Part 2

Owl and Newt and Nightjar, Leveret, Bat and Mole Haunt and call in the twilight, Where she slept, poor soul.

ARABIA

Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon; And so dark is that vaulted purple Flowers in the forest rise And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars Pale in the noonday skies.

Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the dim-silked, dark-haired Musicians In the brooding silence of night.

They haunt me--her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I see But shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me: Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say-- 'He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away.'

THE MOUNTAINS

Still, and blanched, and cold, and lone, The icy hills far off from me With frosty ulys overgrown Stand in their sculptured secrecy.

No path of theirs the chamois fleet Treads, with a nostril to the wind; O'er their ice-marbled glaciers beat No wings of eagles in my mind--

Yea, in my mind these mountains rise, Their perils dyed with evening's rose; And still my ghost sits at my eyes And thirsts for their untroubled snows.

QUEEN DJENIRA

When Queen Djenira slumbers through The sultry noon's repose, From out her dreams, as soft she lies, A faint thin music flows.

Her lovely hands lie narrow and pale With gilded nails, her head Couched in its banded nets of gold Lies pillowed on her bed.

The little Nubian boys who fan Her cheeks and tresses clear, Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful voices Seem afar to hear.

They slide their eyes, and nodding, say, 'Queen Djenira walks to-day The courts of the lord Pthamasar Where the sweet birds of Psuthys are.'

And those of earth about her porch Of shadow cool and grey Their sidelong beaks in silence lean, And silent flit away.

NEVER-TO-BE

Down by the waters of the sea, Reigns the King of Never-to-be. His palace walls are black with night; His torches star and moonès light, And for his timepiece deep and grave Beats on the green unhastening wave.

Windswept are his high corridors; His pleasance the sea-mantled shores; For sentinel a shadow stands With hair in heaven, and cloudy hands; And round his bed, king's guards to be, Watch pines in iron solemnity.

His hound is mute; his steed at will Roams pastures deep with asphodel; His queen is to her slumber gone; His courtiers mute lie, hewn in stone; He hath forgot where he did hide His sceptre in the mountain-side.

Grey-capped and muttering, mad is he-- The childless King of Never-to-be; For all his people in the deep Keep everlasting fast asleep; And all his realm is foam and rain, Whispering of what comes not again.

THE DARK CHATEAU

In dreams a dark château Stands ever open to me, In far ravines dream-waters flow, Descending soundlessly; Above its peaks the eagle floats, Lone in a sunless sky; Mute are the golden woodland throats Of the birds flitting by.

No voice is audible. The wind Sleeps in its peace. No flower of the light can find Refuge 'neath its trees; Only the darkening ivy climbs Mingled with wilding rose, And cypress, morn and evening, time's Black shadow throws.

All vacant, and unknown; Only the dreamer steps From stone to hollow stone, Where the green moss sleeps, Peers at the river in its deeps, The eagle lone in the sky, While the dew of evening drips, Coldly and silently.

Would that I could press in!-- Into each secret room; Would that my sleep-bright eyes could win To the inner gloom; Gaze from its high windows, Far down its mouldering walls, Where amber-clear still Lethe flows, And foaming falls.

But ever as I gaze, From slumber soft doth come Some touch my stagnant sense to raise To its old earthly home; Fades then that sky serene; And peak of ageless snow; Fades to a paling dawn-lit green, My dark château.

THE DWELLING-PLACE

Deep in a forest where the kestrel screamed, Beside a lake of water, clear as glass, The time-worn windows of a stone house gleamed, Named only 'Alas.'

Yet happy as the wild birds in the glades Of that green forest, thridding the still air With low continued heedless serenades, Its heedless people were.

The throbbing chords of violin and lute, The lustre of lean tapers in dark eyes, Fair colours, beauteous flowers, dainty fruit Made earth seem Paradise

To them that dwelt within this lonely house: Like children of the gods in lasting peace, They ate, sang, danced, as if each day's carouse Need never pause, nor cease.

Some might cry, Vanity! to a weeping lyre, Some in that deep pool mock their longings vain, Came yet at last long silence to the wire, And dark did dark remain.

Some to the hunt would wend, with hound and horn, And clash of silver, beauty, bravery, pride, Heeding not one who on white horse upborne With soundless hoofs did ride.

Dreamers there were who watched the hours away Beside a fountain's foam. And in the sweet Of phantom evening, 'neath the night-bird's lay, Did loved with loved-one meet.

All, all were children, for, the long day done, They barred the heavy door 'gainst lightfoot fear; And few words spake though one known face was gone, Yet still seemed hovering near.

They heaped the bright fire higher; poured dark wine; And in long revelry dazed the questioning eye; Curtained three-fold the heart-dismaying shine Of midnight streaming by.

They shut the dark out from the painted wall, With candles dared the shadow at the door, Sang down the faint reiterated call Of those who came no more.

Yet clear above that portal plain was writ, Confronting each at length alone to pass Out of its beauty into night star-lit, That worn 'Alas!'

THE LISTENERS

'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; 'Is there anybody there?' he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- 'Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,' he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

TIME PASSES

There was nought in the Valley But a Tower of Ivory, Its base enwreathed with red Flowers that at evening Caught the sun's crimson As to Ocean low he sped.

Lucent and lovely It stood in the morning Under a trackless hill; With snows eternal Muffling its summit, And silence ineffable.

Sighing of solitude Winds from the cold heights Haunted its yellowing stone; At noon its shadow Stretched athwart cedars Whence every bird was flown.

Its stair was broken, Its starlit walls were Fretted; its flowers shone Wide at the portal, Full-blown and fading, Their last faint fragrance gone.

And on high in its lantern A shape of the living Watched o'er a shoreless sea, From a Tower rotting With age and weakness, Once lovely as ivory.

BEWARE!

An ominous bird sang from its branch, 'Beware, O Wanderer! Night 'mid her flowers of glamourie spilled Draws swiftly near:

'Night with her darkened caravans, Piled deep with silver and myrrh, Draws from the portals of the East, O Wanderer near!

'Night who walks plumèd through the fields Of stars that strangely stir-- Smitten to fire by the sandals of him Who walks with her.'

THE JOURNEY

Heart-sick of his journey was the Wanderer; Footsore and sad was he; And a Witch who long had lurked by the wayside, Looked out of sorcery.

'Lift up your eyes, you lonely Wanderer,' She peeped from her casement small; 'Here's shelter and quiet to give you rest, young man, And apples for thirst withal.'

And he looked up out of his sad reverie, And saw all the woods in green, With birds that flitted feathered in the dappling, The jewel-bright leaves between.

And he lifted up his face towards her lattice, And there, alluring-wise, Slanting through the silence of the long past, Dwelt the still green Witch's eyes.

And vaguely from the hiding-place of memory Voices seemed to cry; 'What is the darkness of one brief life-time To the deaths thou hast made us die?

'Heed not the words of the Enchantress Who would us still betray!' And sad with the echo of their reproaches, Doubting, he turned away.

'I may not shelter 'neath your roof, lady, Nor in this wood's green shadow seek repose, Nor will your apples quench the thirst A homesick wanderer knows.'

'"Homesick," forsooth!' she softly mocked him: And the beauty in her face Made in the sunshine pale and trembling A stillness in that place.

And he sighed, as if in fear, the young Wanderer, Looking to left and to right, Where the endless narrow road swept onward, In the distance lost to sight.

And there fell upon his sense the briar, Haunting the air with its breath, And the faint shrill sweetness of the birds' throats, Their tent of leaves beneath.

And there was the Witch, in no wise heeding; Her arbour, and fruit-filled dish, Her pitcher of well-water, and clear damask-- All that the weary wish.

And the last gold beam across the green world Faltered and failed, as he Remembered his solitude and the dark night's Inhospitality.

His shoulders were bowed with his knapsack; His staff trailed heavy in the dust; His eyes were dazed, and hopeless of the white road Which tread all pilgrims must.

And he looked upon the Witch with eyes of sorrow In the darkening of the day; And turned him aside into oblivion; And the voices died away....

And the Witch stepped down from her casement: In the hush of night he heard The calling and wailing in dewy thicket Of bird to hidden bird.

And gloom stole all her burning crimson; Remote and faint in space As stars in gathering shadow of the evening Seemed now her phantom face.

And one night's rest shall be a myriad, Midst dreams that come and go; Till heedless fate, unmoved by weakness, bring him This same strange by-way through:

To the beauty of earth that fades in ashes, The lips of welcome, and the eyes More beauteous than the feeble shine of Hesper Lone in the lightening skies:

Till once again the Witch's guile entreat him; But, worn with wisdom, he Steadfast and cold shall choose the dark night's Inhospitality.

HAUNTED

The rabbit in his burrow keeps No guarded watch, in peace he sleeps; The wolf that howls into the night Cowers to her lair at morning light; The simplest bird entwines a nest Where she may lean her lovely breast, Couched in the silence of the bough; But thou, O man, what rest hast thou?

The deepest solitude can bring Only a subtler questioning In thy divided heart; thy bed Recalls at dawn what midnight said; Seek how thou wilt to feign content Thy flaming ardour's quickly spent; Soon thy last company is gone, And leaves thee--with thyself--alone.

Pomp and great friends may hem thee round, A thousand busy tasks be found; Earth's thronging beauties may beguile Thy longing lovesick heart awhile; And pride, like clouds of sunset, spread A changing glory round thy head; But fade will all; and thou must come, Hating thy journey, homeless, home.

Rave how thou wilt; unmoved, remote, That inward presence slumbers not, Frets out each secret from thy breast, Gives thee no rally, pause, nor rest, Scans close thy very thoughts, lest they Should sap his patient power away, Answers thy wrath with peace, thy cry With tenderest taciturnity.

SILENCE

With changeful sound life beats upon the ear; Yet striving for release The most delighting string's Sweet jargonings, The happiest throat's Most easeful, lovely notes Fall back into a veiling silentness.

Even 'mid the rumour of a moving host, Blackening the clear green earth, Vainly 'gainst that thin wall The trumpets call, Or with loud hum The smoke-bemuffled drum: From that high quietness no reply comes forth.

When all at peace, two friends at ease alone Talk out their hearts,--yet still, Between the grace-notes of The voice of love From each to each Trembles a rarer speech, And with its presence every pause doth fill.

Unmoved it broods, this all-encompassing hush Of one who stooping near, No smallest stir will make Our fear to wake; But yet intent Upon some mystery bent, Hearkens the lightest word we say, or hear.

WINTER DUSK

Dark frost was in the air without, The dusk was still with cold and gloom, When less than even a shadow came And stood within the room.

But of the three around the fire, None turned a questioning head to look, Still read a clear voice, on and on, Still stooped they o'er their book.

The children watched their mother's eyes Moving on softly line to line; It seemed to listen too--that shade, Yet made no outward sign.

The fire-flames crooned a tiny song, No cold wind moved the wintry tree; The children both in Faërie dreamed Beside their mother's knee.

And nearer yet that spirit drew Above that heedless one, intent Only on what the simple words Of her small story meant.

No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind, No memory her bosom stirred, Nor dreamed she, as she read to two, 'Twas surely three who heard.

Yet when, the story done, she smiled From face to face, serene and clear, A love, half dread, sprang up, as she Leaned close and drew them near.

AGES AGO

Launcelot loved Guinevere, Ages and ages ago, Beautiful as a bird was she, Preening its wings in a cypress tree, Happy in sadness, she and he, They loved each other so.

Helen of Troy was beautiful As tender flower in May, Her loveliness from the towers looked down, With the sweet moon for silver crown, Over the walls of Troy Town, Hundreds of years away.

Cleopatra, Egypt's Queen, Was wondrous kind to ken, As when the stars in the dark sky Like buds on thorny branches lie, So seemed she too to Antony, That age-gone prince of men.

The Pyramids are old stones, Scarred is that grey face, That by the greenness of Old Nile Gazes with an unchanging smile, Man with all mystery to beguile And give his thinking grace.

HOME

Rest, rest--there is no rest, Until the quiet grave Comes with its narrow arch The heart to save From life's long cankering rust, From torpor, cold and still-- The loveless, saddened dust, The jaded will.

And yet, be far the hour Whose haven calls me home; Long be the arduous day Till evening come; What sureness now remains But that through livelong strife Only the loser gains An end to life?

Then in the soundless deep Of even the shallowest grave Childhood and love he'll keep, And his soul save; All vext desire, all vain Cries of a conflict done Fallen to rest again; Death's refuge won.

THE GHOST

Peace in thy hands, Peace in thine eyes, Peace on thy brow; Flower of a moment in the eternal hour, Peace with me now.

Not a wave breaks, Not a bird calls, My heart, like a sea, Silent after a storm that hath died, Sleeps within me.

All the night's dews, All the world's leaves, All winter's snow Seem with their quiet to have stilled in life's dream All sorrowing now.

AN EPITAPH

Here lies a most beautiful lady, Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare--rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?

'THE HAWTHORN HATH A DEATHLY SMELL'

The flowers of the field Have a sweet smell; Meadowsweet, tansy, thyme, And faint-heart pimpernel; But sweeter even than these, The silver of the may Wreathed is with incense for The Judgment Day.

An apple, a child, dust, When falls the evening rain, Wild briar's spicèd leaves, Breathe memories again; With further memory fraught, The silver of the may Wreathed is with incense for The Judgment Day.

Eyes of all loveliness-- Shadow of strange delight, Even as a flower fades Must thou from sight; But oh, o'er thy grave's mound, Till come the Judgment Day, Wreathed shall with incense be Thy sharp-thorned may.

_The Third Edition, Revised and Enlarged, of_

THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE

COMPILED BY

BURTON E. STEVENSON

has been revised from end to end--590 poems have been added, pages renumbered, author, title, and first line indices, and the biographical matter corrected, etc., etc.

The hundreds of letters from readers and poets suggesting additions or corrections as well as the columns of reviews of the first edition have been considered. Poets who were chary of lending their support to an unknown venture have now generously permitted the use of their work.

This edition includes the "new" poets such as MASEFIELD, CHESTERTON, FROST, RUPERT BROOKE, DE LA MARE, RALPH HODGSON, etc.

"A collection so complete and distinguished that it is difficult to find any other approaching it sufficiently for comparison."--_New York Times Book Review_ on the first edition.

_India Paper, 4,096 pages_

_Cloth, one volume,_ _Cloth, two volumes,_ _Half Morocco, one volume,_ _Half Morocco, two volumes,_

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE

_By ROMAIN ROLLAND_

Translated from the French by GILBERT CANNAN. In three volumes, each $1.50 net.

This great trilogy, the life story of a musician, at first the sensation of musical circles in Paris, has come to be one of the most discussed books among literary circles in France, England and America.

Each volume of the American edition has its own individual interest, can be understood without the other, and comes to a definite conclusion.

_The three volumes with the titles of the French volumes included are:_

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE Dawn--Morning--Youth--Revolt

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE IN PARIS The Market Place--Antoinette--The House

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE: JOURNEY'S END Love and Friendship--The Burning Bush--The New Dawn

_Some Noteworthy Comments_

"'Hats off, gentlemen--a genius.' · One may mention 'Jean-Christophe' in the same breath with Balzac's 'Lost Illusions'; it is as big as that. · It is moderate praise to call it with Edmund Gosse 'the noblest work of fiction of the twentieth century'. · A book as big, as elemental, as original as though the art of fiction began to-day. . We have nothing comparable in English literature. · "--_Springfield Republican._

"If a man wishes to understand those devious currents which make up the great, changing sea of modern life, there is hardly a single

## book more illustrative, more informing and more

inspiring."--_Current Opinion._

"Must rank as one of the very few important works of fiction of the last decade. A vital compelling work. We who love it feel that it will live."--_Independent._

"The most momentous novel that has come to us from France, or from any other European country, in a decade."--_Boston Transcript._

_A 32-page booklet about Romain Rolland and Jean-Christophe, with portraits and complete reviews, on request._

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK