Part 3

Night came again, but now I could not sleep. The owls were watching in the yew, the mice Gnawed at the wainscot; the mid dark was deep, The death-watch knocked the dead man's summons thrice. The cats upon the pointed housetops peered About the chimneys, with lit eyes which saw Things in the darkness, moving, which they feared. The midnight filled the quiet house with awe. So, creeping down the stair, I drew the bolt And passed into the darkness, and I knew That Beauty was brought near by my revolt. Beauty was in the moonlight, in the dew, But more within myself whose venturous tread Walked the dark house where death ticks called the dead.

Even after all these years there comes the dream Of lovelier life than this in some new earth, In the full summer of that unearthly gleam Which lights the spirit when the brain gives birth, Of a perfected I, in happy hours, Treading above the sea that trembles there, A path through thickets of immortal flowers That only grow where sorrows never were. And, at a turn, of coming face to face With Beauty's self, that Beauty I have sought In women's hearts, in friends, in many a place, In barren hours passed at grips with thought, Beauty of woman, comrade, earth and sea, Incarnate thought come face to face with me.

If I could come again to that dear place Where once I came, where Beauty lived and moved, Where, by the sea, I saw her face to face, That soul alive by which the world has loved; If, as I stood at gaze among the leaves, She would appear again, as once before, While the red herdsman gathered up his sheaves And brimming waters trembled up the shore; If, as I gazed, her Beauty that was dumb, In that old time, before I learned to speak, Would lean to me and revelation come, Words to the lips and color to the cheek, Joy with its searing-iron would burn me wise, I should know all; all powers, all mysteries.

Men are made human by the mighty fall The mighty passion led to, these remain. The despot, at the last assaulted wall, By long disaster is made man again, The faithful fool who follows the torn flag, The woman marching by the beaten man, Make with their truth atonement for the brag, And earn a pity for the too proud plan. For in disaster, in the ruined will, In the soiled shreds of what the brain conceived, Something above the wreck is steady still, Bright above all that cannot be retrieved, Grandeur of soul, a touching of the star That good days cover but by which we are.

Here in the self is all that man can know Of Beauty, all the wonder, all the power, All the unearthly color, all the glow, Here in the self which withers like a flower; Here in the self which fades as hours pass, And droops and dies and rots and is forgotten, Sooner, by ages, than the mirroring glass In which it sees its glory still unrotten. Here in the flesh, within the flesh, behind, Swift in the blood and throbbing on the bone, Beauty herself, the universal mind, Eternal April wandering alone, The god, the holy ghost, the atoning lord, Here in the flesh, the never yet explored.

Flesh, I have knocked at many a dusty door, Gone down full many a windy midnight lane, Probed in old walls and felt along the floor, Pressed in blind hope the lighted window-pane. But useless all, though sometimes, when the moon Was full in heaven and the sea was full, Along my body's alleys came a tune Played in the tavern by the Beautiful. Then for an instant I have felt at point To find and seize her, whosoe'er she be, Whether some saint whose glory does anoint Those whom she loves, or but a part of me, Or something that the things not understood Make for their uses out of flesh and blood.

But all has passed, the tune has died away, The glamour gone, the glory; is it chance? Is the unfeeling mud stabbed by a ray Cast by an unseen splendor's great advance? Or does the glory gather crumb by crumb Unseen, within, as coral islands rise, Till suddenly the apparitions come Above the surface, looking at the skies? Or does sweet Beauty dwell in lovely things, Scattering the holy hintings of her name In women, in dear friends, in flowers, in springs, In the brook's voice, for us to catch the same? Or is it we who are Beauty, we who ask, We by whose gleams the world fulfils its task?

These myriad days, these many thousand hours, A man's long life, so choked with dusty things, How little perfect poise with perfect powers, Joy at the heart and Beauty at the springs. One hour, or two, or three, in long years scattered, Sparks from a smithy that have fired a thatch, Are all that life has given and all that mattered, The rest, all heaving at a moveless latch. For these, so many years of useless toil, Despair, endeavor, and again despair, Sweat, that the base machine may have its oil, Idle delight to tempt one everywhere. A life upon the cross. To make amends Three flaming memories that the deathbed ends.

There, on the darkened deathbed, dies the brain That flared three several times in seventy years; It cannot lift the silly hand again, Nor speak, nor sing, it neither sees nor hears. And muffled mourners put it in the ground And then go home, and in the earth it lies, Too dark for vision and too deep for sound, The million cells that made a good man wise. Yet for a few short years an influence stirs A sense or wraith or essence of him dead, Which makes insensate things its ministers To those beloved, his spirit's daily bread; Then that, too, fades; in book or deed a spark Lingers, then that, too, fades; then all is dark.

So in the empty sky the stars appear, Are bright in heaven marching through the sky, Spinning their planets, each one to his year, Tossing their fiery hair until they die; Then in the tower afar the watcher sees The sun, that burned, less noble than it was, Less noble still, until by dim degrees, No spark of him is specklike in his glass. Then blind and dark in heaven the sun proceeds, Vast, dead and hideous, knocking on his moons, Till crashing on his like creation breeds, Striking such life a constellation swoons. From dead things striking fire a new sun springs, New fire, new life, new planets with new wings.

It may be so with us, that in the dark, When we have done with Time and wander Space, Some meeting of the blind may strike a spark, And to Death's empty mansion give a grace. It may be, that the loosened soul may find Some new delight of living without limbs, Bodiless joy of flesh-untrammelled mind, Peace like a sky where starlike spirit swims. It may be, that the million cells of sense, Loosed from their seventy years' adhesion, pass Each to some joy of changed experience, Weight in the earth or glory in the grass; It may be that we cease; we cannot tell. Even if we cease life is a miracle.

Man has his unseen friend, his unseen twin, His straitened spirit's possibility, The palace unexplored he thinks an inn, The glorious garden which he wanders by. It is beside us while we clutch at clay To daub ourselves that we may never see. Like the lame donkey lured by moving hay We chase the shade but let the real be. Yet, when confusion in our heaven brings stress, We thrust on that unseen, get stature from it, Cast to the devil's challenge the man's yes, And stream our fiery hour like a comet, And know for that fierce hour a friend behind, With sword and shield, the second to the mind.

What am I, Life? A thing of watery salt Held in cohesion by unresting cells, Which work they know not why, which never halt, Myself unwitting where their Master dwells. I do not bid them, yet they toil, they spin; A world which uses me as I use them, Nor do I know which end or which begin Nor which to praise, which pamper, which condemn. So, like a marvel in a marvel set, I answer to the vast, as wave by wave The sea of air goes over, dry or wet, Or the full moon comes swimming from her cave, Or the great sun comes north, this myriad I Tingles, not knowing how, yet wondering why.

If I could get within this changing I, This ever altering thing which yet persists, Keeping the features it is reckoned by, While each component atom breaks or twists, If, wandering past strange groups of shifting forms, Cells at their hidden marvels hard at work, Pale from much toil, or red from sudden storms, I might attain to where the Rulers lurk. If, pressing past the guards in those grey gates, The brain's most folded intertwisted shell, I might attain to that which alters fates, The King, the supreme self, the Master Cell, Then, on Man's earthly peak, I might behold The unearthly self beyond, unguessed, untold.

What is this atom which contains the whole, This miracle which needs adjuncts so strange, This, which imagined God and is the soul, The steady star persisting amid change? What waste, that smallness of such power should need Such clumsy tools so easy to destroy, Such wasteful servants difficult to feed, Such indirect dark avenues to joy. Why, if its business is not mainly earth, Should it demand such heavy chains to sense? A heavenly thing demands a swifter birth, A quicker hand to act intelligence. An earthly thing were better like the rose At peace with clay from which its beauty grows.

Ah, we are neither heaven nor earth, but men; Something that uses and despises both, That takes its earth's contentment in the pen, Then sees the world's injustice and is wroth, And flinging off youth's happy promise, flies Up to some breach, despising earthly things, And, in contempt of hell and heaven, dies, Rather than bear some yoke of priests or kings. Our joys are not of heaven nor earth, but man's, A woman's beauty or a child's delight, The trembling blood when the discoverer scans The sought-for world, the guessed-at satellite; The ringing scene, the stone at point to blush For unborn men to look at and say "Hush."

Roses are beauty, but I never see Those blood drops from the burning heart of June Glowing like thought upon the living tree, Without a pity that they die so soon, Die into petals, like those roses old, Those women, who were summer in men's hearts Before the smile upon the Sphinx was cold, Or sand had hid the Syrian and his arts. O myriad dust of beauty that lies thick Under our feet that not a single grain But stirred and moved in beauty and was quick For one brief moon and died nor lived again; But when the moon rose lay upon the grass Pasture to living beauty, life that was.

Over the church's door they moved a stone And there, unguessed, forgotten, mortared up, Lay the priest's cell where he had lived alone; There was his ashy hearth, his drinking cup; There was the window whence he saw the host, The god whose beauty quickened bread and wine, The skeleton of a religion lost, The ghostless bones of what had been divine. O many a time the dusty masons come, Knocking their trowels in the stony brain, To cells where perished priests had once a home, Or where devout brows pressed the window pane, Watching the thing made God, the god whose bones Bind underground our soul's foundation stones.

I never see the red rose crown the year, Nor feel the young grass underneath my tread, Without the thought "This living beauty here Is earth's remembrance of a beauty dead. Surely where all this glory is displayed Love has been quick, like fire, to high ends, Here, in this grass, an altar has been made For some white joy, some sacrifice of friends; Here, where I stand, some leap of human brains Has touched immortal things and left its trace, The earth is happy here, the gleam remains; Beauty is here, the spirit of the place, I touch the faith which nothing can destroy, The earth, the living church of ancient joy."

Out of the clouds come torrents, from the earth Fire and quakings, from the shrieking air Tempests that harry half the planet's girth. Death's unseen seeds are scattered everywhere. Yet in his iron cage the mind of man Measures and braves the terrors of all these, The blindest fury and the subtlest plan He turns, or tames, or shows in their degrees. Yet in himself are forces of like power, Untamed, unreckoned; seeds that brain to brain Pass across oceans bringing thought to flower, New worlds, new selves, where he can live again, Eternal beauty's everlasting rose Which casts this world as shadow as it goes.

O little self, within whose smallness lies All that man was, and is, and will become, Atom unseen that comprehends the skies And tells the tracks by which the planets roam. That, without moving, knows the joys of wings, The tiger's strength, the eagle's secrecy, And in the hovel can consort with kings, Or clothe a god with his own mystery. O with what darkness do we cloak thy light, What dusty folly gather thee for food, Thou who alone art knowledge and delight, The heavenly bread, the beautiful, the good. O living self, O god, O morning star, Give us thy light, forgive us what we are.

I went into the fields, but you were there Waiting for me, so all the summer flowers Were only glimpses of your starry powers, Beautiful and inspired dust they were. I went down by the waters, and a bird Sang with your voice in all the unknown tones Of all that self of you I have not heard, So that my being felt you to the bones. I went into my house, and shut the door To be alone, but you were there with me; All beauty in a little room may be Though the roof lean and muddy be the floor. Then in my bed I bound my tired eyes To make a darkness for my weary brain, But like a presence you were there again, Being and real, beautiful and wise, So that I could not sleep and cried aloud, "You strange grave thing, what is it you would say?" The redness of your dear lips dimmed to grey, The waters ebbed, the moon hid in a cloud.

There are two forms of life, of which one moves, Seeking its meat in many forms of Death, On scales, on wings, on all the myriad hooves Which stamp earth's exultation in quick breath. It rustles through the reeds in shivering fowl, Cries over moors in curlew, glitters green In the lynx' eye, is fearful in the howl Of winter-bitten wolves whose flanks are lean. It takes dumb joy in cattle, it is fierce, It torts the tiger's loin, the eagle's wings, Its tools are claws to smite and teeth to pierce, Arms to destroy, and coils, and poison stings; Wherever earth is quick and life runs red Its mark is death, its meat is something dead.

Restless and hungry, still it moves and slays Feeding its beauty on dead beauty's bones, Most merciless in all its million ways, Its breath for singing bought by dying groans, Roving so far with such a zest to kill (Its strongness adding hunger) that at last Its cells attain beyond the cruel skill To where life's earliest impulses are past. Then this creation of the linked lusts, To move and eat, still under their control, Hunts for his prey in thought, his thinking thrusts Through the untrodden jungle of the soul, Through slip and quag, morasses dripping green, Seeking the thing supposed but never seen.

How many ways, how many different times The tiger Mind has clutched at what it sought, Only to prove supposed virtues crimes, The imagined godhead but a form of thought. How many restless brains have wrought and schemed, Padding their cage, or built, or brought to law, Made in outlasting brass the something dreamed, Only to prove themselves the things of awe, Yet, in the happy moment's lightning blink, Comes scent, or track, or trace, the game goes by, Some leopard thought is pawing at the brink, Chaos below, and, up above, the sky. Then the keen nostrils scent, about, about, To prove the Thing Within a Thing Without.

The other form of Living does not stir; Where the seed chances there it roots and grows, To suck what makes the lily or the fir Out of the earth and from the air that blows. Great power of Will that little thing the seed Has, all alone in earth, to plan the tree, And, though the mud oppresses, to succeed, And put out branches where the birds may be. Then the wind blows it, but the bending boughs Exult like billows, and their million green Drink the all-living sunlight in carouse, Like dainty harts where forest wells are clean. While it, the central plant, which looks o'er miles, Draws milk from the earth's breast, and sways, and smiles.

Is there a great green commonwealth of Thought Which ranks the yearly pageant, and decides How Summer's royal progress shall be wrought, By secret stir which in each plant abides? Does rocking daffodil consent that she, The snowdrop of wet winters, shall be first? Does spotted cowslip with the grass agree To hold her pride before the rattle burst? And in the hedge what quick agreement goes, When hawthorn blossoms redden to decay, That Summer's pride shall come, the Summer's rose, Before the flower be on the bramble spray? Or is it, as with us, unresting strife, And each consent a lucky gasp for life?

Beauty, let be; I cannot see your face, I shall not know you now, nor touch your feet, Only within me tremble to your grace Tasting this crumb vouchsafed which is so sweet. Even when the full-leaved Summer bore no fruit, You give me this, this apple of man's tree; This planet sings when other spheres were mute, This light begins when darkness covered me. Now, though I know that I shall never know All, through my fault, nor blazon with my pen That path prepared where only I could go, Still, I have this, not given to other men. Beauty, this grace, this spring, this given bread, This life, this dawn, this wakening from the dead.

Here, where we stood together, we three men, Before the war had swept us to the East Three thousand miles away, I stand again And hear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast. We trod the same path, to the self-same place, Yet here I stand, having beheld their graves, Skyros whose shadows the great seas erase, And Seddul Bahr that ever more blood craves. So, since we communed here, our bones have been Nearer, perhaps, than they again will be, Earth and the world-wide battle lie between, Death lies between, and friend-destroying sea. Yet here, a year ago, we talked and stood As I stand now, with pulses beating blood.

I saw her like a shadow on the sky In the last light, a blur upon the sea, Then the gale's darkness put the shadow by, But from one grave that island talked to me; And, in the midnight, in the breaking storm, I saw its blackness and a blinking light, And thought, "So death obscures your gentle form, So memory strives to make the darkness bright; And, in that heap of rocks, your body lies, Part of the island till the planet ends, My gentle comrade, beautiful and wise, Part of this crag this bitter surge offends, While I, who pass, a little obscure thing, War with this force, and breathe, and am its king."

Not that the stars are all gone mad in heaven Plucking the unseen reins upon men's souls, Not that the law that bound the planets seven Is discord now; man probes for new controls. He bends no longer to the circling stars, New moon and full moon and the living sun, Love-making Venus, Jove and bloody Mars Pass from their thrones, their rule of him is done. And paler gods, made liker men, are past, Like their sick eras to their funeral urns, They cannot stand the fire blown by the blast In which man's soul that measures heaven burns. Man in his cage of many millioned pain Burns all to ash to prove if God remain.

There is no God, as I was taught in youth, Though each, according to his stature, builds Some covered shrine for what he thinks the truth, Which day by day his reddest heart-blood gilds. There is no God; but death, the clasping sea, In which we move like fish, deep over deep Made of men's souls that bodies have set free, Floods to a Justice though it seems asleep. There is no God, but still, behind the veil, The hurt thing works, out of its agony. Still, like a touching of a brimming Grail, Return the pennies given to passers by. There is no God, but we, who breathe the air, Are God ourselves and touch God everywhere.

Beauty retires; the blood out of the earth Shrinks, the stalk dries, lifeless November still Drops the brown husk of April's greenest birth. Through the thinned beech clump I can see the hill. So withers man, and though his life renews In Aprils of the soul, an autumn comes Which gives an end, not respite, to the thews That bore his soul through the world's martyrdoms. Then all the beauty will be out of mind, Part of man's store, that lies outside his brain, Touch to the dead and vision to the blind, Drink in the desert, bread, eternal grain; Part of the untilled field that beauty sows With flowers untold, where quickened spirit goes.

Wherever beauty has been quick in clay Some effluence of it lives, a spirit dwells, Beauty that death can never take away, Mixed with the air that shakes the flower bells; So that by waters where the apples fall, Or in lone glens, or valleys full of flowers, Or in the streets where bloody tidings call, The haunting waits the mood that makes it ours. Then at a turn, a word, an act, a thought, Such difference comes, the spirit apprehends That place's glory, for where beauty fought Under the veil the glory never ends, But the still grass, the leaves, the trembling flower, Keep, through dead time, that everlasting hour.

You are more beautiful than women are, Wiser than men, stronger than ribbéd death, Juster than Time, more constant than the star, Dearer than love, more intimate than breath; Having all art, all science, all control Over the still unsmithied, even as Time Cradles the generations of man's soul, You are the light to guide, the way to climb. So, having followed beauty, having bowed To wisdom and to death, to law, to power, I like a blind man stumble from the crowd Into the darkness of a deeper hour, Where in the lonely silence I may wait The prayed-for gleam--your hand upon the gate.