There is none anywhere So beautiful as she nor half so dear; My heart sings ever when she draweth near, Because she is so good and sweet and fair.
I may not be the one To break the cloistered stillness of her life, To teach her passion and love and grief and strife, And lead her through the garden of the sun.
For I am sad and wise; I have no hopes, no dreams, no fancies – none; Yet she has taught me that I am alone, And what men mean who talk of Paradise.
But, when her joybells ring, I think, perhaps, that I shall hear and sigh And wish the roses did not have to die, And that the birds might never cease to sing.
A TRAGEDY
I
Among his books he sits all day To think and read and write; He does not smell the new-mown hay, The roses red and white.
I walk among them all alone, His silly, stupid wife; The world seems tasteless, dead and done — An empty thing is life.
At night his window casts a square Of light upon the lawn; I sometimes walk and watch it there Until the chill of dawn.
I have no brain to understand The books he loves to read; I only have a heart and hand He does not seem to need.
He calls me "Child" – lays on my hair Thin fingers, cold and mild; Oh! God of Love, who answers prayer, I wish I were a child!
And no one sees and no one knows (He least would know or see) That ere Love gathers next year's rose Death will have gathered me;
And on my grave will bindweed pink And round-faced daisies grow; He still will read and write and think, And never, never know!
II
It's lonely in my study here alone Now you are gone; I loved to see your white gown 'mid the flowers, While, hours on hours, I studied – toiled to weave a crown of fame About your name.
I liked to hear your sweet, low laughter ring; To hear you sing About the house while I sat reading here, My child, my dear; To know you glad with all the life-joys fair I dared not share.
I thought there would be time enough to show My love, to throw Some day with crowns of laurel at your feet Love's roses sweet; I thought I could taste love when fame was won — Now both are done!
Thank God, your child-heart knew not how to miss The passionate kiss Which I dared never give, lest love should rise Mighty, unwise, And bind me, with my life-work incomplete, Beside your feet.
You never knew, you lived and were content; My one chance went; You died, my little one, and are at rest — And I, unblest, Look at these broken fragments of my life, My child, my wife.
LOVE
I
THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STAR
The wide, white woods are still as death or sleep, Silent with snow and sunshine and crisp air, Save when the brief, keen, sudden breezes sweep Through frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere. No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering, But in her garden – risen from Summer's tomb To bear the gospel of eternal Spring — The Christmas roses bloom.
O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of days Pure from all sordid soil and worldly stain, Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways — Ah that such dreams should always be in vain! We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour, Too chill to let the redder roses blow, We, too, had our delicious hidden flower That blossomed in life's snow.
O heart, if we again might hope to be Pure as the snow or Christmas roses white! If dreams and deeds might but be one to me, And one to thee be duty and delight! If that may ever be, one hand we know Must beckon us along the way she goes, The hand of her – as pure as any snow, And sweet as any rose.
II
WORSHIP
I passed beneath the stately Norman portal, I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod, I passed between the pillars tall and slender, That yearn to heaven as man's soul yearns to God.
The coloured glory of the pictured windows Fell on me as I kneeled before the shrine Where, round the image of the Mother-maiden, The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine.
The hymn rose on the wings of children's voices, The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayer With scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten — And all the soul of all the past was there.
But in my heart as there I kneeled before her, Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew — They passed her by and sought, instead, your presence; The incense of my soul was burned for you.
For you, for you were all the tapers lighted, For you the flowers were on the altar laid, For you the hymn rose thrilling through the chancel To the clerestory's mysteries of shade.
To you the anthems of a thousand churches Rose where the taper-pointed flames burned clear; To you – through all these leagues of deathly distance, To you – as unattainable as dear.
Dear as the dreams life never brings to blossom, Lost as the seeds hope sowed, which never grew, Pure as the love which only you could waken, Prayer, incense, tears, and love were all for you!
III
SPLENDIDE MENDAX
When God some day shall call my name And scorch me with a blaze of shame, Bringing to light my inmost thought And all the evil I have wrought,
Tearing away the veils I wove To hide my foulness from my love, And leaving my transgressions bare To the whole heaven's clear, cold air —
When all the angels weep to see The branded, outcast soul of me, One saint at least will hide her face — She will not look at my disgrace.
"At least, O God, O God Most High, He loved me truly!" she will cry, And God will pause before He send My soul to find its fitting end.
Then, lest heaven's light should leave her face To think one loved her and was base, I will speak out at judgment day — "I never loved her!" I will say.
LOVE SONG
Light of my life! though far away, My sun, you shine, Your radiance warms me every day Like fire or wine.
Life of my heart! in every beat This sad heart gives, It owns your sovereignty complete, By which it lives.
Heart of my soul! serene and strong, Eyes of my sight! Together we can do no wrong, Apart, no right.
THE QUARREL
Come down, my dear, from this high, wind-swept hill, Where the wild plovers scream against the sky; Down in the valley everything is still — We also will be silent, you and I.
Come down, and hold my hand as we go down. A gleam of sun has dyed the west afar; The lights come out down in the little town, 'Neath the first glimmer of the evening star.
Did my heart forge the bitter words I said? Did your heart breed those bitterer replies — Spoken with plovers wheeling overhead In the gray pallor of the cheerless skies?
Is it worth while to quarrel and upbraid, Life being so little and love so great a thing? The price of all life's follies has been paid When we, true lovers, fall to quarrelling.
Here is the churchyard; swing the gate and pass Where the sharp needles of the pines are shed. Tread here between the mounds of flowered grass; Tread softly over these forgotten dead.
We are alive, and here – O love! O wife! While life is ours, and we are yours and mine, How dare we crush the blossom of our life? How dare we spill love's sacramental wine?
Kiss me! Forget! We two are living now, And life is all too short for love, my dear. When one of us beneath these flowers lies low, The other will remember we kissed here.
Some one some day will come here all alone And look out on the desolated years, With bitter tears of longing for the one Who will not then be here to dry the tears!
CHANGE
There's a little house by an orchard side Where the Spring wears pink and white; There's a garden with pansies and London pride, And a bush of lad's delight. Through the sweet-briar hedge is the garden seen As trim as a garden can be, And the grass of the orchard is much more green Than most of the grass you see.
There used to be always a mother's smile And a father's face at the door, When one clambered over the orchard stile, So glad to be home once more. But now I never go by that way, For when I was there of late, A stranger was cutting the orchard hay, And a stranger leaned on the gate.
THE MILL
The wheel goes round – the wheel goes round With drip and whir and plash, It keeps all green the grassy ground, The alder, beech and ash. The ferns creep out 'mid mosses cool, Forget-me-nots are found Blue in the shadow by the pool — And still the wheel goes round.
Round goes the wheel, round goes the wheel, The foam is white like cream, The merry waters dance and reel Along the stony stream. The little garden of the mill, It is enchanted ground, I smell its stocks and wall-flowers still, And still the wheel goes round.
The wheel goes round, the wheel goes round, And life's wheel too must go — But all their clamour has not drowned A voice I used to know. Her window's blank. The garden's bare As her chill new-made mound, But still my heart's delight is there, And still the wheel goes round.
RONDEAU
A red, red rose, all wet with dew, With leaves of green by red shot through, And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings Delicious memories of lost things, A red rose, sweet – yet sad as rue.
'Twas a red rose you gave me – you Whose gifts so sacred were, and few — And that is why your lover sings A red, red rose.
I sing – with lute untuned, untrue, And worse than other lovers do, Because perplexing memory stings — Because from your green grave there springs, With your spilt life-blood coloured through, A red, red rose.
A MÉSALLIANCE
I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear, I live in splendour and state; But I'd give it all to be young once more, And steal through the old low-lintelled door, To watch at the orchard gate.
There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear, Fair blossoms, wondrous and new; But all the flowers that a hot-house grows I would give for the scent of a certain rose That a cottage garden grew!
Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair, Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow — I am tired of my bargain and tired of you! I would give you all for a daisy or two From a little grave I know.
THE LAST THOUGHT
It's weary lying here, While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near, And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room, When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom — Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are — So far away, so far!
They say that I shall die — And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by: But oh! my red-roofed village – I should die with more content Could I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent, And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door, For one who comes no more.
APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ
(Herodotus, I. 157-160.)
"What be these messengers who come fleet-footed Between the images that guard our roadway, Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels — Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?"
"We come to crave the counsel of Apollo — The men of Cymé he has counselled often — Ask of the god an answer to our question, Ask of Apollo here in Branchĭdæ.
"Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian, Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection; The Persian bids us yield – our hearts bid shield him, What does Apollo bid his servants do?"
The Oracle replied – and straight returning To Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed, Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer: "Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will".
So when the men of Cymé heard the answer, They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant, But Aristodicus, loved of the city, Withstood their will, – and thus to them spake he.
"Your messengers have lied – they have made merry In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo; The god in Branchĭdæ had never counselled That we should yield our suppliant to the foe.
"Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing, Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer, I would not yield the man who trusted Cymé — What – is the god of baser stuff than I?"
So, by the bright bay, under the blue heavens, A second time to Branchĭdæ they journeyed, A second time beneath the purple shadows Passed through the laurels to Apollo's fane.
Then Aristodicus spake thus: "To Cymé Comes Pactyes fleeing from the wrath of Persia — And she demands him, but we dare not yield him, Until we know what thou wouldst have us do.
"Our arm is weak against the power of Persia, The foe is strong, and our defences slender; Yet, Lord, not yet have we been bold to render Him who has come, a suppliant, to our gates."
So the Cyméan spake. Apollo answered: "Yield ye your suppliant – yield him to the Persians". Then Aristodicus bethought him further, And in this fashion craftily he wrought.
All round the temple, in the nooks and crannies Of carven work made by man's love and labour, In perfect safety, by Apollo guarded, The swallows and the sparrows built their nests.
And all day long their floating wings made beauty About the temple and the whispering laurels, And their shrill notes, with the sea's ceaseless murmur, Rose in sweet chorus to the great god's ears.
Now round the temple went the men of Cymé, Tore down the nests and snared the building swallows, And a wild wind went moaning through the branches. The sun-light died, and all the sky grew gray.
Men shivered in the disenchanted noontide, And overhead the gray sky darkened, darkened, And, in the heart of every man beholding, The anger of the immortal gods made night.
Then from the hid shrine of the inner temple Came forth a voice more beautiful than music, More terrible than thunder and wild waters, And more to be desired than summer sun.
"O thou most impious of all impious mortals, Why hast thou dared defy me in my temple, And torn away the homes of those who trust me, Taken my suppliants from me for thy prey?"
Then Aristodicus stood forth, and answered: "Lord, is it thus thy suppliants are succoured, What time thy Oracle bids men of Cymé To yield their suppliant to the Persian spears?"
Then on the hush of awful expectation Following the challenge of the too-bold mortals, Broke the god's voice, unspeakably melodious With all the song and sorrow of the world: —
"Yea, I do bid you yield him, that so sinning Against the gods ye may the sooner perish — And come no more to question at my temple Of yielding suppliants who have trusted you!"
