Death

The winds are piping loud to-night,
And the waves roll strong and high;
God pity the watchful mariner
Who toils 'neath yonder sky!

I saw the vessel speed away,
With a free, majestic sweep,
At evening as the sun went down
To his palace in the deep.

An aged crone sat on the beach,
And, pointing to the ship,
"She'll never return again," she said,
With a scorn upon her lip.

            -    -    -

The morning rose tempestuous,
The winds blew to the shore,
There were corpses on the sands that morn,
But the ship came nevermore!

I

"You look like a widower," she said
Through the folding-doors with a laugh from the bed,
As he sat by the fire in the outer room,
Reading late on a night of gloom,
And a cab-hack's wheeze, and the clap of its feet
In its breathless pace on the smooth wet street,
Were all that came to them now and then . . .
"You really do!" she quizzed again.

II

And the Spirits behind the curtains heard,
And also laughed, amused at her word,
And at her light-hearted view of him.
"Let's get him made so just for a whim!"
Said the Phantom Ironic. "'Twould serve her right
If we coaxed the Will to do it some night."
"O pray not!" pleaded the younger one,
The Sprite of the Pities. "She said it in fun!"

III

But so it befell, whatever the...

The moon has set: while yet the dawn
Breaks cold and gray,
Between the midnight and the morn
Bear off your prey!
On, swift and still! the conscious street
Is panged and stirred;
Tread light! that fall of serried feet
The dead have heard!
The first drawn blood of Freedom's veins
Gushed where ye tread;
Lo! through the dusk the martyr-stains
Blush darkly red!
Beneath the slowly waning stars
And whitening day,
What stern and awful presence bars
That sacred way?
What faces frown upon ye, dark
With shame and pain?
Come these from Plymouth's Pilgrim bark?
Is that young Vane?
Who, dimly beckoning, speed ye on
With mocking cheer?
Lo! spectral Andros, Hutchinson,
And Gage are here!
For ready mart or favoring blast
Through Mol...

Weary went the old Witch,
    Weary of her pack,
She sat her down by the churchyard wall,
    And jerked it off her back.

The cord brake, yes, the cord brake,
    Just where the dead did lie,
And Charms and Spells and Sorceries
    Spilled out beneath the sky.

Weary was the old Witch;
    She rested her old eyes
From the lantern-fruited yew trees,
    And the scarlet of the skies;

And out the dead came stumbling,
    From every rift and crack,
Silent as moss, and plundered
    The gaping pack.

They wish them, three times over,
    Away they skip full soon:
Bat and Mole and Leveret,
    Under the rising moon;
Owl and Newt and Nightjar:
    They take their shapes and creep,
Silent as churchyard lichen,
 ...

Farewell, farewell! Before our prow
Leaps in white foam the noisy channel,
A tourist's cap is on my brow,
My legs are cased in tourists' flannel:

Around me gasp the invalids -
(The quantity to-night is fearful) -
I take a brace or so of weeds,
And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful.

The night wears on:- my thirst I quench
With one imperial pint of porter;
Then drop upon a casual bench -
(The bench is short, but I am shorter) -

Place 'neath my head the harve-sac
Which I have stowed my little all in,
And sleep, though moist about the back,
Serenely in an old tarpaulin.

* * *

Bed at Ostend at 5 A.M.
Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30.
Tickets to Konigswinter (mem.
The seats objectionably dirty).

And onward th...

TRAVELLER
Why dost thou wildly rush and roar,
    Mad River, O Mad River?
Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour
Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er
    This rocky shelf forever?

What secret trouble stirs thy breast?
    Why all this fret and flurry?
Dost thou not know that what is best
In this too restless world is rest
    From over-work and worry?

THE RIVER
What wouldst thou in these mountains seek,
    O stranger from the city?
Is it perhaps some foolish freak
Of thine, to put the words I speak
    Into a plaintive ditty?

TRAVELLER
Yes; I would learn of thee thy song,
    With all its flowing number;
And in a voice as fresh and strong
As thine is, sing it all day long,
    And hear it in my slumbers.

Georgie, come home!--Life's tendrils cling about thee,
    Where'er thou art, by wayward fancy led.
We miss thee, love!--Home is not home without thee--
    The light and glory of the house have fled:
The autumn shiver of the linden-tree
Is like the pang that thrills my frame for thee!

Georgie, come home!--To parents, brother, sister
    Thy place is vacant in this lonely hall,
Where shines the river through the "Jeannie Vista,"
    While twilight shadows lengthen on the wall:
Our spirits falter at the close of day,
And weary night moves tardily away.

Georgie, come home!--The winds and waves are singing
    The mournful music of their parting song,
To soul and sense the sad forboding bringing,
    Some ill detains thee in the town so long:
Oh, that...

The Fiend is at my side without a rest;
He swirls around me like a subtle breeze;
I swallow him, and burning fills my breast,
And calls me to desire's shameful needs.

Knowing my love of Art, he may select
A woman's form - most perfect, most corrupt
And under sanctimonious pretext
Bring to my lips the potion of her lust.

Thus does he lead me, far from sight of God,
Broken and gasping, out into the broad
And wasted plains of Ennui, deep and still,

Then throws before my staring eyes some gowns
And bloody garments stained by open wounds,
And dripping engines of Destruction's will!

Within this goblet, rich and deep,
I cradle all my woes to sleep.
Why should we breathe the sigh of fear,
Or pour the unavailing tear?
For death will never heed the sigh,
Nor soften at the tearful eye;
And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep,
Must all alike be sealed in sleep.
Then let us never vainly stray,
In search of thorns, from pleasure's way;
But wisely quaff the rosy wave,
Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave;
And in the goblet, rich and deep,
Cradle our crying woes to sleep.

Down in the South, by the waste without sail on it,
Far from the zone of the blossom and tree,
Lieth, with winter and whirlwind and wail on it,
Ghost of a land by the ghost of a sea.
Weird is the mist from the summit to base of it;
Sun of its heaven is wizened and grey;
Phantom of life is the light on the face of it
Never is night on it, never is day!
Here is the shore without flower or bird on it;
Here is no litany sweet of the springs
Only the haughty, harsh thunder is heard on it,
Only the storm, with the roar in its wings!

Shadow of moon is the moon in the sky of it
Wan as the face of a wizard, and far!
Never there shines from the firmament high of it
Grace of the planet or glory of star.
All the year round, in the place of white days on it
All ...

Loitering with a vacant eye
Along the Grecian gallery,
And brooding on my heavy ill,
I met a statue standing still.
Still in marble stone stood he,
And stedfastly he looked at me.
"Well met," I thought the look would say,
"We both were fashioned far away;
We neither knew, when we were young,
These Londoners we live among."

Still he stood and eyed me hard,
An earnest and a grave regard:
"What, lad, drooping with your lot?
I too would be where I am not.
I too survey that endless line
Of men whose thoughts are not as mine.
Years, ere you stood up from rest,
On my neck the collar prest;
Years, when you lay down your ill,
I shall stand and bear it still.
Courage, lad, 'tis not for long:
Stand, quit you like stone, be strong."
So ...

    Why do I see these empty boats, sailing on airy seas?
    One haunted me the whole night long, swaying with every breeze,
    Returning always near the eaves, or by the skylight glass:
    There it will wait me many weeks, and then, at last, will pass.
    Each soul is haunted by a ship in which that soul might ride
    And climb the glorious mysteries of Heaven's silent tide
    In voyages that change the very metes and bounds of Fate -
    O empty boats, we all refuse, that by our windows wait!

I

What words of mine can tell the spell
Of garden ways I know so well? -
The path that takes me in the spring
Past quince-trees where the bluebirds sing,
And peonies are blossoming,
Unto a porch, wistaria-hung,
Around whose steps May-lilies blow,
A fair girl reaches down among,
Her arm more white than their sweet snow.

II

What words of mine can tell the spell
Of garden ways I know so well? -
Another path that leads me, when
The summer time is here again,
Past hollyhocks that shame the west
When the red sun has sunk to rest;
To roses bowering a nest,
A lattice, 'neath which mignonette
And deep geraniums surge and sough,
Where, in the twilight, starless yet,
A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.

III

O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.

When the white dawn comes
I shall kneel to welcome it;
The dread that darkened on my eyes
Shall vanish and be gone.
I shall look upon it
As the parched on fountains,
Yet it was the blinding night
That taught the joy of dawn.

When the first bird sings,
Oh, I shall hear rejoicing,
And all my life shall thrill to it
And all my heart draw near.
I shall lean to listen
Lest a note elude me,
Yet it was the fearsome night
That taught me how to hear.

When the sun comes up
I shall lift my arms to it;
The fear of fear shall fall from me
As shackles from a slave.
I shall run to hail it,
Free and unbewildered,
Yet it was the silent night
That taught me to be brave.

I

Where love is life
The roses blow,
Though winds be rude
And cold the snow,
The roses climb
Serenely slow,
They nod in rhyme
We know - we know
Where love is life
The roses blow.

Where life is love
The roses blow,
Though care be quick
And sorrows grow,
Their roots are twined
With rose-roots so
That rosebuds find
A way to show
Where life is love
The roses blow.


II

Nothing came here but sunlight,
Nothing fell here but rain,
Nothing blew but the mellow wind,
Here are the flowers again!

No one came here but you, dear,
You with your magic train
Of brightness and laughter and lightness,
Here is my joy again!


III

I have songs of dancing ple...

Comes the broken flower -
Comes the cheated maid -
Though the tempest lower,
Rain and cloud will fade!
Take, O maid, these posies:
Though thy beauty rare
Shame the blushing roses,
They are passing fair!
Wear the flowers till they fade;
Happy be thy life, O maid!

O'er the season vernal,
Time may cast a shade;
Sunshine, if eternal,
Makes the roses fade:
Time may do his duty;
Let the thief alone -
Winter hath a beauty
That is all his own.
Fairest days are sun and shade:
Happy be thy life, O maid!

    Out of that noise and hurry of large life
        The river flings me in an idle pool:
    The waters still go on with stir and strife
        And sunlit eddies, and the beautiful
    Tall trees lean down upon the mighty flow,
        Reflected in that movement.    Beauty there
    Waxes more beautiful, the moments grow
        Thicker and keener in that lovely air
    Above the river.    Here small sticks and straws
        Come now to harbour, gather, lie and rot,
    Out of cross-currents and the water's flaws
        In this unmoving death, where joy is not,
    Where war's a shade again, ambition rotten
    And bitter hopes and fears alike forgotten.