Part 7

Thro’ the trees in the strange dead night, Under the vast dead sky, Forgetting and forgot, a drift of Dead Sets to the mystic mere, the phantom fell, And the unimagined vastitudes beyond.

XXIII _To_ P. A. G.

HERE they trysted, here they strayed, In the leafage dewy and boon, Many a man and many a maid, And the morn was merry June. ‘Death is fleet, Life is sweet,’ Sang the blackbird in the may; And the hour with flying feet, While they dreamed, was yesterday.

Many a maid and many a man Found the leafage close and boon; Many a destiny began— O, the morn was merry June! Dead and gone, dead and gone, (Hark the blackbird in the may!), Life and Death went hurrying on, Cheek on cheek—and where were they?

Dust on dust engendering dust In the leafage fresh and boon, Man and maid fulfil their trust— Still the morn turns merry June. Mother Life, Father Death (O, the blackbird in the may!), Each the other’s breath for breath, Fleet the times of the world away.

XXIV _To_ A. C.

NOT to the staring Day, For all the importunate questionings he pursues In his big, violent voice, Shall those mild things of bulk and multitude, The Trees—God’s sentinels Over His gift of live, life-giving air, Yield of their huge, unutterable selves. Midsummer-manifold, each one Voluminous, a labyrinth of life, They keep their greenest musings, and the dim dreams That haunt their leafier privacies, Dissembled, baffling the random gapeseed still With blank full-faces, or the innocent guile Of laughter flickering back from shine to shade, And disappearances of homing birds, And frolicsome freaks Of little boughs that frisk with little boughs.

But at the word Of the ancient, sacerdotal Night, Night of the many secrets, whose effect— Transfiguring, hierophantic, dread— Themselves alone may fully apprehend, They tremble and are changed. In each, the uncouth individual soul Looms forth and glooms Essential, and, their bodily presences Touched with inordinate significance, Wearing the darkness like the livery Of some mysterious and tremendous guild, They brood—they menace—they appal; Or the anguish of prophecy tears them, and they wring Wild hands of warning in the face Of some inevitable advance of the doom; Or, each to the other bending, beckoning, signing As in some monstrous market-place, They pass the news, these Gossips of the Prime, In that old speech their forefathers Learned on the lawns of Eden, ere they heard The troubled voice of Eve Naming the wondering folk of Paradise.

Your sense is sealed, or you should hear them tell The tale of their dim life, with all Its compost of experience: how the Sun Spreads them their daily feast, Sumptuous, of light, firing them as with wine; Of the old Moon’s fitful solicitude And those mild messages the Stars Descend in silver silences and dews; Or what the sweet-breathing West, Wanton with wading in the swirl of the wheat, Said, and their leafage laughed; And how the wet-winged Angel of the Rain Came whispering . . . whispering; and the gifts of the Year— The sting of the stirring sap Under the wizardry of the young-eyed Spring, Their summer amplitudes of pomp, Their rich autumnal melancholy, and the shrill, Embittered housewifery Of the lean Winter: all such things, And with them all the goodness of the Master, Whose right hand blesses with increase and life, Whose left hand honours with decay and death.

Thus under the constraint of Night These gross and simple creatures, Each in his scores of rings, which rings are years, A servant of the Will! And God, the Craftsman, as He walks The floor of His workshop, hearkens, full of cheer In thus accomplishing The aims of His miraculous artistry.

XXV

WHAT have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere, As the Lord were walking near, Whispering terrible things and dear As the Song on your bugles blown, England— Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you’ve done, England, my own? When shall he rejoice agen Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown, England— Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures, England, my England:— ‘Take and break us: we are yours, ‘England, my own! ‘Life is good, and joy runs high ‘Between English earth and sky: ‘Death is death; but we shall die ‘To the Song on your bugles blown, ‘England— ‘To the stars on your bugles blown!

They call you proud and hard, England, my England: You with worlds to watch and ward, England, my own! You whose mailed hand keeps the keys Of such teeming destinies You could know nor dread nor ease Were the Song on your bugles blown, England, Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might, England, my England, Is the fierce old Sea’s delight, England, my own, Chosen daughter of the Lord, Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword, There’s the menace of the Word In the Song on your bugles blown, England— Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

_EPILOGUE_

_These_, _to you now_, _O_, _more than ever now_— _Now that the Ancient Enemy_ _Has passed_, _and we_, _we two that are one_, _have seen_ _A piece of perfect Life_ _Turn to so ravishing a shape of Death_ _The Arch-Discomforter might well have smiled_ _In pity and pride_, _Even as he bore his lovely and innocent spoil_ _From those home-kingdoms he left desolate_!

_Poor windlestraws_ _On the great_, _sullen_, _roaring pool of Time_ _And Chance and Change_, _I know_! _But they are yours_, _as I am_, _till we attain_ _That end for which me make_, _we two that are one_: _A little_, _exquisite Ghost_ _Between us_, _smiling with the serenest eyes_ _Seen in this world_, _and calling_, _calling still_ _In that clear voice whose infinite subtleties_ _Of sweetness_, _thrilling back across the grave_, _Break the poor heart to hear_:— ‘Come, Dadsie, come! Mama, how long—how long!’

_July_ 1897.