Part 3

The universe, deathless and old, Breathes, yet is void of breath: As still as death that seems to move And yet is still as death.

THE APPARITION

Gentle angel with your mantle, All of tender green, I was yearning for a vision Of the life unseen.

When you hovered in the sunset, Just as rain was done; Where the dropping from the poplars Seemed like rain begun.

There you gathered forming slowly Rounding into view: All your vesture glowed like verdure When the sap is new.

Then you mutely gave your warning And I felt the stress Of its passion and its presage And its utterness.

There you swayed one tranquil moment, Mystically fair, Then you were not of the sunset, Were not in the air.

AT SEA

Three are emerald pools in the sea, And wing-like flashes of light; The sea is bound with the heavens In a large delight.

Night comes out of the east And rushes down on the sun; The emerald pools and the light pools Are darkened and done.

Our boat dips and cleaves onward, Careless of night or of light, Following the line of her compass By her engines' might.

Through the desert of air and of water; Like the lonely soul of man, Following her fate to the ending, Unaware of the hidden plan.

Sure only of battle and longing, Of the pain and the quest, And beyond in the darkness somewhere Sure of her rest.

MADONNA WITH TWO ANGELS

Under the sky without a stain The long, ripe, rippling of the grain; Light, broadcast from the golden oats Over the blackberry fences floats. Madonna sits in a cedar chair Tranquillized by the warm, still air; One of the angels asleep on her knee Under the shade of an apple tree. The other angel holds a doll, Covered warm in a tiny shawl; The toy is supposed to be fast asleep As the sister angel: in dimples deep The grave, sweet charm on the baby face Repeats the look of maturer grace That hovers about Madonna's eyes, One of the heavenly mysteries From far ethereal latitudes Where neither doubt nor trouble intrudes. Ponder here in the orchard nest On the truth of life made manifest: The struggle and effort was all to prove That the best of the world is home and love.

MID-AUGUST

From the upland hidden, Where the hill is sunny Tawny like pure honey In the August heat, Memories float unbidden Where the thicket serries Fragrant with ripe berries And the milk-weed sweet.

Like a prayer-mat holy Are the patterned mosses Which the twin-flower crosses With her flowerless vine; In fragile melancholy The pallid ghost flowers hover As if to guard and cover The shadow of a shrine.

Where the pine-linnet lingered The pale water searches, The roots of gleaming birches Draw silver from the lake; The ripples, liquid-fingered, Plucking the root-layers, Fairy like lute players Lulling music make.

O to lie here brooding Where the pine-tree column Rises dark and solemn To the airy lair, Where, the day eluding, Night is couched dream laden, Like a deep witch-maiden Hidden in her hair.

In filmy evanescence Wraithlike scents assemble, Then dissolve and tremble A little until they die; Spirits of the florescence Where the bees searched and tarried Till the blossoms all were married In the days before July.

Light has lost its splendour, Light refined and sifted, Cool light and dream drifted Ventures even where, (Seeping silver tender) In the dim recesses, Trembling mid her tresses, Hides the maiden hair.

Covered with the shy-light, Filling in the hushes, Slide the tawny thrushes Calling to their broods, Hoarding till the twilight The song that made for noon-days Of the amorous June days Preludes and interludes.

The joy that I am feeling Is there something in it Unlike the warble the linnet Phrases and intones? Or is a like thought stealing With a rapture fine, free Through the happy pine tree Ripening her cones?

In some high existence In another planet Where their poets cannot Know our birds and flowers, Does the same persistence Give the dreams they issue Something like the tissue Of these dreams of ours?

O to lie athinking-- Moods and whims! I fancy Only necromancy Could the web unroll, Only somehow linking Beauties that meet and mingle In this quiet dingle With the beauty of the whole.

MIST AND FROST

Veil-like and beautiful Gathered the dutiful Mist in the night, True to the messaging, Dreamful and presaging Vapour and light.

Ghostly and chill it is, Pallid and still it is, Sudden uprist; What is there tragical, Moving or magical, Hid in the mist?

Millions of essences, Fairy-like presences Formless as yet; Light-riven spangles, Crystalline tangles Floating unset.

Frost will come shepherding Nowise enjeoparding Frondage or flower; Just a degree of it, Nought can we see of it Only its power.

Earth like a Swimmer Plunged into the dimmer Wave of the night, Now is uprisen, An Elysian vision Of spray and of light.

'Tis the intangible Delicate frangible Secret of mist, Breathing may banish it, Thought may evanish it,-- Ponder and whist!

Passionless purity, Calmness in surety Dwells everywhere, A winnowed whiteness, A lunar lightness Glows in the air.

But in the heart of it Every least part of it Blooms with the charm, Star-shape and frondage Broken from bondage Forged into form.

Crystals encrusted, Diamonds dusted Line everything, Tiny the stencillings Are as the pencillings On a moth's wing.

And O, what a wonder! No farther asunder Than atoms are laid, The arches and angles Of star-froth and spangles Cast their own shade.

Out from the chalices, The pigmy palaces Where the tint hides, Opal and sapphire Half-pearl and half-fire The colour slides;

Till the frail miracle Rapturous lyrical Flushes and glows With a wraith of florescence That tempers or lessens The light of the snows.

Held all aquiver,-- But now with a shiver The power of the sun Dissolves the laces Of the tender mazes, All is undone.

But the old Earth brooding, All wisdom including, Affirms and assures That above the material, Triumphal imperial Beauty endures.

THE BEGGAR AND THE ANGEL

An angel burdened with self-pity Came out of heaven to a modern city.

He saw a beggar on the street, Where the tides of traffic meet.

A pair of brass-bound hickory pegs Brought him his pence instead of legs.

A murky dog by him did lie, Poodle, in part, his ancestry.

The angel stood and thought upon This poodle-haunted beggar man.

"My life is grown a bore," said he, "One long round of sciamachy;

I think I'll do a little good, By way of change from angelhood."

He drew near to the beggar grim, And gravely thus accosted him:

"How would you like, my friend, to fly All day through the translucent sky;

To knock at the door of the red leaven, And even to enter the orthodox heaven?

If you would care to know this joy, I will surrender my employ,

And take your ills, collect your pelf, An humble beggar like yourself.

For ages you these joys may know, While I shall suffer here below;

And in the end we both may gain Access of pleasure from my pain."

The stationary vagrant said, "I do not mind, so go ahead."

The angel told the heavenly charm, He felt a wing on either arm;

"Good-day," he said, "this floating's queer If I should want to change next year--?"

"Pull out that feather!" the angel said, "The one half black and the other half red."

The cripple cried, "Before you're through You may get fagged, and if you do,--"

The angel superciliously-- "My transformed friend, don't think of me.

I shall be happy day and night, In doing what I think is right."

"So so," the feathered beggar said, "Good-bye, I am just overhead."

* * * * *

The angel when he grasped the dish, Began to criticize his wish.

The seat was hard as granite rocks, His real legs were in the box.

His knees were cramped, his shins were sore, The lying pegs stuck out before.

In vain he clinked the dish and whined. The passers-by seemed deaf and blind.

As pious looking as Saint Denis, An urchin stole his catch-penny.

And even the beggar's drab-fleeced poodle Began to know him for a noodle.

"It has an uncelestial scent, The clothing of this mendicant;"

He cried, "That trickling down my spine Is anything but hyaline.

This day is like a thousand years: I'd give an age of sighs and tears

To see with his confectioned grin One cherub sitting on his chin.

That cripple was by far too sly-- I wish he'd tumble from the sky,

That things might be as they were before; I really cannot stand much more!"

* * * * *

The beggar in the angel's guise, Rose far above the smoky skies.

But being a beggar, never saw The charm of the compelling law

That turned the swinging universe: 'Twas gloomy as an empty purse.

Often with heaven in his head, He blundered on a planet dead.

And when with an immortal fuss, He singed his wings at Sirius.

He plucked the feather with his teeth, The charm was potent and beneath,

He saw the turmoil of the way Grown wilder at the close of day,

With the sad poodle, can in hand, The angel still at the old stand.

"My friend," said the angel, hemming and humming, "Truly I thought you were never coming."

"That's an unhandsome thing to say, Seeing I've only been gone a day.

But there's nothing in all your brazen sky To match the cock of that poodle's eye.

Take your dish and give me my wings, 'Tis but a fair exchange of things."

* * * * *

The beggar felt his garment's rot, The horn ridge of each callous spot;

He clinked his can and was content; His poverty was permanent.

IMPROVISATION ON AN OLD SONG

(The refrain is quoted by Edward Fitzgerald in one of his letters)

I

Growing, growing, all the glory going; Flashing out of fire and light, burning to a husk, All the world's a-dying and failing in the dusk-- _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Rust is on the door-latch, ashes at the root, Dry rot in the ridge-pole, canker in the fruit; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Plot, ye subtle statesmen,--a trace of melted wax; Bind, ye haughty prelates,--a thread of ravelled flax; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

March, ye mighty captains,--an eddy in the dust; Rave, ye furious lovers,--a stain of crimson rust; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Pictures, poems, music--their essential soul, Idle as dry roses in a silver bowl; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

London is a hearsay, Paris but a myth, Rome a wand of sweet-flag withered to the pith; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Palsy shakes the planets, frost has chilled the sun, In a crushing silence the All is dead and done. _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

II

Going, going, all the glory growing, See it stir and flutter; that is singing, hark! Singing in the caverns of the primal dark. _Going, going, all the glory growing._

What is in the making, what immortal plan Draws to its unfolding? 'Tis the Soul of man. _Going, going, all the glory growing._

See it mount and hover, singing as it goes, Battling with the darkness, nourished by its woes; _Going, going, all the glory growing._

The bale-fires of midnight glaring in its eyes, Past the phantom shadows see it rush and rise; _Going, going, all the glory growing._

The supernal morning on its dewy wings, Soaring and scorning the lust of earthy things; _Going, going, all the glory growing._

The beatific noontide on its eager breast Springing and singing to its halcyon rest; _Going, going, all the glory growing._

In its starry vesture not a vestige of the sod, Winging still and singing to the heart of God. _Going, going, all the glory growing._

O TURN ONCE MORE

O turn once more! The meadows where we mused and strayed together Abound and glow yet with the ruby sorrel; 'Twas there the bluebirds fought and played together, Their quarrel was a flying bluebird-quarrel; Their nest is firm still in the burnished cherry, They will come back there some day and be merry; O turn once more.

O turn once more! The spring we lingered at is ever steeping The long, cool grasses where the violets hide, Where you awoke the flower-heads from their sleeping And plucked them, proud in their inviolate pride; You left the roots, the roots will flower again, O turn once more and pluck the flower again; O turn once more.

O turn once more! We were the first to find the fairy places Where the tall lady-slippers scarf'd and snooded, Painted their lovely thoughts upon their faces, And then, bewitched by their own beauty brooded; This will recur in some enchanted fashion; Time will repeat his miracles of passion; O turn once more.

O turn once more! What heart is worth the longing for, the winning, That is not moved by currents of surprise; Who never breaks the silken thread in spinning, Shows a bare spindle when the daylight dies; The constant blood will yet flow full and tender; The thread will mended be though gossamer-slender; O turn once more.

AT THE GILL-NETS

Tug at the net, Haul at the net, Strip off the quivering fish; Hid in the mist The winds whist, Is like my heart's wish.

What is your wish, Your heart's wish? Is it for home on the hills? Strip off the fish, The silver fish, Caught by their rosy gills.

How can I know, I love you so, Each little thought I get Is held so, It dies you know, Caught in your heart's net.

Tug at your net, Your heart's net, Strip off my silver fancies; Keep them in rhyme, For a dull time, Fragile as frost pansies.

A LOVE SONG

I gave her a rose in early June, Fed with the sun and the dew, Each petal I said is a note in the tune, The rose is the whole tune through and through, The tune is the whole red-hearted rose, Flush and form, honey and hue, Lull with the cadence and throb to the close, I love you, I love you, I love you.

She gave me a rose in early June, Fed with the sun and the dew, Each petal she said is a mount in the moon, The rose is the whole moon through and through, The moon is the whole pale-hearted rose, Round and radiance, burnish and blue, Break in the flood-tide that murmurs and flows, I love you, I love you, I love you.

This is our love in early June, Fed with the sun and the dew, Moonlight and roses hid in a tune, The roses are music through and through, The moonlight falls in the breath of the rose, Light and cadence, honey and hue, Mingle, and murmur, and flow to the close, I love you, I love you, I love you.

THREE SONGS

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 pleasure, I have songs of happy heart, Songs are mine that pulse in measure To the throbbing of the mart.

Songs are mine of magic seeming, In a land of love forlorn, Where the joys are had for dreaming, At a summons from the horn.

But my sad songs come unbidden, Rising with a wilder zest, From the bitter pool that's hidden, Deep--deep--deep within my breast.

THE SAILOR'S SWEETHEART

O if love were had for asking, In the markets of the town, Hardly a lass would think to wear A fine silken gown: But love is had by grieving By choosing and by leaving, And there's no one now to ask me If heavy lies my heart.

O if love were had for a deep wish In the deadness of the night, There'd be a truce to longing Between the dusk and the light: But love is had for sighing, For living and for dying, And there's no one now to ask me If heavy lies my heart.

O if love were had for taking Like honey from the hive, The bees that made the tender stuff Could hardly keep alive: But love it is a wounded thing, A tremor and a smart, And there's no one left to kiss me now Over my heavy heart.

FEUILLES D'AUTOMNE

Gather the leaves from the forest And blow them over the world, The wind of winter follows The wind of autumn furled.

Only the beech tree cherishes A leaf or two for ruth, Their stems too tough for the tempest, Like thoughts of love and of youth.

You may sit by the fire and ponder While darkness veils the pane, And fear that your memories are rushing away In the wind and the rain.

But you'll find them in the quiet When the clouds race with the moon, Making the tender silver sound Of a beech in the month of June.

For you cannot rob the memory Of the leaves it loves the best; The wind of time may harry them, It rushes away with the rest.

TO THE HEROIC SOUL

I

Nurture thyself, O Soul, from the clear spring That wells beneath the secret inner shrine; Commune with its deep murmur,--'tis divine; Be faithful to the ebb and flow that bring The outer tide of Spirit to trouble and swing The inlet of thy being. Learn to know These powers, and life with all its venom and show Shall have no force to dazzle thee or sting:

And when Grief comes thou shalt have suffered more Than all the deepest woes of all the world; Joy, dancing in, shall find thee nourished with mirth; Wisdom shall find her Master at thy door; And Love shall find thee crowned with love empearled; And death shall touch thee not but a new birth.

II

Be strong, O warring soul! For very sooth Kings are but wraiths, republics fade like rain, Peoples are reaped and garnered as the grain, And that alone prevails which is the truth: Be strong when all the days of life bear ruth And fury, and are hot with toil and strain: Hold thy large faith and quell thy mighty pain: Dream the great dream that buoys thine age with youth.

Thou art an eagle mewed in a sea-stopped cave: He, poised in darkness with victorious wings, Keeps night between the granite and the sea, Until the tide has drawn the warder-wave: Then from the portal where the ripple rings, He bursts into the boundless morning,--free!

RETROSPECT

This is the mockery of the moving years; Youth's colour dies, the fervid morning glow Is gone from off the foreland; slow, slow, Even slower than the fount of human tears To empty, the consuming shadow nears That Time is casting on the worldly show Of pomp and glory. But falter not;--below That thought is based a deeper thought that cheers.

Glean thou thy past; that will alone inure To catch thy heart up from a dark distress; It were enough to find one deed mature, Deep-rooted, mighty 'mid the toil and press; To save one memory of the sweet and pure, From out life's failure and its bitterness.

FROST MAGIC

I

Now, in the moonrise, from a wintry sky, The frost has come to charm with elfin might This quiet room; to draw with symbols bright Faces and forms in fairest charactery Upon the casement; all the thoughts that lie Deep hidden in my heart's core he would tell, How the red shoots of fancy strike and swell, How they are watered, what soil nourished by.

With eerie power he piles his atomies, Incrusted gems, star-glances overborne With lids of sleep pulled from the moth's bright eyes, And forests of frail ferns, blanched and forlorn, Where Oberon of unimagined size Might in the silver silence wind his horn.

II

With these alone he draws in magic lines, Faces that people dreams, and chiefly one Happy and brilliant as the northern sun, And by its darling side there gleams and shines One of God's children with the laughing signs Of dimples, and glad accents, and sweet cries, That angels are and heaven's memories: The wizard thus my soul's estate divines;

All it holds dear he sets alone apart, Etches the past in likeness of dim groves Silvered in quiet rime and with rare art, In crystal spoils and fairy treasure-troves, He draws the picture of the happy heart, By those who love it most, whom most it loves.

IN SNOW-TIME

I have seen things that charmed the heart to rest: Faint moonlight on the towers of ancient towns, Flattering the soul to dream of old renowns; The first clear silver on the mountain crest Where the lone eagle by his chilly nest Called the lone soul to brood serenely free; Still pools of sunlight shimmering in the sea, Calm after storm, wherein the storm seemed blest.

But here a peace deeper than peace is furled, Enshrined and chaliced from the changeful hour; The snow is still, yet lives in its own light. Here is the peace which brooded day and night, Before the heart of man with its wild power Had ever spurned or trampled the great world.

TO A CANADIAN LAD KILLED IN THE WAR

O noble youth that held our honour in keeping, And bore it sacred through the battle flame, How shall we give full measure of acclaim To thy sharp labour, thy immortal reaping? For though we sowed with doubtful hands, half sleeping, Thou in thy vivid pride hast reaped a nation, And brought it in with shouts and exultation, With drums and trumpets, with flags flashing and leaping.

Let us bring pungent wreaths of balsam, and tender Tendrils of wild-flowers, lovelier for thy daring, And deck a sylvan shrine, where the maple parts The moonlight, with lilac bloom, and the splendour Of suns unwearied; all unwithered, wearing Thy valor stainless in our heart of hearts.

THE CLOSED DOOR

_The dew falls and the stars fall, The sun falls in the west, But never more Through the closed door, Shall the one that I loved best Return to me: A salt tear is the sea, All earth's air is a sigh, But they never can mourn for me With my heart's cry, For the one that I loved best Who caressed me with her eyes, And every morning came to me, With the beauty of sunrise, Who was health and wealth and all, Who never shall answer my call, While the sun falls in the west, The dew falls and the stars fall._

BY A CHILD'S BED

She breathed deep, And stepped from out life's stream Upon the shore of sleep; And parted from the earthly noise, Leaving her world of toys, To dwell a little in a dell of dream.