the Past, Till sundown joins time's deep abyss, Then skirt, through shadows moonlight-cast, Lone strand of sailless Salamis, Until Eleusis gleams through dawn, Where, though a suppliant soul I come, The veil remains still unwithdrawn, 463 And all the Oracles are dumb. So onward to the clear white Light, Where, though the worshippers be gone, Abides on unmysterious height The calm unquestioning Parthenon. Find I, now there I stand at last, That naked Beauty, undraped Truth, Can satisfy our yearnings vast, The doubts of age, the dreams of youth; That, while we ask, in futile strife, From altar, tripod, fount, or well, Form is the secret soul of life, And Art the only Oracle; That Hera and Athena, linked With Aphrodite, hush distress, And, in their several gifts distinct, Withal are Triune Goddesses? That mortal wiser then was He Who gave the prize to Beauty's smile, Divides his gifts among the Three, And thuswise baffles Discord's guile? But who is wise? The nobler twain, Who the restraining girdle wear, Contend too often all in vain With sinuous curve and frolic hair. Just as one sees in marble, still, Pan o'er Apollo's shoulder lean, Suggesting to the poet's quill The sensual note, the hint obscene. Doth then the pure white Light grow dim, And must it be for ever thus? Listen! I hear a far-off Hymn, Veni, Creator, Spiritus! 464 XLIX The harvest of Hymettus drips As sweet as when the Attic bees Swarmed round the honey-laden lips Of heavenly-human Sophocles. The olives are as green in grove As in the days the poets bless, When Pallas with Poseidon strove To be the City's Patroness. The wine-hued main, white marble frieze, Dome of blue ether over all, One still beholds, but nowhere sees Panathenaic Festival. O'erhead, no Zeus or frowns or nods, Olympus none in air or skies; Below, a sepulchre of Gods, And tombs of dead Divinities. Yet, are they dead? Still stricken blind, Tiresiaslike, are they that see, With bold uncompromising mind, Wisdom in utter nudity; Experiencing a kindred fate With the First Parents of us all, Jehovah thrust through Eden's Gate, When Knowledge brought about their Fall. Hath Aphrodite into foam, Whence She first flowered, sunk back once more, And doth She nowhere find a home, Or worship, upon Christian shore? Her shrine is in the human breast, To find her none need soar or dive. Goodness or Loveliness our quest, The ever-helpful Gods survive. 465 Hellas retorts, when Hebrew gibes At Gods of levity and lust, ``God of Judaea's wandering tribes Was jealous, cruel, and unjust.'' Godhead, withal, remains the same, And Art embalms its symbols still; As Poets, when athirst for Fame, Still dream of Aganippe's rill. Why still pursue a bootless quest, And wander heartsore farther East, Because unanswered, south or west, By Pagan seer or Christian priest? Brahma and Buddha, what have they To offer to my shoreless search? ``Let Contemplation be,'' they say, ``Your ritual, Nothingness your Church. ``Passion and purpose both forsake, Echoes from non-existent wall; We do but dream we are awake, Ourselves the deepest dream of all. ``We dream we think, feel, touch, and see, And what these are, still dreaming, guess, Though there is no Reality Behind their fleeting semblances.'' Thus the East answers my appeal, Denies, and so illudes, my want. Alas! Could I but cease to feel, Brahma should be my Hierophant. But, hampered by my Western mind, I cannot set the Spirit free From Matter, but Illusion find, 466 Of all, the most illusory. DELPHI LI The morning mists that hid the bay And curtained mountains fast asleep, Begin to feel the touch of day, And roll from off both wave and steep. In floating folds they curve and rise, Then slowly melt and merge in air, Till high above me glow the skies, And cloudless sunshine everywhere. Parnassus wears nor veil nor frown, Windless the eagle wings his way, As I from Delphi gaze adown On Salona and Amphissa. It was the sovran Sun that drew Aloft and scattered morning haze, And now fills all the spacious blue With its own glorifying rays. And, no less sovran than the sun, Imagination brings relief Of morning light to shadows dun, To heart's distress, and spirit's grief. Parnassus boasts no loftier peak Than Poet's heavenward song; which, though Harbouring among the sad and weak, Lifteth aloft man's griefs below. Though sun-bronzed Phocian maidens lave Their kerchiefs in Castalia's spring, The Muses linger round its wave, And aid the pilgrim sent to sing. 467 And, listening there, I seem to hear The unseen Oracle say, ``Be strong: Subdue the sigh, repress the tear, And let not sorrow silence Song. ``You now have learnt enough from pain; And, if worse anguish lurk behind, Breathe in it some unselfish strain, And with grief's wisdom aid your kind. ``Who but of his own suffering sings, Is like an eagle, robbed, distressed, That vainly shrieks and beats its wings, Because it cannot find its nest. ``Let male Imagination wed The orphan, Sorrow, to console Its virgin loneness, whence are bred Serenity and self-control. ``Hence let the classic breezes blow You to your Land beyond the sea, That you may make, for others' woe, Your own a healing melody; ``To wintry woe no more a slave, But, having dried your April tears, Behold a helpful harvest wave From ridges of the fallow years.'' LII Rebuked thus by the stately Past, Whose solemn choruses endure Through voices new and visions vast, And centuries of sepulture, Because, serene, it never blinked At sheen or shadow of the sun, But Hades and Olympus linked 468 With Salamis and Marathon; Which held despondency at bay And, while revering Fate's decree, Reconciled with majestic lay Man to the Human Tragedy; To Gods of every land I vowed, Judaea, Hellas, Mecca, Rome, No more to live by sorrow bowed, But, wending backward to my home, Thenceforth to muse on woe more wide Than individual distress, The loftier Muses for my guide, Minerva for my monitress; Nor yet to scorn the tender aid Of Christian martyr, virgin, sage, And, meekly pondering in the shade, Proffer ripe counsel to my Age. And, haply, since 'tis Song alone Can baffle death, and conquer time, Maiden unborn in days unknown, Under the leaves of fragrant lime, Scanning the verse that here is writ, While cherishing some secret smart Of love or loss, may glean from it Some comfort for her weary heart; And, gently warned, grave minds may own The world hath more to bear than they, And, while I dream 'neath mossy stone, Repeat my name, and love my lay. LIII Scarce to the all-indwelling Power That vow was uttered, ere there came 469 A messenger in boyhood's flower, Winged with his search, his face aflame. From Amphissa he straight had clomb, Thridding that devious mountain land, With letter from my far-off home, And written by my Loved One's hand. ``Come to me where I drooping lie. None yet have died of Love, they say: Withal, I sometimes think that I Have prayed and sighed my life away. ``I want your absolution, dear, For whatso wrong I may have done; My conscience waneth less severe, In softness of the setting sun. ``'Twas I, 'twas I, far more than you, That stood in need, as now I see, Stooping, to enter meekly through The Doorway of Humility. ``In vain I turn to Throne of Grace, Where sorrows cease, and tears are dry; I fain once more would see your face, And hear your voice, before I die.'' ENGLAND LIV The oak logs smoulder on my hearth, Though round them hums no household talk; The roses in the garden-garth Hang mournfully on curving stalk. My wolf-hound round me leaps and bays, That wailed lost footsteps when I went: He little knows the grief that weighs 470 On my return from banishment. Half Autumn now, half Summer yet, For Nature hath a human heart, It seems as though they, having met, To take farewell, are loth to part. The splendour of the Year's decline Hath not yet come. One still can see Late honeysuckle intertwine With Maiden's-Bower and briony. The bracken-fronds, fast yellowing, tower From out sere needles of the pine; Now hawkweed blooms where foxgloves flower, And bramble where once eglantine. And, as I wend with hurrying feet Across the park, along the lane That leads unto the hamlet street, And cradle of my bliss and bane, In cottage plots on either side, O'er mignonette and fragrant stock Soar tiger-lilies lithe and tall, And homely-sheltered hollyhock. And when I reach the low grey wall That skirts God's-acre on the hill, I see, awaiting my recall, The Little Door stand open still. A dip, a slight descent, and then Into the Vicarage Walk I passed; It seemed as though the tongues of men Had left it since I saw it last. Round garden-plot, in westering sun, Her agëd parents slowly stepped: Her Mother had the face of one Who oft hath prayed, and oft hath wept. 471 She wore the silent plaintive grace Of Autumn just before its close, And on her slowly fading face The pathos of November rose. With pitying gaze and accents kind, ``Go in,'' she said, ``and mount the stair; And you through open door will find That Monica awaits you there.'' LV I mounted. At half-open door Pausing, I softly called her name, As one would pause and halt before Heaven's Gateway. But no answer came. She lies, methought, in Sleep's caress, So, passing in, I seemed to see, So saintly white the vision, less A chamber than a Sanctuary. Vestured in white, on snow-white bed, She lay, as dreaming something sweet, Madonna lilies at her head, Madonna lilies at her feet. A thought, I did not dare to speak,``Is this the sleep of life or death?'' And, with my cheek against her cheek, Listening, I seemed to hear her breath. 'Twas Love's last blindness not to see Her sinless soul had taken wing Unto the Land, if such there be, Where saints adore, and Seraphs sing. And yet I felt within my heart, Though lids were closed and lips were dumb, That, for Love's sake, her soul in part Had lingered here, till I should come. 472 I kissed her irresponsive hand, I laid my lips on her cold brow, That She, like me, should understand 'Twas thus I sealed our nuptial vow. And then I saw upon her breast A something writ, she fain had said Had I been near, to me addressed, Which, kneeling down, I took and read. LVI ``I prayed I might prolong my years Till you could come and hush my sighs, And dry my penitential tears; But Heaven hath willed it otherwise: ``That I may expiate the wrong By me inflicted on us both, When, yet Love's novice, feebly strong, I sinned against Love's sovran troth. ``Now Death, the mirror unto Life, Shows me that nought should keep apart Those who, though sore perplexed by strife 'Twixt Faith and Doubt, are one in heart. ``For Doubt is one with Faith when they, Who doubt, for Truth's sake suffering live; And Faith meanwhile should hope and pray, Withholding not what Love can give. ``We lead the blind by voice and hand, And not by light they cannot see; We are not framed to understand The How and Why of such as He, ``But natured only to rejoice At every sound or sign of hope, And, guided by the still small voice, 473 In patience through the darkness grope; ``Until our finer sense expands, And we exchange for holier sight The earthly help of voice and hands, And in His light behold the Light. ``Had my poor Love but been more wise, I should have ta'en you to my breast, Striving to hush your plaintive cries, And rock your Reason back to rest. ``But, though alone you now must tread Where we together should have trod, In loneliness you may be led, Through faith in me, to Faith in God. ``With tranquil purpose, fervent mind, Foster, while you abide on earth, And humbly proffer to your kind, The gift assigned to you at birth. ``As in the far-off boyish year When did your singing voice awake, Disinterestedly revere And love it for its own great sake. ``And when life takes autumnal hues, With fervent reminiscence woo All the affections of the Muse, And write the poem lived by you. ``And should, until your days shall end, You still the lyric voice retain, With its seductive music blend A graver note, a loftier strain. ``While buoyant youth and manhood strong Follow where Siren sounds entice, The Deities of Love and Song, Rapture and loveliness, suffice. 474 ``But when decay, and pain, and loss, Remind one of the Goal forgot, And we in turn must bear the Cross, The Pagan Gods can help us not. ``Nor need you then seek, far and near, More sumptuous shrines on alien strand, But with domestic mind revere The Ritual of your native Land. ``The Little Door stands open wide, And, if you meekly pass therethrough, Though I no longer kneel inside, I shall be hovering near to you. ``Farewell! till you shall learn the whole Of what we here but see in part. Now I to God commend my soul, And unto you I leave my heart.'' LVII I wended up the slope once more To where the Church stands lone and still, And passed beneath the Little Door, My will the subject of Her will. The sunset rays through pictured pane Fell, fretted into weft and woof, On transept, nave, and aisle, to wane On column cold and vaulted roof. Within the carven altar screen Were lilies tall, and white, and fair, So like to those I late had seen, It seemed She must be sleeping there. Mutely I knelt, with bended brow And shaded eyes, but heart intent, To learn, should any teach me now, What Life, and Love, and Sorrow meant. 475 And there remained until the shroud Of dusk foretold the coming night; And then I rose, and prayed aloud, ``Let there be Light! Let there be Light!'' ~ Alfred Austin,