Many Voices

E. Nesbit

Many Voices: Poems

THE RETURN

The grass was gray with the moonlit dew,The stones were white as I came through;I came down the path by the thirteen yews,Through the blocks of shade that the moonlight hews.And when I came to the high lych-gateI waited awhile where the corpses wait;Then I came down the road where the moonlight layLike the fallen ghost of the light of day.The bats shrieked high in their zigzag flight,The owls’ spread wings were quiet and white,The wind and the poplar gave sigh for sigh,And all about were the rustling shyLittle live creatures that love the night—Little wild creatures timid and free.I passed, and they were not afraid of me.It was over the meadow and down the laneThe way to come to my house again:Through the wood where the lovers talk,And the ghosts, they say, get leave to walk.I wore the clothes that we all must wear,And no one saw me walking there,No one saw my pale feet passBy my garden path to my garden grass.My garden was hung with the veil of spring—Plum-tree and pear-tree blossoming;It lay in the moon’s cold sheet of lightIn garlands and silence, wondrous and whiteAs a dead bride decked for her burying.Then I saw the face of my houseHeld close in the arms of the blossomed boughs:I leaned my face to the window brightTo feel if the heart of my house beat right.The firelight hung it with fitful gold;It was warm as the house of the dead is cold.I saw the settles, the candles tall,The black-faced presses against the wall,Polished beechwood and shining brass,The gleam of china, the glitter of glass,All the little things that were home to me—Everything as it used to be.Then I said, “The fire of life still burns,And I have returned whence none returns:I will warm my hands where the fire is lit,I will warm my heart in the heart of it!”So I called aloud to the one within:“Open, open, and let me in!Let me in to the fire and the light—It is very cold out here in the night!”There was never a stir or an answering breath—Only a silence as deep as death.Then I beat on the window, and called, and cried.No one heard me, and none replied.The golden silence lay warm and deep,And I wept as the dead, forgotten, weep;And there was no one to hear or see—To comfort me, to have pity on me.But deep in the silence something stirred—Something that had not seen or heard—And two drew near to the window-pane,Kissed in the moonlight and kissed again,And looked, through my face, to the moon-shroud, spreadOver the garlanded garden bed;And—“How ghostly the moonlight is!” she said.Back through the garden, the wood, the lane,I came to mine own place again.I wore the garments we all must wear,And no one saw me walking there.No one heard my thin feet passThrough the white of the stones and the gray of the grass,Along the path where the moonlight hewsSlabs of shadow for thirteen yews.In the hollow where drifted dreams lie deepIt is good to sleep: it was good to sleep:But my bed has grown cold with the drip of the dew,And I cannot sleep as I used to do.

FOR DOLLY

WHO DOES NOT LEARN HER LESSONSYou see the fairies dancing in the fountain,   Laughing, leaping, sparkling with the spray;You see the gnomes, at work beneath the mountain,   Make gold and silver and diamonds every day;You see the angels, sliding down the moonbeams,   Bring white dreams like sheaves of lilies fair;You see the imps, scarce seen against the moonbeams,   Rise from the bonfire’s blue and liquid air.All the enchantment, all the magic there is   Hid in trees and blossoms, to you is plain and true.Dewdrops in lupin leaves are jewels for the fairies;   Every flower that blows is a miracle for you.Air, earth, water, fire, spread their splendid wares for you.   Millions of magics beseech your little looks;Every soul your winged soul meets, loves you and cares for you.   Ah! why must we clip those wings and dim those eyes with books?Soon, soon enough the magic lights grow dimmer,   Marsh mists arise to cloud the radiant sky,Dust of hard highways will veil the starry glimmer,   Tired hands will lay the folded magic by.Storm winds will blow through those enchanted closes,   Fairies be crushed where weed and briar grow strong . . .Leave her her crown of magic stars and roses,   Leave her her kingdom—she will not keep it long!

QUESTIONS

What do the roses do, mother,   Now that the summer’s done?They lie in the bed that is hung with red   And dream about the sun.What do the lilies do, mother,   Now that there’s no more June?Each one lies down in her white nightgown   And dreams about the moon.What can I dream of, mother,   With the moon and the sun away?Of a rose unborn, of an untried thorn,   And a lily that lives a day!

THE DAISIES

In the great green park with the wooden palings—The wooden palings so hard to climb,There are fern and foxglove, primrose and violet,And green things growing all the time;And out in the open the daisies grow,Pretty and proud in their proper places,Millions of white-frilled daisy faces,Millions and millions—not one or two.And they call to the bluebells down in the wood:“Are you out—are you in?  We have been so goodAll the school-time winter through,But now it’s playtime,The gay time, the May time;We are out and at play.  Where are you?”In the gritty garden inside the railings,The spiky railings all painted green,There are neat little beds of geraniums and fuchsiaWith never a happy weed between.There’s a neat little grass plot, bald in places,And very dusty to touch;A respectable man comes once a weekTo keep the garden weeded and swept,To keep it as we don’t want it kept.He cuts the grass with his mowing-machine,And we think he cuts it too much.But even on the lawn, all dry and gritty,The daisies play about.They are so brave as well as so pretty,You cannot keep them out.I love them, I want to let them grow,But that respectable man says no.He cuts off their heads with his mowing-machineLike the French Revolution guillotine.He sweeps up the poor little pretty faces,The dear little white-frilled daisy faces;Says things must be kept in their proper placesHe has no frill round his ugly face—I wish I could find his proper place!

THE TOUCHSTONE

There was a garden, very strange and fair   With all the roses summer never brings.   The snowy blossom of immortal SpringsLighted its boughs, and I, even I, was there.   There were new heavens, and the earth was new,   And still I told my heart the dream was true.But when the sun stood still, and Time went out   Like a blown candle—when she came to me   Under the bride-veil of the blossomed tree,Chill through the garden blew the winds of doubt,   And when, with starry eyes, and lips too near,   She leaned to me, my heart knew what to fear.“It is no dream,” she said.  “What dream had stayed   So long?  It is the blessed isle that lies   Between the tides of twin eternities.It is our island; do not be afraid!”   Then, then at last my heart was well deceived;   I hid my eyes; I trembled and believed.Her real presence sanctified my faith,   Her very voice my restless fears beguiled,   And it was Life that clasped me when she smiled,But when she said “I love you!” it was Death.   That, that at least could neither be nor seem—   Oh, then, indeed, I knew it was a dream!

THE DECEMBER ROSE

Here’s a rose that blows for Chloe,   Fair as ever a rose in June was,Now the garden’s silent, snowy,   Where the burning summer noon was.In your garden’s summer glory   One poor corner, shelved and shady,Told no rosy, radiant story,   Grew no rose to grace its lady.What shuts sun out shuts out snow too;   From his nook your secret loverShows what slighted roses grow to   When the rose you chose is over.

THE FIRE

I was picking raspberries, my head was in the canes,And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his pains.Says he, “You take it easy!  That ain’t the way to do!I love you hot as fire, my girl, and you know you know it too.So won’t you name the day?”But I said, “That I will not.”And I pushed him away,Out among the raspberries all on a summer day.And I says, “You ask in winter, if your love’s so hot,For it’s summer now, and sunny, and my hands is full,” says I,“With the fair by and by,And the village dance and all;And the turkey poults is small,And so’s the ducks and chicks,And the hay not yet in ricks,And the flower-show’ll be presently and hop-picking’s to come,And the fruiting and the harvest home,And my new white gown to make, and the jam all to be done.Can’t you leave a girl alone?Your love’s too hot for me!Can’t you leave a girl beTill the evenings do draw in,Till the leaves be getting thin,Till the fires be lighted early, and the curtains drawed for tea?That’s the time to do your courting, if you come a-courting me!”And he took it as I said it, an’ not as it was meant.And he went.The hay was stacked, the fruit was picked, the hops were dry and brown,And everything was garnered, and the year turned upside down,And the winter it come on, and the fires were early lit,And he’d never come anigh again, and all my life was sick.And I was cold alone, with nought to do but sitWith my hands in my black lap, and hear the clock tick.For father, he lay deadWith the candles at his head,And his coffin was that black I could see it through the wall;And I’d sent them all away,Though they’d offered for to stay.I wanted to be cold alone, and learn to bear it all.Then I heard him.  I’d a-known it for his footstep just as plainIf he’d brought his regiment with him up the rutty frozen lane.And I hadn’t drawed the curtains, and I see him through the pane;And I jumped up in my blacks and I threw the door back wide.Says I, “You come inside;For it’s cold outside for you,And it’s cold here too;And I haven’t no more pride—It’s too cold for that,” I cried.Then I saw in his faceThe fear of death, and desire.And oh, I took and kissed him again and again,And I clipped him close and all,In the winter, in the dusk, in the quiet house-place,With the coffin lying black and full the other side the wall;And “You warm my heart,” I told him, “if there’s any fire in men!”And he got his two arms round me, and I felt the fire then.And I warmed my heart at the fire.

SONG

Now the Spring is waking,   Very shy as yet,Busy mending, making   Grass and violet.Frowsy Winter’s over:   See the budding lane!Go and meet your lover:   Spring is here again!Every day is longer   Than the day before;Lambs are whiter, stronger,   Birds sing more and more;Woods are less than shady,   Griefs are more than vain—Go and kiss your lady:   Spring is here again!

A PARTING

         So good-bye!This is where we end it, you and I.Life’s to live, you know, and death’s to die;         So good-bye!         I was yoursFor the love in life that loves while life endures,For the earth-path that the Heaven-flight ensures         I was yours.         You were mineFor the moment that a garland takes to twine,For the human hour that sorcery shews divine         You were mine.         All is over.You and I no more are love and lover;Nought’s to seek now, gain, attain, discover.         All is over.

THE GIFT OF LIFE

Life is a night all dark and wild,   Yet still stars shine:This moment is a star, my child—   Your star and mine.Life is a desert dry and drear,   Undewed, unblest;This hour is an oasis, dear;   Here let us rest.Life is a sea of windy spray,   Cold, fierce and free:An isle enchanted is to-day   For you and me.Forget night, sea, and desert: take   The gift supreme,And, of life’s brief relenting, make   A deathless dream.

INCOMPATIBILITIES

If you loved me I could trust you to your fancy’s furthest boundWhile the sun shone and the wind blew, and the world went round,To the utmost of the meshes of the devil’s strongest net . . .If you loved me, if you loved me—but you do not love me yet!I love you—and I cannot trust you further than the door!But winds and worlds and seasons change, and you will love me moreAnd more—until I trust you, dear, as women do trust men—I shall trust you, I shall trust you, but I shall not love you then!

THE STOLEN GOD

LAZARUS TO DIVESWe do not clamour for vengeance,   We do not whine for fear;We have cried in the outer darkness   Where was no man to hear.We cried to man and he heard not;   Yet we thought God heard us pray;But our God, who loved and was sorry—   Our God is taken away.Ours were the stream and the pasture,   Forest and fen were ours;Ours were the wild wood-creatures,   The wild sweet berries and flowers.You have taken our heirlooms from us,   And hardly you let us saveEnough of our woods for a cradle,   Enough of our earth for a grave.You took the wood and the cornland,   Where still we tilled and felled;You took the mine and quarry,   And all you took you held.The limbs of our weanling children   You crushed in your mills of power;And you made our bearing women toil   To the very bearing hour.You have taken our clean quick longings,   Our joy in lover and wife,Our hope of the sunset quiet   At the evening end of life;You have taken the land that bore us,   Its soil and stone and sod;You have taken our faith in each other—   And now you have taken our God.When our God came down from Heaven   He came among men, a Man,Eating and drinking and working   As common people can;And the common people received Him   While the rich men turned away.But what have we to do with a God   To whom the rich men pray?He hangs, a dead God, on your altars,   Who lived a Man among men,You have taken away our Lord   And we cannot find Him again.You have not left us a handful   Of even the earth He trod . . .You have made Him a rich man’s idol   Who came as a poor man’s God.He promised the poor His heaven,   He loved and lived with the poor;He said that the rich man’s shadow   Should never darken His door:But bishops and priests lie softly,   Drink full and are fully fedIn the Name of the Lord, who had not   Where to lay His head.This is the God you have stolen,   As you steal all else—in His name.You have taken the ease and the honour,   Left us the toil and the shame.You have chosen the seat of Dives,   We lie where Lazarus lay;But, by God, we will not yield you our God,   You shall not take Him away.All else we had you have taken;   All else, but not this, not this.The God of Heaven is ours, is ours,   And the poor are His, are His.Is He ours?  Is He yours?  Give answer!   For both He cannot be.And if He is ours—O you rich men,   Then whose, in God’s name, are ye?

WINTER

Hold your hands to the blaze;   Winter is hereWith the short cold days,   Bleak, keen and drear.Was there ever a dayWith hawthorn along the wayWhere you wandered in mild mid-May   With your dear?That was when you were young   And the world was gold;Now all the songs are sung,   The tales all told.You shiver now by the fireWhere the last red sparks expire;Dead are delight and desire:   You are old.

SEA-SHELLS

I gathered shells upon the sand,   Each shell a little perfect thing,So frail, yet potent to withstand   The mountain-waves’ wild buffeting.Through storms no ship could dare to braveThe little shells float lightly, saveAll that they might have lost of fineShape and soft colour crystalline.Yet I amid the world’s wild surge   Doubt if my soul can face the strife,The waves of circumstance that urge   That slight ship on the rocks of life.O soul, be brave, for He who savesThe frail shell in the giant waves,Will bring thy puny bark to landSafe in the hollow of His hand.

HOPE

O thrush, is it true?   Your song tellsOf a world born anew,Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue   With hyacinth bells;Of primroses deep   In the moss of the lane,Of a Princess asleepAnd dear magic to do.Will the sun wake the princess?  O thrush, is it true?   Will Spring come again?Will Spring come again?   Now at lastWith soft shine and rainWill the violet be sweet where the dead leaves have lain?   Will Winter be past?In the brown of the copse   Will white wind-flowers star throughWhere the last oak-leaf drops?   Will the daisies come too,And the may and the lilac?  Will Spring come again?   O thrush, is it true?

THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN

I reach my hand to thee!   Stoop; take my hand in thine;Lead me where I would be,   Father divine.I do not even knowThe way I want to go,   The way that leads to rest:But, Thou who knowest me,Lead where I cannot see,   Thou knowest best.Toys, worthless, yet desired,   Drew me afar to roam.Father, I am so tired;   I am come home.The love I held so cheapI see, so dear, so deep,   So almost understood.Life is so cold and wild,I am thy little child—   I will be good.

THE SKYLARK

“. . . a dripping shower of notes from the softening blue.  It is the skylark come.”—Robert à Field, in the New Age.

“It is the skylark come.”  For shame!Robert-à-Cockney is thy name:Robert-à-Field would surely knowThat skylarks, bless them, never go!Love of my life, bear witness hereHow we have heard them all the year;How to the skylark’s song are setThe days we never can forget.At Rustington, do you remember?We heard the skylarks in December;In January above the snowThey sang to us by HurstmonceuxOnce in the keenest airs of MarchWe heard them near the Marble Arch;Their April song thrilled Tonbridge air;May found them singing everywhere;And oh, in Sheppey, how their tuneRhymed with the bean-flower scent in June.One unforgotten day at RyeThey sang a love-song in July;In August, hard by Lewes town,They sang of joy ’twixt sky and down;And in September’s golden spellWe heard them singing on Scaw Fell.October’s leaves were brown and sere,But skylarks sang by Teston Weir;And in November, at Mount’s Bay,They sang upon our wedding day!Mr.-à-Field, go forth, go forth,Go east and west and south and north;You’ll always find the furze in flower,Find every hour the lovers’ hour,And, by my faith in love and rhyme,The skylark singing all the time!

SATURDAY SONG

They talk about gardens of roses,   And moonlight over the sea,And mountains and snowAnd sunsetty glow,   But I know what is best for me.The prettiest sight I know,   Worth all your roses and snow,Is the blaze of light on a Saturday night,   When the barrows are set in a row.I’ve heard of bazaars in India   All glitter and spices and smells,But they don’t compareWith the naphtha flare   And the herrings the coster sells;And the oranges piled like gold,The cucumbers lean and cold,And the red and white block-trimmings   And the strawberries fresh and ripe,And the peas and beans,And the sprouts and greens,   And the ’taters and trotters and tripe.And the shops where they sell the chairs,   The mangles and tables and bedding,And the lovers go by in pairs,   And look—and think of the wedding.And your girl has her arm in yours,   And you whisper and make her blush.Oh! the snap in her eyes—and her smiles and her sighs   As she fancies the purple plush!And you haven’t a penny to spend,   But you dream that you’ve pounds and pounds;And arm in arm with your only friend   You make your Saturday rounds:And you see the cradle bright   With ribbon—lace—pink and white;And she stops her laughAnd you drop your chaff   In the light of the Saturday night.And the world is newFor her and you—   A little bit of all-right.

THE CHAMPION

Young and a conqueror, once on a day,Wild white Winter rode out this way;With his sword of ice and his banner of snowVanquished the Summer and laid her low.Winter was young then, young and strong;Now he is old, he has reigned too long.He shall be routed, he shall be slain;Summer shall come to her own again!See the champion of Summer wakeLittle armies in field and brake:“Cruel and cold has King Winter been;Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!”First the aconite dots the mouldWith little round cannon-balls of gold;Then, to help in the winter’s rout,Regiments of crocuses march out.See the swords of the flag-leaves shine;See the shield of the celandine,And daffodil lances green and keen,To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen.Silver triumphant the snowdrop swingsBanners that mock at defeated kings;And wherever the green of the new grass peers,See the array of victorious spears.Daffodil trumpets soon shall soundOver the garden’s battle-ground,And lovely ladies crowd out to seeThe long procession of victory.Little daisies with snowy frills,Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils,Primrose and cowslip, friends well metWith white wood-sorrel and violet.Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold;Thousands of buttercups licked with gold;Budding hedges and woods and trees—Spring brings freedom and life to these.Then the triumphant Spring shall rideOver the happy countryside;Deep in the woods the birds shall sing:“The King is dead—long live the King!”But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight;He will ride on through the meadows brightTill at Summer’s feet he shall light him downAnd lay at her feet the royal crown.She will lean down where the roses twineBetween the may-trees’ silver shine,And look in the eyes of the dying knightWho led his army and won her fight.She will stoop to his lips and say,“Oh, live, O love!  O my true love, stay!”While he smiles and sighs her arms betweenAnd dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.

THE GARDEN REFUSED

There is a garden made for our delight,   Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true.      I know it, but I do not know the way.We slip and tumble in the doubtful night,   Where everything is difficult and new,      And clouds our breath has made obscure the day.The blank unhappy towns, where sick men strive,   Still doing work that yet is never done;      The hymns to Gold that drown their desperate voice;The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive,   The black injustice that puts out the sun:      These are our portion, since they are our choice.Yet there the garden blows with rose on rose,   The sunny, shadow-dappled lawns are there;      There the immortal lilies, heavenly sweet.O roses, that for us shall not unclose!   O lilies, that we shall not pluck or wear!      O dewy lawns untrodden by our feet!

THESE LITTLE ONES

“What of the garden I gave?”   God said to me;“Hast thou been diligent to foster and save   The life of flower and tree?How have the roses thriven,The lilies I have given,The pretty scented miracles that SpringAnd Summer come to bring?“My garden is fair and dear,”   I said to God;“From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.   Green-trimmed its sod.The rose is red and bright,The lily a live delight;I have not lost a flower of all the flowersThat blessed my hours.”“What of the child I gave?”   God said to me;“The little, little one I died to save   And gave in trust to thee?How have the flowers grownThat in its soul were sown,The lovely living miracles of youthAnd hope and joy and truth?”“The child’s face is all white,”   I said to God;“It cries for cold and hunger in the night:   Its little feet have trodThe pavement muddy and cold.It has no flowers to hold,And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.”“Thou fool!” God said.

THE DESPOT

The garden mould was damp and chill;Winter had had his brutal willSince over all the year’s contentHis devastating legions went.The Spring’s bright banners came: there wokeMillions of little growing folkWho thrilled to know the winter done,Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun.Not so the elect; reserved, and slowTo trust a stranger-sun and grow,They hesitated, cowered and hid,Waiting to see what others did.Yet even they, a little, grew,Put out prim leaves to day and dew,And lifted level formal headsIn their appointed garden beds.The gardener came: he coldly lovedThe flowers that lived as he approved,That duly, decorously grewAs he, the despot, meant them to.He saw the wildlings flower more braveAnd bright than any cultured slave;Yet, since he had not set them there,He hated them for being fair.So he uprooted, one by one,The free things that had loved the sun,The happy, eager, fruitful seedsWho had not known that they were weeds.

THE MAGIC RING

Your touch on my hand is fire,   Your lips on my lips are flowers.My darling, my one desire,   Dear crown of my days and hours.Dear crown of each hour and day   Since ever my life began.Ah! leave me—ah! go away—   We two are woman and man.To lie in your arms and see   The stars melt into the sun;Till there is no you and me,   Since you and I are one.To loose my soul to your breath,   To bare my heart to your life—It is death, it is death, it is death!   I am not your wife.The hours will come and will go,   But never again such an hourWhen the tides immortal flow   And life is a flood, a flower . . .Wait for the ring; it is strong,   It has a magic of mightTo make all that was splendid and wrong   Sordid and right.