MATINS This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license. Title: Matins Author: Francis Sherman Release Date: May 08, 2013 [EBook #42668] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MATINS *** Produced by Al Haines. MATINS Francis Sherman [Illustration: Title page decoration] BOSTON COPELAND AND DAY MDCCCXCVI COPYRIGHT 1896 BY COPELAND AND DAY TO MY FATHER CONTENTS At the Gate A Life At Matins Ave The Foreigner Cadences Easter-Song The Rain A Memory Among the Hills To Summer The Path The Last Flower After Harvest Heat in September On the Hillside Summer Dying A November Vigil Nunc Dimittis Between the Battles The Quiet Valley The Kingfisher The Conqueror The King’s Hostel Between the Winter and the Spring The Mother The Window of Dreams The Relief of Wet Willows The Builder Te Deum Laudamus AT THE GATE Swing open wide, O Gate, That I may enter in And see what lies in wait For me who have been born! Her word I only scorn Who spake of death and sin. I know what is behind Your heavy brazen bars; I heard it of the wind Where I dwelt yesterday: The wind that blows alway Among the ancient stars. Life is the chiefest thing The wind brought knowledge of, As it passed, murmuring: Life, with its infinite strength, And undiminished length Of years fulfilled with love. The wind spake not of sin That blows among the stars; And so I enter in (Swing open wide, O Gate!) Fearless of what may wait Behind your heavy bars. A LIFE I. _Let us rise up and live!_ Behold, each thing Is ready for the moulding of our hand. Long have they all awaited our command; None other will they ever own for king. Until we come no bird dare try to sing, Nor any sea its power may understand; No buds are on the trees; in every land Year asketh year some tidings of some Spring. Yea, it is time,—high time we were awake! Simple indeed shall life be unto us. What part is ours?—To take what all things give; To feel the whole world growing for our sake; To have sure knowledge of the marvellous; To laugh and love.—_Let us rise up and live!_ II. _Let us rule well and long_. We will build here Our city in the pathway of the sun. On this side shall this mighty river run; Along its course well-laden ships shall steer. Beyond, great mountains shall their crests uprear, That from their sides our jewels may be won. Let all you toil! Behold, it is well done; Under our sway all far things fall and near! All time is ours! _Let us rule long and well!_ So we have reigned for many a long, long day. No change can come.... What hath that slave to tell, Who dares to stop us on our royal way? "O King, last night within thy garden fell, From thine own tree, a rose whose leaves were gray." III. _Let us lie down and sleep!_ All things are still, And everywhere doth rest alone seem sweet. No more is heard the sound of hurrying feet Athrough the land their echoes once did fill. Even the wind knows not its ancient will, For each ship floats with undisturbéd sheet: Naught stirs except the Sun, who hastes to greet His handmaiden, the utmost western hill. Ah, there the glory is! O west of gold! Once seemed our life to us as glad and fair; We knew nor pain nor sorrow anywhere! O crimson clouds! O mountains autumn-stoled! Across even you long shadows soon must sweep. We too have lived. _Let us lie down and sleep!_ IV. _Nay, let us kneel and pray!_ The fault was ours, O Lord! No other ones have sinned as we. The Spring was with us and we praised not thee; We gave no thanks for Summer’s strangest flowers. We built us many ships, and mighty towers, And held awhile the whole broad world in fee: Yea, and it sometime writhed at our decree! The stars, the winds,—all they were subject-powers. All things we had for slave. We knew no God; We saw no place on earth where His feet trod— This earth, where now the Winter hath full sway, Well shrouded under cold white snows and deep. We rose and lived; we ruled; yet, ere we sleep, O Unknown God,—_Let us kneel down and pray!_ AT MATINS Because I ever have gone down Thy ways With joyous heart and undivided praise, I pray Thee, Lord, of Thy great loving-kindness, Thou’lt make to-day even as my yesterdays!" (At the edge of the yellow dawn I saw them stand, Body and Soul; and they were hand-in-hand: The Soul looked backward where the last night’s blindness Lay still upon the unawakened land; But the Body, in the sun’s light well arrayed, Fronted the east, grandly and unafraid: I knew that it was one might never falter Although the Soul seemed shaken as it prayed.) "O Lord" (the Soul said), "I would ask one thing: Send out Thy rapid messengers to bring Me to the shadows which about Thine altar Are ever born and always gathering. "For I am weary now, and would lie dead Where I may not behold my old days shed Like withered leaves around me and above me; Hear me, O Lord, and I am comforted!" "O Lord, because I ever deemed Thee kind" (The Body’s words were borne in on the wind); "Because I knew that Thou wouldst ever love me Although I sin, and lead me who am blind; Because of all these things, hear me who pray! Lord, grant me of Thy bounty one more day To worship Thee, and thank Thee I am living. Yet if Thou callest now, I will obey." (The Body’s hand tightly the Soul did hold; And over them both was shed the sun’s red gold; And though I knew this day had in its giving Unnumbered wrongs and sorrows manifold, I counted it a sad and bitter thing That this weak, drifting Soul must alway cling Unto this Body—wrought in such a fashion It must have set the gods, even, marvelling. And, thinking so, I heard the Soul’s loud cries, As it turned round and saw the eastern skies) "O Lord, destroy in me this new-born passion For this that has grown perfect in mine eyes! "O Lord, let me not see this thing is fair, This Body Thou hast given me to wear,— Lest I fall out of love with death and dying, And deem the old, strange life not hard to bear! "Yea, now, even now, I love this Body so— O Lord, on me Thy longest days bestow! O Lord, forget the words I have been crying, And lead me where Thou thinkest I should go!" (At the edge of the open dawn I saw them stand, Body and Soul, together, hand-in-hand, Fulfilled, as I, with strong desire and wonder As they beheld the glorious eastern land; I saw them, in the strong light of the sun, Go down into the day that had begun; I knew, as they, that night might never sunder This Body from the Soul that it had won.) AVE! To-morrow, and a year is born again! (To-day the first bud wakened ’neath the snow.) Will it bring joys the old year did not know, Or will it burthen us with the old pain? Shall we seek out the Spring—to see it slain? Summer,—and learn all flowers have ceased to grow? Autumn,—and find it overswift to go? (The memories of the old year yet remain.) To-morrow, and another year is born! (Love liveth yet, O Love, we deemed was dead!) Let us go forth and welcome in the morn, Following bravely on where Hope hath led. (O Time, how great a thing thou art to scorn!) O Love, we shall not be uncomforted! THE FOREIGNER He walked by me with open eyes, And wondered that I loved it so; Above us stretched the gray, gray skies; Behind us, foot-prints on the snow. Before us slept a dark, dark wood. Hemlocks were there, and little pines Also; and solemn cedars stood In even and uneven lines. The branches of each silent tree Bent downward, for the snow’s hard weight Was pressing on them heavily; They had not known the sun of late. (Except when it was afternoon, And then a sickly sun peered in A little while; it vanished soon And then they were as they had been.) There was no sound (I thought I heard The axe of some man far away) There was no sound of bee, or bird, Or chattering squirrel at its play. And so he wondered I was glad. —There was one thing he could not see; Beneath the look these dead things had I saw Spring eyes agaze at me. CADENCES (Mid-Lent) The low, gray sky curveth from hill to hill, Silent and all untenanted; From the trees also all glad sound hath fled, Save for the little wind that moaneth still Because it deemeth Earth is surely dead. For many days no woman hath gone by, Her gold hair knowing, as of old, The wind’s caresses and the sun’s kind gold; —Perchance even she hath thought it best to die Because all things are sad things to behold. (Easter Morning) She cometh now, with the sun’s splendid shine On face and limbs and hair! Ye who are watching, have ye seen so fair A Lady ever as this one is of mine? Have ye beheld her likeness anywhere? See, as she cometh unrestrained and fleet Past the thrush-haunted trees, How glad the lilies are that touch her knees! How glad the grasses underneath her feet! And how even I am yet more glad than these! EASTER-SONG Maiden, awake! For Christ is born again! And let your feet disdain The paths whereby of late they have been led. Now Death itself is dead, And Love hath birth, And all things mournful find no place on earth. This morn ye all must go another way Than ye went yesterday. Not with sad faces shall ye silent go Where He hath suffered so; But where there be Full many flowers shall ye wend joyfully. Moreover, too, ye must be clad in white, As if the ended night Were but your bridal-morn’s foreshadowing. And ye must also sing In angel-wise: So shall ye be most worthy in His eyes. Maidens, arise! I know where many flowers Have grown these many hours To make more perfect this glad Easter-day; Where tall white lilies sway On slender stem, Waiting for you to come and garner them; Where banks of mayflowers are, all pink and white, Which will Him well delight; And yellow buttercups, and growing grass Through which the Spring winds pass; And mosses wet, Well strown with many a new-born violet. All these and every other flower are here. Will ye not draw anear And gather them for Him, and in His name, Whom all men now proclaim Their living King? Behold how all these wait your harvesting! Moreover, see the darkness of His house! Think ye that He allows Such glory of glad color and perfume, But to destroy the gloom That hath held fast His altar-place these many days gone past? For this alone these blossoms had their birth,— To show His perfect worth! Therefore, O Maidens, ye must go apace To that strange garden-place And gather all These living flowers for His high festival. For now hath come the long-desired day, Wherein Love hath full sway! Open the gates, O ye who guard His home, His handmaidens are come! Open them wide, That all may enter in this Easter-tide! Then, maidens, come, with song and lute-playing, And all your wild flowers bring And strew them on His altar; while the sun— Seeing what hath been done— Shines strong once more, Knowing that Death hath Christ for conqueror. THE RAIN O ye who so unceasing praise the Sun; Ye who find nothing worthy of your love But the Sun’s face and the strong light thereof; Who, when the day is done, Are all uncomforted Unless the night be crowned with many a star, Or mellow light be shed From the ancient moon that gazeth from afar, With pitiless calm, upon the old, tired Earth; O ye to whom the skies Must be forever fair to free your eyes From mortal pain;— Have ye not known the great exceeding worth Of that soft peace which cometh with the Rain? Behold! the wisest of you knows no thing That hath such title to man’s worshipping As the first sudden day The slumbrous Earth is wakened into Spring; When heavy clouds and gray Come up the southern way, And their bold challenge throw In the face of the frightened snow That covereth the ground. What need they now the armies of the Sun Whose trumpets now do sound? Alas, the powerless Sun! Hath he not waged his wars for days gone past, Each morning drawing up his cohorts vast And leading them with slow and even paces To assault once more the impenetrable places, Where, crystal-bound, The river moveth on with silent sound? O puny, powerless Sun! On the pure white snow where are the lightest traces Of what thy forces’ ordered ways have done? On these large spaces No footsteps are imprinted anywhere; Still the white glare Is perfect; yea, the snows are drifted still On plain and hill; And still the river knows the Winter’s iron will. Thou wert most wise, O Sun, to hide thy face This day beneath the cloud’s gray covering; Thou wert most wise to know the deep disgrace In which thy name is holden of the Spring. She deems thee now an impotent, useless thing, And hath dethroned thee from thy mighty place; Knowing that with the clouds will come apace The Rain, and that the rain will be a royal king. A king?—Nay, queen! For in soft girlish-wise she takes her throne When first she cometh in the young Spring-season; Gentle and mild, Yet with no dread of any revolution, And fearing not a land unreconciled, And unafraid of treason. In her dark hair Lieth the snow’s most certain dissolution; And in her glance is known The freeing of the rivers from their chainings; And in her bosom’s strainings Earth’s teeming breast is tokened and foreshown. Behold her coming surely, calmly down, Where late the clear skies were, With gray clouds for a gown; Her fragile draperies Caught by the little breeze Which loveth her! She weareth yet no crown, Nor is there any sceptre in her hands; Yea, in all lands, Whatever Spring she cometh, men know well That it is right and good for her to come; And that her least commands Must be fulfilled, however wearisome; And that they all must guard the citadel Wherein she deigns to dwell! And so, even now, her feet pass swiftly over The impressionable snow That vanisheth as woe Doth vanish from the rapt face of a lover, Who, after doubting nights, hath come to know His lady loves him so! (Yet not like him Doth the snow bear the signs of her light touch! It is all gray in places, and looks worn With some most bitter pain; As he shall look, perchance, Some early morn While yet the dawn is dim, When he awakens from the enraptured trance In which he, blind, hath lain, And knows that also he hath loved in vain The lady who, he deemed, had loved him much. And though her utter worthlessness is plain He hath no joy of his deliverance, But only asketh God to let him die,— And getteth no reply.) Yea, the snows fade before the calm strength of the rain! And while the rain is unabated, Well-heads are born and streams created On the hillsides, and set a-flowing Across the fields. The river, knowing That there hath surely come at last Its freedom, and that frost is past, Gathereth force to break its chains; The river’s faith is in the Spring’s unceasing rains! See where the shores even now were firmly bound The slowly widening water showeth black, As from the fields and meadows all around Come rushing over the dark and snowless ground The foaming streams! Beneath the ice the shoulders of the tide Lift, and from shore to shore a thin, blue crack Starts, and the dark, long-hidden water gleams, Glad to be free. And now the uneven rift is growing wide; The breaking ice is fast becoming gray; It hears the loud beseeching of the sea, And moveth on its way. Surely at last the work of the rain is done! Surely the Spring at last is well begun, O unavailing Sun! O ye who worship only at the noon, When will ye learn the glory of the rain? Have ye not seen the thirsty meadow-grass Uplooking piteous at the burnished sky, And all in vain? Even in June Have ye not seen the yellow flowers swoon Along the roadside, where the dust, alas, Is hard to pass? Have ye not heard The song cease in the throat of every bird And know the thing all these were stricken by? Ye have beheld these things, yet made no prayer, O pitiless and uncompassionate! Yet should the sweeping Of Death’s wide wings across your face unsleeping Be felt of you to-night, And all your hair Know the soft stirring of an alien breath From out the mouth of Death, Would ye not then have memory of these And how their pain was great? Would ye not wish to hear among the trees The wind in his great might, And on the roof the rain’s unending harmonies? For when could death be more desired by us (Oh, follow, Death, I pray thee, with the Fall!) Than when the night Is heavy with the wet wind born of rain? When flowers are yellow, and the growing grass Is not yet tall, Or when all living things are harvested And with bright gold the hills are glorious, Or when all colors have faded from our sight And all is gray that late was gold and red? Have ye not lain awake the long night through And listened to the falling of the rain On fallen leaves, withered and brown and dead? Have none of you, Hearing its ceaseless sound, been comforted And made forgetful of the day’s live pain? Even _Thou_, who wept because the dark was great Once, and didst pray that dawn might come again, Has noon not seemed to be a dreaded thing And night a thing not wholly desolate And Death thy soul’s supremest sun-rising? Did not thy hearing strain To catch the moaning of the wind-swept sea, Where great tides be, And swift, white rain? Did not its far exulting teach thy soul That of all things the sea alone is free And under no control? Its liberty,— Was it not most desired by thy soul? I say, The Earth is alway glad, yea, and the sea Is glad alway When the rain cometh; either tranquilly As at the first dawn of a summer day Or in late autumn wildly passionate, Or when all things are all disconsolate Because that Winter has been long their king, Or in the Spring. —Therefore let now your joyful thanksgiving Be heard on Earth because the Rain hath come! While land and sea give praise, shall ye be dumb? Shall ye alone await the sun-shining? Your days, perchance, have many joys to bring; Perchance with woes they shall be burthensome; Yet when night cometh, and ye journey home, Weary, and sore, and stained with travelling, When ye seek out your homes because the night— The last, dark night—falls swift across your path, And on Life’s altar your last day lies slain, Will ye not cry aloud with that new might One dying with great things unfinished hath, "O God! if Thou wouldst only send Thy Rain!" A MEMORY You are not with me though the Spring is here! And yet it seemed to-day as if the Spring Were the same one that in an ancient year Came suddenly upon our wandering. You must remember all that chanced that day. Can you forget the shy awaking call Of the first robin?—And the foolish way The squirrel ran along the low stone wall? The half-retreating sound of water breaking, Hushing, falling; while the pine-laden breeze Told us the tumult many crows were making Amid innumerable distant trees; The certain presence of the birth of things Around, above, beneath, us,—everywhere; The soft return of immemorial Springs Thrilling with life the fragrant forest air; All these were with us then. Can you forget? Or must you—even as I—remember well? To-day, all these were with me, there,—and yet They seemed to have some bitter thing to tell; They looked with questioning eyes, and seemed to wait One’s doubtful coming whom of old they knew; Till, seeing me alone and desolate, They learned how vain was strong desire of you. AMONG THE HILLS Far off, to eastward, I see the wide hill sloping Up to the place where the pines and sky are one; All the hill is gray with its young budding birches And red with its maple-tips and yellow with the sun. Sometimes, over it rolls a purple shadow Of a ragged cloud that wanders in the large, open sky, Born where the ploughed fields border on the river And melting into space where the pines are black and high. There all is quiet; but here where I am waiting, Among the firs behind me the wind is ill at ease; The crows, too, proclaim their old, incessant trouble,— I think there is some battle raging in the surging trees. And yet, should I go down beside the swollen river Where the vagrant timber hurries to the wide untrammelled sea, With the mind and the will to cross the new-born waters And to let the yellow hillside share its peace with me, —I know, then, that surely would come the old spring-fever And touch my sluggish blood with its old eternal fire; Till for me, too, the love of peace were over and forgotten, And the freedom of the logs had become my soul’s desire. TO SUMMER Summer! I praise thee, who art glorious! For now the sudden promise of the Spring Hath been fulfilled in many ways to us, And all live things are thine. Therefore, while all the earth Is glad, and young, and strangely riotous With love of thee, whose blood is even as wine, _I_ dare to sing, Worshipping thee, and thy face welcoming; I, also a lover of thy most wondrous worth. Yet with no scorn of any passed days Come I,—who even in April caught great pleasure,— Making of ancient woes the stronger praise; Nor build I this new crown For my new love’s fair head Of flowers plucked in once oft-travelled ways, And then forgot and utterly cast down; But from the measure Of a strange, undreamt-of, undivided treasure I glean, and thus my love is garlanded. Yea, with a crown such as no other queen That ever ruled on earth wore round her hair, And garments such as man hath never seen! The beauty Heaven hath For thee was magnified; I think the least of thy bright gold and green Once lived along God’s best-beloved path, And angels there Passed by, and gathered those He called most fair, And, at His bidding, dressed thee for Earth’s bride. How at thy coming we were glad again! We who were nigh to death, awaiting thee; And fain of death as one aweary of pain. Life had grown burthensome, Till suddenly we learned The joy the old brown earth has, when the rain Comes, and the earth is glad that it has come: That ecstasy The buds have, when the worn snow sets them free, The sea’s delight when storm-time has returned. O season of the strong triumphant Sun! Bringer of exultation unto all! Behold thy work ere yet thy day be run. Over thy growing grain How the winds rise and cease! Beheld these meadows where thick gold lies spun— There, last night, surely, thy long hair must have lain! Where trees are tall, Hear where young birds hold their high festival; And see where shallow waters know thy peace. Will any of these things ever pain thine eyes, Summer, that thou shouldst go another way Than ours, or shouldst our offerings despise? Come with me further still Where, in sight of the sea, This garden liveth under mellow skies; Of its dear odors drink thine utmost fill, And deign to stay A moment mid its colors’ glad array,— Is not this place a pleasant one for thee? Yea, thou wilt ever stay, I know full well! Why do I fear that thou wilt pass from us? Is not this earth thy home wherein to dwell? The perfect ways thereof Are thy desired ones; Earth hath no voice but of thy worth to tell. Therefore, as one who loves might praise his love, So, even thus, I hail thee, Summer, who art glorious, And know thy reign eternal as the Sun’s! THE PATH Is this the path that knew your tread, Once, when the skies were just as blue As they are now, far overhead? Are these the trees that looked at you And listened to the words you said? Along this moss did your dress sweep? And is this broken stem the one That gave its flower to you to keep? And here where the grasses knew the sun Before a sickle came to reap Did your dear shadow softly fall? This place is very like, and yet No shadow lieth here at all; With dew the mosses still are wet Although the grass no more is tall. The small brown birds go rustling through The low-branched hemlock as of old; The tree-tops almost touch the blue; The sunlight falleth down like gold On one new flower that waiteth you. THE LAST FLOWER O golden-rod, well-worshipped of the sun! Where else hath Summer tarried save in thee? This meadow is a barren thing to see, For here the reapers’ toil is over and done. Of all her many birds there is but one Left to assail the last wild raspberry; The buttercups and daisies withered be, And yet thy reign hath only now begun. O sign of power and sway imperial! O sceptre thrust into the hands of Fall By Summer ere Earth forget her soft foot’s tread! O woman-flower, for love of thee, alas, Even the trees have let their glory pass, And now with thy gold hair are garlanded! AFTER HARVEST O Earth, O Mother, thou hast earned our praise! The long year through thou hast been good to us. Forgive us were we ever mutinous Or unbelieving in thy strange, sure ways. Sometimes, alas, we watched with wild amaze Thy passing, for thou wert imperious Indeed; and our estate seemed perilous, And we as grass the wind unseeing sways. Then, we were blind: the least among us sees, Now, in each well-stripped vine and barren field, Each garden that is fast a-perishing, The promise April surely had revealed Had we had grace to bend our stubborn knees Who seek thee now with humble thanksgiving. HEAT IN SEPTEMBER And why shouldst thou come back to us, July, Who vanished while we prayed thee not to pass? Where are thy sunflowers? Where thine uncut grass? Thy still, blue waters and thy cloudless sky? Surely, to-day thy very self is nigh; Only the wind that bloweth in, alas, Telleth of fire where many a green tree was; And the crimson sun at noonday standeth high. Must I, like him who, seeing once again The long-awaited face of his lost love, Hath little strength to thank the gods above (Remembering most the ancient passion’s pain), Yet striveth to recall the joys thereof,— Must I, like him, beseech thee to remain? ON THE HILLSIDE October’s peace hath fallen on everything. In the far west, above the pine-crowned hill, With red and purple yet the heavens thrill— The passing of the sun remembering. A crow sails by on heavy, flapping wing, (In some land, surely the young Spring hath her will!) Below, the little city lieth still; And on the river’s breast the mist-wreaths cling. Here, on this slope that yet hath known no plough, The cattle wander homeward slowly now; In shapeless clumps the ferns are brown and dead. Among the fir-trees dusk is swiftly born; The maples will be desolate by morn. The last word of the summer hath been said. SUMMER DYING Last night the heavy moaning wind Bore unto me Warning from Him who hath designed That change shall be. Beneath these mighty hills I lay, At rest at last, And thinking on the golden day But now gone past; When softly came a faint, far cry That night made clear, "_Thy reign is over, thou must die;_ _Winter is near!_" "_Winter is near!_" Yea, all night long Reëchoed far The burden of that weary song Of hopeless war. I prayed unto the fixéd King Of changing Time For longer life, till sun-rising And morning’s prime, And while to-day I watched the sun Rise, slant, and die; And now is night the stronger one. Again the cry Comes, louder now,—"_Thy reign is o’er!_" Yes, Lord, I know; And here I kneel on Earth’s cold floor Once, ere I go, And thank Thee for the long, long days Thou gavest me, And all the pleasant, laughing ways I walked with Thee. I have been happy since the first Glad day I rose And found the river here had burst Through ice and snows While I had slept. Blue places were Amidst the gray, Where water showed; and the water Most quiet lay. Upon the ice great flocks of crows Were clamoring— Lest my blue eyes again should close— The eyes of Spring. I stepped down to the frozen shore— The snow was gone; And lo, where ice had been before, The river shone! With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birds To the tall pines; These were the first of Spring’s faint words And Summer’s signs. And now I hear Thee—"_Thou must die!_" Ah, might I stay, That I might hear one robin’s cry Bringing the day; That I might see the new grass come Where cattle range; The maples bud, wild roses bloom, Old willows change; That I might know one night in June Two found most fair, And see again the great half-moon Shine through her hair; Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie, Where orchards are, And hear some glad child’s laughing cry Ring loud and far; Or even, Lord, though near my end It surely be, Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and send One day to me, One day—October’s brown and red Cover the hills, And all the brakes and ferns are dead, And quiet fills One place where many birds once sang? Then should I go Where heavy fir-trees overhang Their branches so, And slim white birches, quivering, Loose yellow leaves, And aspens grow, and everything For Summer grieves. Ah, there once more, ere day be done, To face the west, And see the sure and scarlet sun Sink to its rest Beyond the ploughed field sloping sheer Up to the sky; To feel the last light disappear And silent die; To see faint stars.... Yea, Lord, I come; I hear Thy call; Reach me Thy hand and guide me home, Lest I should fall.... Back, Winter! Back! ... Yea, Lord, I, dead, Now come to Thee; I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said "_Let Winter be!_" A NOVEMBER VIGIL I wonder why my love for him Should grow so much these last three days, While he but stares as if some whim Had been discovered to his gaze; Some foolish whim that brings but shame Whatever time he thinks thereof,— To him my name is now the name Of some old half-forgotten love. And yet I starve for his least kiss And faint because my love is great; I, who am now no more than this,— An unseen beggar at his gate.... _She watched the moon and spake aloud._ _The moon seemed not to rise, but hung_ _Just underneath the long straight cloud_ _That low across the heavens swung,_ _As if to press the old moon back_ _Into its place behind the trees._ _The trees stood where the hill was black;_ _They were not vexed by any breeze._ _The moon was not as it had been_ _Before, when she had watched it rise;_ _It was misshapen now, and thin,_ _As if some trouble in the skies_ _Had happened more than it could bear,_ _Its color, too, was no more red;_ _Nor was it like her yellow hair;—_ _It looked as if its soul were dead._ I, who was once well-loved of him, Am as a beggar by his gate Whereon black carvéd things look grim At one who thinks to penetrate. I do not ask if I may stray Once more in those desired lands; Another night, yet one more day, For these I do not make demands; For when the ripened hour is past Things such as these are asked in vain: His first day’s love,—were that the last I were repaid for this new pain. Out of his love great joy I had For many days; and even now I do not dare to be but glad When I remember, often, how He said he had great joy of me. The while he loved, no man, I think, Exceeded him in constancy; My passion, even, seemed to shrink Almost to nothing, when he came And told me all of love’s strange things: The paths love trod, love’s eyes of flame, Its silent hours, its rapid wings.... _The moon still waited, watching her_ _(The cloud still stretched there, close above;_ _The trees beneath); it could not stir,_ _And yet it seemed the shape thereof,_ _Since she looked first, some change had known._ _In places it had burned away,_ _And one side had much thinner grown;_ _—What light that came from it was gray._ _It was not curved from east to west._ _But lay upon its back; like one_ _Wounded, or weary of some quest,_ _Or by strong enemies undone._ _Elsewhere no stars were in the sky;_ _She knew they were burned out and dead_ _Because no clouds went, drifting by,_ _Across the light the strange moon shed._ Now, I can hope for naught but death. I would not stay to give him pain, Or say the words a woman saith When love hath called aloud in vain And got no answer anywhere. It were far better I should die, And have rough strangers come to bear My body far away, where I Shall know the quiet of the tomb; That they should leave me, with no tears, To think and think within the gloom For many years, for many years. The thought of that strange, narrow place Is hard for me to bear, indeed; I do not fear cold Death’s embrace, And where black worms draw nigh to feed On my white body, then, I know That I shall make no mournful cry: But that I should be hidden so Where I no more may see the sky,— The wide sky filled with many a star, Or all around the yellow sun, Or even the sky where great clouds are That wait until the rain be done, —That is an evil thing for me.... _Across the sky the cloud swung still_ _And pressed the moon down heavily_ _Where leafless trees grew on the hill._ _The pale moon now was very thin._ _There was no water near the place,_ _Else would the moon that slept therein_ _Have frightened her with its gray face._ How shall I wish to see the sky! For that alone mine eyes shall weep; I care not where they make me lie, Nor if my grave be diggéd deep, So they leave loose my coffin’s lid And throw on me no mouldy clay, That the white stars may not be hid: This little thing is all I pray. Then I shall move me wearily, And clasp each bone that was my wrist, Around each slender bony knee; And wind my hair, that once he kissed, Around my body wasted thin, To keep me from the grave’s cold breath; And on my knees rest my poor chin, And think of what I lose by death. I shall be happy, being dead.... _The moon, by now, had nearly gone,_ _As if it knew its time was sped_ _And feared the coming of the dawn._ _It had not risen; one could see_ _The cloud was strong to keep it back;_ _It merely faded utterly,_ _And where it was the sky grew black._ _Till suddenly the east turned gray,_ _Although no stars were overhead;_ _And though the moon had died away,_ _There came faint glimmerings of red;_ _Then larger waves of golden light_ _Heralded that the day was born,_ _And on the furthest eastern height_ _With swift feet came the waited morn._ _With swift feet came the morn, but lo!_ _Just as its triumph was begun,_ _The first wild onset of the snow_ _Strangled the glad imperial sun!_ NUNC DIMITTIS Lord of Love, Thy servant thus doth pray: Abide Thou where my Lady deigns to stay, Yet send Thy peace to lead me on my way; Because the memories of the things that were— That little blessed while with Thee and her— Make me a heavy-hearted traveller. And so, when some plain irks, or some steep hill, I—knowing that Thy will was once our will— Shall be most sure Thou livest with her still, And only waitest—Thou and she alone— Until I know again as I have known The glory that abideth near our throne. BETWEEN THE BATTLES Let us bury him here, Where the maples are red! He is dead, And he died thanking God that he fell with the fall of the leaf and the year. Where the hillside is sheer, Let it echo our tread Whom he led; Let us follow as gladly as ever we followed who never knew fear. Ere he died, they had fled; Yet they heard his last cheer Ringing clear,— When we lifted him up, he would fain have pursued, but grew dizzy instead. Break his sword and his spear! Let this last prayer be said By the bed We have made underneath the wet wind in the maple trees moaning so drear: "O Lord God, by the red Sullen end of the year That is here, We beseech Thee to guide us and strengthen our swords till his slayers be dead!" THE QUIET VALLEY They pity me who have grown old,— So old, mine eyes may not behold If any wolf chance near the fold. They pity me, because, alas! I lie and dream among the grass, And let the herds unheeded pass. They deem I must be sorrowing, Because I note not when the Spring Is over me and everything. They know not why I am forlorn,— How could they know?—They were not born When he rode here that April morn. They were not living when he came Into this valley, swift like flame,— Perchance they have not heard his name! My men were very valiant men— (Alas, that I had only ten! These people were not living then.) But when one is not yet awake His banner is not hard to take, His spears are easy things to break. And dazed men are not hard to slay When many foes, as strong as they, With swords and spears come down their way. This valley now has quiet grown; And I lie here content, alone, Dreaming of things that I have known; And count the mounds of waving grass— (Ten,—yea, and ten more, by the Mass!) And let the restless cattle pass. THE KINGFISHER _Under the sun, the Kingfisher_ _From his high place was watching her._ He knew she came from some far place; For when she threw her body down, She seemed quite tired; and her face Had dust upon it; and her gown, That had been yellow, now was brown. She lay near where the shadows lie At noontime when they meet the sun. The water floated slowly by Her feet. Her hair was all undone, And with the grass its gold was spun. The trees were tall and green behind, And hid the house upon the hill. This place was sheltered from the wind, And all the little leaves were still, And every fern and daffodil. Her face was hidden in her hands; And through the grass, and through her hair, The sunlight found the golden bands About her wrists. (It was aware, Also, that her two arms were bare.) _From his high branch, the Kingfisher_ _Looked down on her and pitied her._ He wondered who that she could be,— This dear, strange lady, who had come To vex him with her misery; And why her days were wearisome, And what far country was her home. Her home must be far off indeed, Wherein such bitter grief could grow. Had there been no one there to plead For her when they had wronged her so? Did none her perfect honor know? Was there no sword or pennoned lance Omnipotent in hall or field For her complete deliverance? To make them cry, "We yield! we yield Were not her colors on some shield? _Had he been there? the Kingfisher,_ _How he had fought and died for her!_ A little yellow bird flew by; And where the water-weeds were still, Hovered a great blue dragon-fly; Small fishes set the streams a-thrill The Kingfisher forgot to kill. He only thought of her who lay Upon the ground and was so fair,— As fair as she who came one day And sat long with her lover there. The same gold sun was in her hair. They had come down, because of love, From the great house on the hillside: This lady had no share thereof, For now this place was sanctified! Had this fair lady’s lover died? Was this dear lady’s lover dead? Had she come here to wait until Her heart and soul were comforted? Why was it not within her will To seek the lady on the hill? She, too, was lonely; for he had Beheld her just this morning, when Her last kiss made her lover glad Who went to fight the heathen-men: (He said he would return again!) That lady would have charity He knew, because her love was great; And this one—fairer even than she— Should enter in her open gate And be no more disconsolate! _Under the sun, the Kingfisher_ _Knew no one else might comfort her._ THE CONQUEROR I will go now where my dear Lady is, And tell her how I won in this great fight; Ye know not death who say this shape is his That loometh up between me and the light. As if death could wish anything of one Who hath to-day brought many men to death! Why should it not grow dark?—Surely the sun Hath seen since morning much that wearieth. Dead bodies; red, red blood upon the land; Torn sails of scattered ships upon the sea; And dead forgotten men stretched on the sand Close to the sea’s edge, where the waves are free; What day hath seen such things and hath not fled? What day hath stayed, hearing, for frequent sounds, The flashing swords of men well-helmeted, The moans of warriors sick of many wounds? Ye know not death; this thing is but the night. Wherefore I should be glad that it is come: For when I left my Lady for this fight, I said, "At sunset I am coming home." "When you return, I shall be here," she said, "God knows that I must pray a little while." And as she put my helmet on my head, She kissed me; and her blue eyes tried to smile. And still she waiteth underneath the trees. (When we had gone a little on our way I turned and looked; she knelt there on her knees: I heard her praying many times to-day.) Nay, nay, I need no wine! She waiteth still Watching and praying till I come to her. She saw the sun drop down behind the hill And wondereth I am a loiterer. So I must go. Bring me my shield and sword! (Is there no unstained grass will clean this stain?) This day is won;—but now the great reward Cometh! O Love, thy prayers were not in vain! I am well rested now.—Nay, I can rise Without your help! Why do ye look at me With so much pain and pity in your eyes, Who gained with me to-day this victory? I think we should be glad we are not dead, —Only, perchance, no Lady waiteth you, No Lady who is all uncomforted, And who hath watched and prayed these long hours through. Yea, I must go.—What? Am I tired yet? Let me lie here and rest my aching side. The thought of her hath made me quite forget How sharp his sword was just before he died. THE KING’S HOSTEL Let us make it fit for him! He will come ere many hours Are passed over. Strew these flowers Where the floor is hard and bare! Ever was his royal whim That his place of rest were fair. Such a narrow little room! Think you he will deign to use it? Yes, we know he would not choose it Were there any other near; Here there is such damp and gloom, And such quietness is here. That he loved the light, we know; And we know he was the gladdest Always when the mirth was maddest And the laughter drowned the song; When the fire’s shade and glow Fell upon the loyal throng. Yet it may be, if he come, Now, to-night, he will be tired; And no more will be desired All the music once he knew; He will joy the lutes are dumb And be glad the lights are few. Heard you how the fight has gone? Surely it will soon be ended! Was their stronghold well defended Ere it fell before his might? Did it yield soon after dawn, Or when noon was at its height? Hark! his trumpet! It is done. Smooth the bed. And for a cover Drape those scarlet colors over; And upon these dingy walls Hang what banners he has won. Hasten ere the twilight falls! They are here!—We knew the best When we set us to prepare him Such a place; for they that bear him —They as he—seem weary too; Peace! and let him have his rest; There is nothing more to do. BETWEEN THE WINTER AND THE SPRING Between the Winter and the Spring One came to me at dead of night; I heard him well as any might, Although his lips, unmurmuring. Made no sweet sounds for my delight; Also, I knew him, though long days (It seemed) had fallen across my ways Since I had felt his comforting. It was quite dark, but I could see His hair was yellow as the sun; And his soft garments, every one, Were white as angels’ throats may be; And as some man whose pain is done At last, and peace is surely his, His eyes were perfect with great bliss And seemed so glad to look at me. I knew that he had come to bring The change that I was waiting for, And, as he crossed my rush-strewn floor, I had no thought of questioning; And then he kissed me, o’er and o’er, Upon the eyes; so I fell Asleep unfrightened,—knowing well That morning would fulfil the Spring. And when they came at early morn And found that I at last was dead, Some two or three knelt by my bed And prayed for one they deemed forlorn; But he they wept for only said (Thinking of when the old days were), "Alas that God had need of her The very morning Spring was born!" THE MOTHER The long dark night crawled slowly on; I waited patiently, Knowing at last the sudden dawn, Sometime, would surely be. It came,—to tell me everything Was Winter’s quiet slave: I waited still, aware that Spring Was strong to come and save. And then Spring came, and I was glad A few expectant hours; Until I learned the things I had Were only withered flowers Because there came not with the Spring As in the ancient days— The sound of his feet pattering Along Spring’s open ways; Because his sweetly serious eyes Looked into mine no more; Because no more in childish-wise He brought his gathered store Of dandelions to my bed, And violets and grass,— Deeming I would be comforted That Spring had come to pass. And now these unused toys and I Have little dread or care For any season that drifts by The silences we share; And sometimes, when we think to pray, Across the vacant years We see God watching him at play And pitying our tears. THE WINDOW OF DREAMS It was quite dark within the room Wherein the Lady Alice sat; One had not seen, who looked thereat, The gathered dust upon her loom, There was such gloom. And though the hangings on the wall Were wrought so well and cunningly That many had come far to see Their glory once (for they were all Of cardinal, And gold, and silk, and curious glass) The ladies with the long red hair Thereon, the strong men fighting there, The little river edged with grass,— Were now, alas, As if they had been always gray. Likewise the lily, whose perfume Had once been over all the room, In which dark corner now it lay,— What man might say? She did not see these things, or know That they had changed since she had seen. She liked it best to sit between Two little firs (they used to grow, Once, long ago!) That stood each in an earthen pot Upon the window’s either side. They had been green before they died, But like the rest fell out their lot,— To be forgot. Yet what cared she for such as these, Whose window was toward the sun At sun-rising? There was not one Of them so strong and sure to please, Or bring her ease, As what she saw when she looked through Her window just before the dawn. These were the sights she gazed upon: _Sir John, whose silken pennon flew,_ _Yellow and blue,_ _And proud to be upon his lance;_ _The horse he rode being gray and white;_ _A few men, unafraid to fight,_ _Followed (there were some men in France_ _Were brave, perchance!)_ _And they were armed with swords and spears;_ _Their horses, too, were mostly gray._ _—They seemed not sad to go away,_ _For they were men had lost their fears_ _With their child-years._ _They had such hope, there was but one_ _Looked back: Sir John had strength to look._ _His men saw not that his lance shook_ _A little, for though night was done,_ _There was no sun._ _And so they rode into the dawn_ _That waited just behind the hill;_ _(In France there were some men to kill!)_ These were the things she looked upon Till they were gone. * * * * * The room was dark, and full of fear; And so the Lady Alice stayed Beside the window. Here she prayed Each morning, and when night drew near, Year after year. Beside her lay some unused things: A trumpet that had long been mute; A vellum book; a little lute That once had ten unrusted strings; And four gold rings; A piece of faded cloth-of-gold; And three black pennies that were white As silver once:—the great delight She had of all these things of old Was now quite cold. Only the things that she could see Out of the window gladdened her; After the morning, those things were _A ship that rode triumphantly_ (This sight would be Plainest a little ere the noon) _On wide blue waters, with the wind_ _Strong from the west that lay behind;_ _Its sail curved like a slender moon,_ _Born into June._ _An empty ship beside the shore_ _Of some unconquered foreign land;_ _Some brave men fighting on the sand_ _As they had never fought before_ _In any war;_ _A few men fleeing to the hills_ (This came a little after noon), _God, but the fight was ended soon!_ _They were not hard to wound and kill!_ _A trumpet shrill_ _Echoes, and many knights pursue!_ _And on the hillside dead men lie,_ _Who learned before they came to die_ _The yellow flags the victors flew_ _Were crossed with blue!_ * * * * * No wonder that this window-place Could make the Lady Alice glad, When sights like these were what she had! Yet there was one that made her face For a little space Grow like a face that God has known. I think she was the happiest When the sun dropped into the west; This was the thing she then was shown, And this alone: _A laden ship that followed fast_ _The way the setting sun had led;_ _In the east wind her great sail spread;_ _A brave knight standing near the mast;_ _The shore at last!_ Of all things, this the best did seem. And now the gathering darkness fell; The morn would bring him, she knew well; She slept; and in her sleep, I deem, She had one dream. * * * * * Against the window-side she slept. This window-place was very strange; Since it was made it had known change. Beneath it once no women wept, And no vines crept And twisted in the broken glass. Some time ago, the little tree That she had planted tenderly Was not much higher than tall grass; But now, alas, Its branches were the greatest where Her window looked toward the sun. One branch, indeed, its way had won Into her room,—it did not bear Green leaves in here. Above the window, and inside, Great spider-webs were spun across. Where stone was, there was wet green moss Wherein small creeping things did hide Until they died. The leaves that looked toward the room Were hardly anything but veins; They had been wasted by the rains, Like some dead naked girl in the gloom Of some old tomb. But those outside were broad and green, And lived between the sun and shade. A perfect bower they had made,— Beneath them there should sit some queen, Born to be seen! * * * * * It was quite dark within the place Wherein the Lady Alice slept. I heard the girls below who wept, But God did not (of His good grace) Show me her face. THE RELIEF OF WET WILLOWS _Now this is the ballad of seven men_ _Who rode to Wet Willows and back again._ It was only an hour before the dawn When they deemed it best to awaken Sir John. For they knew his sword long years had hung On the wall, unhandled. (Once he was young,— They did not remember; the tale had been told To them by their fathers, ere they grew old— And then his sword was a dreaded thing When the men from the North came a-warfaring!) But the women said that the things they knew Were best made known to their master, too: How, down at Wet Willows, there lay on the ground Some men who were dead and some who were bound And unable to succor the women who wept That the North-King had come while their warriors slept. * * * * * So it came to pass, with the wind of the dawn, Six men with their armor girded on Had ridden around to the Eastern gate; It was there that Sir John had told them to wait. And when he came they were unafraid, And knew no envy for those who stayed Where the walls of the castle were strong and high; There were none save some women to bid them good-by, And they saw, as the sky in the East grew gray, That Sir John and his men were some miles on their way. * * * * * _These things were heard and seen by the sun_ _When noon at Wet Willows was nearly done._ After the battle, the King from the North Bade his men lead the seven horses forth, And bind, one on each, the Southern man Who had dared to ride it when day began. The words that the Northern King had said Sir John and his men heard not, being dead; (Nor heard they the sobs of the women who knew That Sir John’s son’s son in the East was true To the cross that was white on the shield that he had); Nor knew they their home-going horses were glad; Nor did they remember the trees by the way, Or the streams that they crossed, or the dead leaves that lay By the roadside. And when the moon rose, red and near, They saw not its splendor; no more did they hear The wind that was moaning from hill unto hill: Their leader,—his will was his horse’s will. * * * * * In the Eastern sky faint streaks of gray Were changed to red, and it was day. The women had waited all night long Where the castle tower was high and strong; And now, at last, they beheld Sir John, And his men, and the horses they rode upon, Just crossing the brow of the nearest hill. The women’s cries rose loud and shrill, And in their joy they pitied not, The men Sir John and his men had fought And slain at Wet Willows. (Sir John was not young They knew well; but the might of his sword as it swung, In the old fighting days, was a thing they well knew,— A shield was but glass as it clove its way through!) * * * * * So they who had waited and watched and prayed The long night through were no more afraid To open the gate,—for Sir John and his men Who had fought at Wet Willows were home again. THE BUILDER Come and let me make thee glad In this house that I have made! No where (I am unafraid!) Canst thou find its like on Earth: Come, and learn the perfect worth Of the labor I have had. I have fashioned it for thee, Every room and pictured wall; Every marble pillar tall, Every door and window-place; All were done that thy fair face Might look kindlier on me. Here, moreover, thou shalt find Strange, delightful, far-brought things: Dulcimers, whose tightened strings, Once, dead women loved to touch; (Deeming they could mimic much Of the music of the wind!) Heavy candlesticks of brass; Chess-men carved of ivory; Mass-books written perfectly By some patient monk of old; Flagons wrought of thick, red gold, Set with gems and colored glass; Burnished armor, once some knight (Dead, I deem, long wars ago!) Its great strength was glad to know When his Lady needed him: (Now that both his eyes are dim Both his sword and shield are bright!) Come, and share these things with me, Men have died to leave to us! We shall find life glorious In this splendid house of love; Come, and claim thy part thereof,— I have fashioned it for thee! TE DEUM LAUDAMUS I will praise God alway for each new year, Knowing that it shall be most worthy of His kindness and His pity and His love I will wait patient, till, from sphere to sphere, Across large times and spaces, ringeth clear The voice of Him who sitteth high above, Saying, "Behold! thou hast had pain enough; Come; for thy Love is waiting for thee here!" I know that it must happen as God saith. I know it well. Yet, also, I know well That where birds sing and yellow wild-flowers dwell, Or where some strange new sunset lingereth, All Earth shall alway of her presence tell Who liveth not for me this side of death. 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