Song-Surf

"Give me a little childTo draw this dreary want out of my breast,"I cried to God."Give, for my days beat wildWith loneliness that will not restBut under the still sod!"It came – with groping lipsAnd little fingers stealing aimlesslyAbout my heart.I was like one who slipsA-sudden into EcstasyAnd thinks ne'er to depart."Soon he will smile," I said,"And babble baby love into my ears —How it will thrill!"I waited – Oh, the dread,The clutching agony, the fears! —He was so strange and still.Did I curse God and raveWhen they came shrinkingly to tell me 'twasA witless child?No … I … I only gaveOne cry … just one … I think … because …You know … he never smiled.

THE WINDS

The East Wind is a Bedouin,And Nimbus is his steed;Out of the dusk with the lightning's thinBlue scimitar he flies afar,Whither his rovings lead.The Dead Sea wavesAnd Egypt cavesOf mummied silence laughWhen he mounts to quench the Siroc's stenchAnd to wrenchFrom his clutch the tyrant's staff.The West Wind is an Indian braveWho scours the Autumn's crest.Dashing the forest down as a slave,He tears the leaves from its limbs and weavesA maelstrom for his breast.Out of the nightCrying to frightThe earth he swoops to spoil —There is furious scathe in the whirl of his wrath,In his pathThere is misery and moil.The North Wind is a Viking – coldAnd cruel, armed with death!Born in the doomful deep of the oldIce Sea that froze ere Ymir roseFrom Niflheim's ebon breath.And with him sailSnow, Frost, and Hail,Thanes mighty as their lord,To plunder the shores of Summer's stores —And his roar'sLike the sound of Chaos' horde.The South Wind is a Troubadour;The Spring 's his serenade.Over the mountain, over the moor,He blows to bloom from the winter's tombBlossom and leaf and blade.He ripples the throatOf the lark with a noteOf lilting love and bliss,And the sun and the moon, the night and the noon,Are a-swoon —When he woos them with his kiss.

TRANSCENDED

I who was learnèd in death's loreOft held her to my heartAnd spoke of days when we should love no more —In the long dust, apart."Immortal?" No – it could not be,Spirit with flesh must die.Tho' heart should pray and hope make endless plea,Reason would still outcry.She died. They wrapped her in the dust —I heard the dull clod's dole,And then I knew she lived – that death's dark lustCould never touch her soul!

LOVE'S WAY TO CHILDHOOD

We are not lovers, you and I,Upon this sunny lane,But children who have never knownLove's joy or pain.The trees we pass, the summer brook,The bird that o'er us darts —We do not know 'tis they that thrillOur childish hearts.The earth-things have no name for us,The ploughing means no moreThan that they like to walk the fieldsWho plough them o'er.The road, the wood, the heaven, the hillsAre not a World to-day —But just a place God's made for usIn which to play.

AUTUMN

I know her not by fallen leavesOr resting heaps of hay;Or by the sheathing mists of mauveThat soothe the fiery day.I know her not by plumping nuts,By redded hips and haws,Or by the silence hanging sadUnder the wind's sere pause.But by her sighs I know her well —They are like Sorrow's breath;And by this longing, strangely still,For something after death.

SHINTO

(Miyajima, Japan, 1905)Lowly temple and torii,Shrine where the spirits of wind and waveFind the worship and glory weGive to the one God great and grave —Lowly temple and torii,Shrine of the dead, I hang my prayerHere on your gates – the story seeAnd answer out of the earth and air.For I am Nature's child, and youWere by the children of Nature built.Ages have on you smiled – and dewOn you for ages has been spilt —Till you are beautiful as TimeMossy and mellowing ever makes:Wrapped as you are in lull – or rhymeOf sounding drum that sudden breaks.This is my prayer then, this: that IToo may reverence all of life,Lose no power and miss no highAwe, of a world with wonder rife!That I may build in spirit fairTemples and torii on each placeThat I have loved – Oh, hear it, Air,Ocean and Earth, and grant your grace!

MAYA

(Hiroshima, Japan, 1905)Pale sampans up the river glide,With set sails vanishing and slow;In the blue west the mountains hide,As visions that too soon will go.Across the rice-lands, flooded deep,The peasant peacefully wades on —As, in unfurrowed vales of sleep,A phantom out of voidness drawn.Over the temple cawing fliesThe crow with carrion in his beak.Buddha within lifts not his eyesIn pity or reproval meek;Nor, in the bamboos, where they bowA respite from the blinding sun,The old priest – dreaming painless howNirvana's calm will come when won."All is illusion, Maya, allThe world of will," the spent East seemsWhispering in me; "and the callOf Life is but a call of dreams."

A JAPANESE MOTHER

(In Time of War)The young stork sleeps in the pine-tree tops,Down on the brink of the river.My baby sleeps by the bamboo copse —The bamboo copse where the rice field stops:The bamboos sigh and shiver.The white fox creeps from his hole in the hill;I must pray to Inari.I hear her calling me low and chill —Low and chill when the wind is stillAt night and the skies hang starry.And ever she says, "He's dead! he's dead!Your lord who went to battle.How shall your baby now be fed,Ukibo fed, with rice and bread —What if I hush his prattle?"The red moon rises as I slip back,And the bamboo stems are swaying.Inari was deaf – and yet the lack,The fear and lack, are gone, and the rack,I know not why – with praying.For though Inari cared not at all,Some other god was kinder.I wonder why he has heard my call,My giftless call – and what shall befall?..Hope has but left me blinder!

THE DEAD GODS

I thought I plunged into that dire AbyssWhich is Oblivion, the house of Death.I thought there blew upon my soul the breathOf time that was but never more can be.Ten thousand years within its void I thoughtI lay, blind, deaf, and motionless, until —Though with no eye nor ear – I felt the thrillOf seeing, heard its phantoms move and sigh.First one beside me spoke, in tones that toldHe once had been a god – "Persephone,Tear from thy brow its withered crown, for weAre king and queen of Tartarus no more;And that wan, shrivelled sceptre in thy hand,Why dost thou clasp it still? Cast it away,For now it hath no virtue that can swayDull shades or drive the Furies to their spoil."Cast it away, and give thy palm to mine:Perchance some unobliterated sparkOf memory shall warm this dismal Dark.Perchance – Vain! vain! love could not light such gloom."He sank… Then in great ruin by him movedAnother as in travail of some thoughtNear unto birth; and soon from lips distraughtBy aged silence, fell, with hollow woe:"Ah, Pluto, dost thou, one time lord of StyxAnd Acheron make moan of night and cold?Were we upon Olympus as of oldLaughter of thee would rock its festal height."But think, think thee of me, to whom or gloomOr cold were more unknown than impotence!See the unhurlèd thunderbolt brought henceTo mock me when I dream I still am Jove!"Too much it was: I withered in the breath;And lay again ten thousand lifeless years;And then my soul shook, woke – and saw three biersChiselled of solid night majestically.The forms outlaid upon them were enwoundAs with the silence of eternity.Numbing repose dwelt o'er them like a sea,That long hath lost tide, wave and roar, in death."Ptah, Ammon, and Osiris are their names,"A spirit hieroglyphed unto my soul."Ptah, Ammon, and Osiris – they who stoleThe heart of Egypt from the God of gods:"Aye, they! and these!" pointing to many wraithsThat stood around – Baal, Ormuzd, Indra, allWhom frightened ignorance and sin's appallHad given birth, close-huddled in despair.Their eyes were fixed upon a cloven slopeDown whose descent still other forms a-freshFrom earth were drawn, by the unceasing meshOf Time to their irrevocable end."They are the gods," one said – "the gods whom menStill taunt with wails for help." – Then a deep lightUpbore me from the Gulf, and thro' its mightI heard the worlds cry, "God alone is God!"

CALL TO YOUR MATE, BOB-WHITE

O call to your mate, bob-white, bob-white,And I will call to mine.Call to her by the meadow-gate,And I will call by the pine.Tell her the sun is hid, bob-white,The windy wheat sways west.Whistle again, call clear and runTo lure her out of her nest.For when to the copse she comes, shy bird,With Mary down the laneI'll walk, in the dusk of the locust tops,And be her lover again.Ay, we will forget our hearts are old,And that our hair is gray.We'll kiss as we kissed at pale sunsetThat summer's halcyon day.That day, can it fade?.. ah, bob, bob-white,Still calling – calling still?We're coming – a-coming, bent and weighed,But glad with the old love's thrill!

THE DYING POET

Swing in thy splendour, O silent sun,Drawing my heart with thee over the west!Done is its day as thy day is done,Fallen its quest!Swoon into purple and rose, then die:Tho' to arise again out of the dawn:Die as I praise thee, ere thro' the Dark LieOf death I am drawn!Sunk? art thou sunken? how great was life!I like a child could cry for it again —Cry for its beauty, pang, fleeting and strife,Its women, its men!For, how I drained it with love and delight!Opened its heart with the magic of grief!Reaped every season – its day and its night!Loved every sheaf!Aye, not a meadow my step has trod,Never a flower swung sweet to my face,Never a heart that was touched of God,But taught me its grace.Off from my lids then a moment yet,Fingering Death, for again I must seeLifted by memory all that I metUnder Time's lee.There!.. I'm a child again – fair, so fair!Under the eyes does a marvel not burn?Speak they not vision – and frenzy to dare,That still in me yearn?..Youth! my wild youth! – O, blood of my heart,Still you can answer with swirling the thought!Still like the mountain-born rapid can dart,Joyous, distraught!..Love, and her face again! there by the wood! —Come, thou invisible Dark with thy mask!Shall I not learn if she lives? and couldI more of thee ask?..Turn me away from the ashen west,Where love's sad planet unveils to the dusk.Something is stealing like light from my breast —Soul from its husk …Soft!.. Where the dead feel the buried dead,Where the high hermit-bell hourly tolls,Bury me, near to the haunting treadOf life that o'errolls.

THE OUTCAST

I did not fear,But crept close up to Christ and said,"Is he not here?"They drew me back —The seraphs who had never bledOf weary lack —But still I cried,With torn robe, clutching at His feet,"Dear Christ! He died"So long ago!Is he not here? Three days, unfleetAs mortal flow"Of time I've sought —Till Heaven's amaranthine waysSeem as sere nought!"A grieving stoleUp from His heart and waned the gazeOf His clear soulInto my eyes."He is not here," troubled He sighed."For none who dies"Beliefless mayBend lips to this sin-healing Tide,And live alway."Then darkness roseWithin me, and drear bitterness.Out of its throesI moaned, at last,"Let me go hence! Take off the dress,The charms Thou hast"Around me strown!Beliefless too am I withoutHis love – and lone!"Unto the GateThey led me, tho' with pitying doubt.I did not waitBut stepped acrossIts portal, turned not once to heedOr know my loss.Then my dream broke,And with it every loveless creed —Beneath love's stroke.

APRIL

A laughter of wind and a leaping of cloud,And April, oh, out under the blue!The brook is awake and the blackbird loudIn the dew!But how does the robin high in the beech,Beside the wood with its shake and toss,Know it – the frenzy of bluets to reachThro' the moss!And where did the lark ever learn his speech?Up, wildly sweet, he's over the mead!Is more than the rapture of earth can teachIn its creed?I never shall know – I never shall care!'Tis, oh, enough to live and to love!To laugh and warble and dream and dareAre to prove!

AUGUST GUESTS

The wind slipt over the hillAnd down the valley.He dimpled the cheek of the rillWith a cooling kiss.Then hid on the bank a-gleeAnd began to rallyThe rushes – Oh,I love the wind for this!A cloud blew out of the westAnd spilt his showerUpon the lily-bud crestAnd the clematis.Then over the virgin cornBesprinkled a dowerOf dew-gems – And,I love the cloud for this!

TO A DOVE

1Thy mellow passioning amid the leaves,That tremble dimly in the summer dusk,Falls sad along the oatland's sallow sheavesAnd haunts above the runnel's voice a-huskWith plashy willow and bold-wading reed.The solitude's dim spell it breaketh not,But softer mourns unto me from the meadThan airs that in the wood intoning start,Or breath of silences in dells begotTo soothe some grief-wan soul with sin a-smart.2A votaress art thou of Simplicity,Who hath one fane – the heaven above thy nest;One incense – love; one stealing litanyOf peace from rivered vale and upland crest.Yea, thou art Hers, who makes prayer of the breeze,Hope of the cool upwelling from sweet soils,Faith of the darkening distance, charitiesOf vesper scents, and of the glow-worm's throbJoy whose first leaping rends the care-wound coilsThat would earth of its heavenliness rob.3But few, how few her worshippers! For weCast at a myriad shrines our souls, to riseBeliefless, unanointed, bound not free,To sacrificing a vain sacrifice!Let thy lone innocence then quickly nullWithin our veins doubt-led and wrong desire —Or drugging knowledge that but fills o'erfullOf feverous mystery the days we drain!Be thy warm notes like an Orphean lyreTo lead us to life's Arcady again!

AT TINTERN ABBEY

(June, 1903)O Tintern, Tintern! evermore my dreamsTroubled by thy grave beauty shall be born;Thy crumbling loveliness and ivy streamsShall speak to me for ever, from this morn;The wind-wild daws about thy arches drifting,Clouds sweeping o'er thy ruin to the sea,Gray Tintern, all the hills about thee, liftingTheir misty waving woodland verdancy!The centuries that draw thee to the earthIn envy of thy desolated charm,The summers and the winters, the sky's girthOf sunny blue or bleakness, seek thy harm.But would that I were Time, then only tenderTouch upon thee should fall as on I sped;Of every pillar would I be defender,Of every mossy window – of thy dead!Thy dead beneath obliterated stonesUpon the sod that is at last thy floor,Who list the Wye not as it lonely moansNor heed thy Gothic shadows grieving o'er.O Tintern, Tintern! trysting-place, where neverAre wanting mysteries that move the breast,I'll hear thy beauty calling, ah, for ever —Till sinks within me the last voice to rest!

OH, GO NOT OUT

Oh, go not out upon the storm,Go not, my sweet, to Swalchie pool!A witch tho' she be dead may charmThee and befool.A wild night 'tis! her lover's moan,Down under ooze and salty weed,She'll make thee hear – and then her own!Till thou shalt heed.And it will suck upon thy heart —The sorcery within her cry —Till madness out of thee upstart,And rage to die.For him she loved, she laughed to death!And as afloat his chill hand lay,"Ha, ha! to hell I sent his wraith!"Did she not say?And from his finger strive to drawThe ring that bound him to her spell?Till on her closed his hand whose aweNo curse could quell?Oh, yea! and tho' she struggled pale,Did it not hold her cold and fast,Till crawled the tide o'er rock and swale,To her at last?Down in the pool where she was sweptHe holds her – Oh, go not a-near!For none has heard her cry but weptAnd died that year.

HUMAN LOVE

We, spoke of God and Fate,And of that Life – which some await —Beyond the grave,"It will be fair," she said,"But love is here!I only crave thy breastNot God's when I am dead.For He nor wants nor needsMy little love.But it may be, if I love theeAnd those whose sorrow daily bleeds,He knows – and somehow heeds!"

ASHORE

What are the heaths and hills to me?I'm a-longing for the sea!What are the flowers that dapple the dell,And the ripple of swallow-wings over the dusk;What are the church and the folk who tellTheir hearts to God? – my heart is a husk!(I'm a-longing for the sea!)Aye! for there is no peace to me —But on the peaceless sea!Never a child was glad at my knee,And the soul of a woman has never been mine.What can a woman's kisses be? —I fear to think how her arms would twine.(I'm a-longing for the sea!)So, not a home and ease for me —But still the homeless sea!Where I may swing my sorrow to sleepIn a hammock hung o'er the voice of the waves,Where I may wake when the tempests heapAnd hurl their hate – and a brave ship saves.(I'm a-longing for the sea!)Then when I die, a grave for me —But in the graveless sea!Where is no stone for an eye to spellThro' the lichen a name, a date and a verse.Let me be laid in the deeps that swellAnd sigh and wander – an ocean hearse!(I'm a-longing for the sea!)

THE VICTORY

See, see! – the blows at his breast,The abyss at his back,The perils and pains that pressed,The doubts in a pack,That hunted to drag him downHave triumphed? and nowHe sinks, who climbed for the crownTo the Summit's brow?No! – though at the foot he lies,Fallen and vain,With gaze to the peak whose skiesHe could not attain,The victory is, with strength —No matter the past! —He'd dare it again, the dark length,And the fall at last!

AT WINTER'S END

The weedy fallows winter-worn,Where cattle shiver under sodden hay.The plough-lands long and lorn —The fading day.The sullen shudder of the brook,And winds that wring the writhen trees in vainFor drearier sound or look —The lonely rain.The crows that train o'er desert skiesIn endless caravans that have no goalBut flight – where darkness flies —From Pole to Pole.The sombre zone of hills aroundThat shrink in misty mournfulness from sight,With sunset aureoles crowned —Before the night.

MOTHER-LOVE

The seraphs would sing to herAnd from the RiverDip her cool grails of radiant Life.The angels would bring to her,Sadly a-quiver,Laurels she never had won in earth-strife.And often they'd fly with herO'er the star-spaces —Silent by worlds where mortals are pent.Yea, even would sigh with her,Sigh with wan faces!When she sat weeping of strange discontent.But one said, "Why weepest thouHere in God's heaven —Is it not fairer than soul can see?""'Tis fair, ah! – but keepest thouNot me deprivenOf some one – somewhere – who needeth most me?"For tho' the day never fadesOver these meadows,Tho' He has robed me and crowned – yet, yet!Some love-fear for ever shadesAll with sere shadows —Had I no child there– whom I forget?"

TO A SINGING WARBLER

"Beauty! all – all – is beauty?"Was ever a bird so wrong!"No young in the nest, no mate, no duty?"Ribald! is this your song?"Glad it is ended," are you?The Spring and its nuptial fear?"And freedom is better than love?" beware you,There will be May next year!"Beauty!" again, still "beauty"?Wait till the winter comes!Till kestrel and hungry kite seek bootyAnd the bleak cold benumbs!Wait? nay, fling it to heavenThe false little song you prate!Too sweet are its fancies not to leavenEven the rudest fate!

SONGS TO A. H. R

ITHE WORLD'S, AND MINEThe world may hearThe wind at his trees,The lark in her skies,The sea on his leas;May hear Song riseOn words as immortalAs any that soundThro' Heaven's Portal.But I have a music they can never know —The touch of you, soul of you, heart of you, Oh!All else that is said or sung 's but a part of you —Be it forever so!IILOVE-CALL IN SPRINGNot only the lark but the robin too(Oh, heart o' my heart, come into the wood!)Is singing the air to gladness newAs the breaking budAnd the freshet's flood!Not only the peeping grass and the scent —(Oh, love o' my life, fly unto me here!)Of violets coming ere April's spent —But the frog's shrill cheerAnd the crow's wild jeer!Not only the blue, not only the breeze,(Oh, soul o' my heart, why tarry so long!)But sun that is sweeter upon the treesThan rills that throngTo the brooklet's song!Oh, heart o' my heart, oh, heart o' my love,(Oh soul o' my soul, haste unto me, haste!)For spring is below and God is above —But all is a wasteWithout thee – haste!IIIMATINGThe bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing!What shall we do with the April days!Kingcups soon will be up and swinging —What shall we do with May's!The cardinal flings, "They are made for mating!"Out on the bough he flutters, a flame.Thrush-flutes echo, "For mating's elating!Love is its other name!"They know! know it! but better, oh, better,Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring,Know we to make each moment debtorUnto love's burgeoning!IVUNTOLDCould I, a poet,Implant the truth of you,Seize it and sow itAs Spring on the world.There were no needTo fling (forsooth) of youFancies that only lovers heed!No, but unfurled,The bloom, the sweet of you,(As unto me they are opened oft)Would with their beauty's breath repeat of youAll that my heart breathes loud or soft!VLOVE-WATCHMy love's a guardian-angelWho camps about thy heart,Never to See thine enemy,Nor from thee turn apart.Whatever dark may shroud theeAnd hide thy stars away,With vigil sweet his wings shall beatAbout thee till the day.VIAT AMALFICome to the window, you who are mine.Waken! the night is calling.Sit by me here – with the moon's fair shineInto your deep eyes falling.The sea afar is a fearful gloom;Lean from the casement, listen!Anear it breaks with a faery spume,Spraying the rocks that glisten.The little white town below lies deepAs eternity in slumber.O, you who are mine, how a glance can reapBeauties beyond all number!And, how as sails that at anchor rideOur spirits rock togetherOn a sea of love – lit as this tideWith tenderest star-weather!Till the gray dawn is redd'ning up,Over the moon low-lying.Come, come away – we have drunk the cup:Ours is the dream undying!VIION THE PACIFICA storm broods far on the foam of the deep;The moon-path gleams before.A day and a night, a night and a day,And the way, love, will be o'er.Six thousand wandering miles we have comeAnd never a sail have seen.The sky above and the sea belowAnd the drifting clouds between.Yet in our hearts unheaving hopeAnd light and joy have slept.Nor ever lonely has seemed the waveTho' heaving wild it leapt.For there is talismanic mightWithin our vows of loveTo breathe us over all seas of life —On to that Port, above,Where the great Captain of all shipsShall anchor them or sendThem forth on a vaster Voyage, yea,On one that shall not end.And upon that we two, I think,Together still shall sail.Oh, may it be, my own, or mayWe perish in death's gale!

THE ATONER

Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes(Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves).Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashesHis limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.He moans in the forest for sins unforgiven(Sins of the revelous days of June) —Moans while the sun drifts dull from the heaven,Giftless of heat's beshriving boon.Long must he mourn, and long be his scourging,(Long will the day-god aloof frown cold),Long will earth listen the rue of his dirging —Till the dark beads of his days are told.

TO THE SPRING WIND

Ah, what a changeling!Yester you dashed from the west,Altho' it is Spring,And scattered the hail with maniac zestThro' the shivering corn – in scornFor the labour of God and man.And now from the plentiful South you haste,With lovingest fingers,To ruefully lift and wooingly fanThe lily that lingers a-faint on the stalk:As if the chill wasteOf the earth's May-dreams,The flowers so full of her joy,Were not – as it seems —A wanton attempt to destroy.

THE RAMBLE

Down the road which asters tangle,Thro' the gap where green-briar twines,By the path where dry leaves dangleSere from the ivy vinesWe go – by sedgy fallowsAnd along the stifled brook,Till it stops in lushy mallowsJust at the bridge's crook.Then, again, o'er fence, thro' thicket,To the mouth of the rough ravine,Where the weird leaf-hidden cricketChirrs thro' the weirder green,There's a way, o'er rocks – but quickerIs the beat of heart and foot,As the beams above us flickerSun upon moss and root!And we leap – as wildness tinglesFrom the air into our blood —With a cry thro' golden dinglesHid in the heart of the wood.Oh, the wood with winds a-wrestle!With the nut and acorn strown!Oh, the wood where creepers trestleTree unto tree o'ergrown!With a climb the ledging summitOf the hill is reached in glee.For an hour we gaze off from itInto the sky's blue sea.But a bell and sunset's crimsonSoon recall the homeward path.And we turn as the glory dims onThe hay-field's mounded math.Thro' the soft and silent twilightWe come, to the stile at last,As the clear undying eyelightOf the stars tells day is past.

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