A Hidden Life and Other Poems Part 17

One side the street, the windows all were moons To light the other that in shadow lay.

The path was almost dry; the wind asleep.

And down the sunny side a woman came In a red cloak that made the whole street glad-- Fit clothing, though she was so feeble and old; For when they stopped and asked her how she fared, She said with cheerful words, and smile that owed None of its sweetness to an ivory lining: "I'm always better in the open air."

"Dear heart!" said they, "how freely she will breathe In the open air of heaven!" She stood in the morn Like a belated autumn-flower in spring, Dazed by the rus.h.i.+ng of the new-born life Up the earth's winding cavern-stairs to see Through window-buds the calling, waking sun.

Or as in dreams we meet the ghost of one Beloved in youth, who walketh with few words, And they are of the past. Yet, joy to her!

She too from earthy grave was climbing up Unto the spirit-windows high and far, She the new life for a celestial spring, Answering the light that s.h.i.+neth evermore.

With hopeful sadness thus they pa.s.sed along Dissolving streets towards the smiles of spring, Of which green visions gleamed and glided by, Across far-narrowing avenues of brick: The ripples only of her laughter float Through the low winding caverns of the town; Yet not a stone upon the paven street, But shareth in the impulse of her joy, Heaven's life that thrills anew through the outworn earth; Descending like the angel that did stir Bethesda's pool, and made the sleepy wave Pulse with quick healing through the withered limb, In joyous pangs. By an unfinished street, Forth came they on a wide and level s.p.a.ce; Green fields lay side by side, and hedgerow trees Stood here and there as waiting for some good.

But no calm river meditated through The weary flat to the less level sea; No forest trees on pillared stems and boughs Bent in great Gothic arches, bore aloft A cloudy temple-roof of tremulous leaves; No clear line where the kissing lips of sky And earth meet undulating, but a haze That hides--oh, if it hid wild waves! alas!

It hides but fields, it hides but fields and trees!

Save eastward, where a few hills, far away, Came forth in the sun, or drew back when the clouds Went over them, dissolving them in shade.

But the life-robe of earth was beautiful, As all most common things are loveliest; A forest of green waving fairy trees, That carpeted the earth for lowly feet, Bending unto their tread, lowliest of all Earth's lowly children born for ministering Unto the heavenly stranger, stately man; That he, by subtle service from all kinds, From every breeze and every bounding wave, From night-sky cavernous with heaps of storm, And from the hill rejoicing in the sun, Might grow a humble, lowly child of G.o.d; Lowly, as knowing his high parentage; Humble, because all beauties wait on him, Like lady-servants ministering for love.

And he that hath not rock, and hill, and stream, Must learn to look for other beauty near; To know the face of ocean solitudes, The darkness dashed with glory, and the shades Wind-fretted, and the mingled tints upthrown From shallow bed, or raining from the sky.

And he that hath not ocean, and dwells low, Not hill-befriended, if his eyes have ceased To drink enjoyment from the billowy gra.s.s, And from the road-side flower (like one who dwells With homely features round him every day, And so takes refuge in the loving eyes Which are their heaven, the dwelling-place of light), Must straightway lift his eyes unto the heavens, Like G.o.d's great palette, where His artist hand Never can strike the brush, but beauty wakes; Vast sweepy comet-curves, that net the soul In pleasure; endless sky-stairs; patient clouds, White till they blush at the sun's goodnight kiss; And filmy pallours, and great mountain crags.

But beyond all, absorbing all the rest, Lies the great heaven, the expression of deep s.p.a.ce, Foreshortened to a vaulted dome of blue; The Infinite, crowded in a single glance, Where yet the eye descends depth within depth; Like mystery of Truth, clothed in high form, Evasive, spiritual, no limiting, But something that denies an end, and yet Can be beheld by wondering human eyes.

There looking up, one well may feel how vain To search for G.o.d in this vast wilderness!

For over him would arch void depth for ever; Nor ever would he find a G.o.d or Heaven, Though lifting wings were his to soar abroad Through boundless heights of s.p.a.ce; or eyes to dive To microscopic depths: he would come back, And say, _There is no G.o.d;_ and sit and weep; Till in his heart a child's voice woke and cried, _Father! my Father!_ Then the face of G.o.d Breaks forth with eyes, everywhere, suddenly And not a s.p.a.ce of blue, nor floating cloud, Nor gra.s.sy vale, nor distant purple height, But, trembling with a presence all divine, Says, _Here I am, my child._

Gazing awhile, They let the lesson of the sky sink deep Into their hearts; withdrawing then their eyes, They knew the Earth again. And as they went, Oft in the changing heavens, those distant hills Shone clear upon the horizon. Then awoke A strange and unknown longing in their souls, As if for something loved in years gone by, And vanished in its beauty and its love So long, that it retained no name or form, And lay on childhood's verge, all but forgot, Wrapt in the enchanted rose-mists of that land: As if amidst those hills were wooded dells, Summer, and gentle winds, and odours free, Deep sleeping waters, gorgeous flowers, and birds, Pure winged throats. But here, all things around Were in their spring. The very light that lay Upon the gra.s.s seemed new-born like the gra.s.s, Sprung with it from the earth. The very stones Looked warm. The brown ploughed earth seemed swelling up, Filled like a sponge with sunbeams, which lay still, Nestling unseen, and broodingly, and warm, In every little nest, corner, or crack, Wherein might hide a blind and sleepy seed, Waiting the touch of penetrative life To wake, and grow, and beautify the earth.

The mossy stems and boughs, where yet no life Exuberant overflowed in buds and leaves, Were clothed in golden splendours, interwoven With many shadows from the branches bare.

And through their tops the west wind rus.h.i.+ng went, Calling aloud the sleeping sap within: The thrill pa.s.sed downwards from the roots in air To the roots tremulous in the embracing ground.

And though no buds with little dots of light Sparkled the darkness of the hedgerow twigs; Softening, expanding in the warm light-bath, Seemed the dry smoky bark.

Thus in the fields They spent their holiday. And when the sun Was near the going down, they turned them home With strengthened hearts. For they were filled with light, And with the spring; and, like the bees, went back To their dark house, laden with blessed sights, With gladsome sounds home to their treasure-cave; Where henceforth sudden gleams of spring would pa.s.s Thorough the four-walled darkness of the room; And sounds of spring-time whisper trembling by, Though stony streets with iron echoed round.

And as they crossed a field, they came by chance Upon a place where once a home had been; Fragments of ruined walls, half-overgrown With moss, for even stones had their green robe.

It had been a small cottage, with a plot Of garden-ground in front, mapped out with walks Now scarce discernible, but that the gra.s.s Was thinner, the ground harder to the foot: The place was simply shadowed with an old Almost erased human carefulness.

Close by the ruined wall, where once had been The door dividing it from the great world, Making it _home_, a single snowdrop grew.

'Twas the sole remnant of a family Of flowers that in this garden once had dwelt, Vanished with all their hues of glowing life, Save one too white for death.

And as its form Arose within the brain, a feeling sprung Up in their souls, new, white, and delicate; A waiting, longing, patient hopefulness, The snowdrop of the heart. The heavenly child, Pale with the earthly cold, hung its meek head, Enduring all, and so victorious; The Summer's earnest in the waking Earth, The spirit's in the heart.

I love thee, flower, With a love almost human, tenderly; The Spring's first child, yea, thine, my hoping heart!

Upon thy inner leaves and in thy heart, Enough of green to tell thou know'st the gra.s.s; In thy white mind remembering lowly friends; But most I love thee for that little stain Of earth on thy transfigured radiancy, Which thou hast lifted with thee from thy grave, The soiling of thy garments on thy road, Travelling forth into the light and air, The heaven of thy pure rest. Some gentle rain Will surely wash thee white, and send the earth Back to the place of earth; but now it signs Thee child of earth, of human birth as we.

With careful hands uprooting it, they bore The little plant a willing captive home; Willing to enter dark abodes, secure In its own tale of light. As once of old, Bearing all heaven in words of promising, The Angel of the Annunciation came, It carried all the spring into that house; A pot of mould its only tie to Earth, Its heaven an ell of blue 'twixt chimney-tops, Its world henceforth that little, low-ceiled room, Symbol and child of spring, it took its place 'Midst all those types, to be a type with them, Of what so many feel, not knowing it; The hidden springtime that is drawing nigh.

And henceforth, when the shadow of the cross Will enter, clothed in moonlight, still and dark, The flower will nestle at its foot till day, Pale, drooping, heart-content.

To rest they went.

And all night long the snowdrop glimmered white Amid the dark, unconscious and unseen.

Before the sun had crowned his eastern hill With its world-diadem, they woke.

I looked Out of the windows of the inner dream, And saw the edge of the sun's glory rise Eastward behind the hills, the lake-cup's rim.

And as it came, it sucked up in itself, As deeds drink words, or daylight candle-flame, That other sun rising to light the dream.

They lay awake and thoughtful, comforted With yesterday which nested in their hearts, Yet haunted with the sound of grinding wheels.

THE OUTER DREAM.

And as they lay and looked into the room, It wavered, changed, dissolved beneath the sun, Which mingled both the mornings in their eyes, Till the true conquered, and the unreal pa.s.sed.

No walls, but woods bathed in a level sun; No ceiling, but the vestal sky of morn; No bed, but flowers floating 'mid floating leaves On water which grew audible as they stirred And lifted up their heads. And a low wind That flowed from out the west, washed from their eye The last films of the dream. And they sat up, Silent for one long cool delicious breath, Gazing upon each other lost and found, With a dumb ecstasy, new, undefined.

Followed a long embrace, and then the oars Broke up their prison-bands.

And through the woods They slowly went, beneath a firmament Of boughs, and clouded leaves, filmy and pale In the suns.h.i.+ne, but shadowy on the gra.s.s.

And roving odours met them on their way, Sun-quickened odours, which the fog had slain.

And their green sky had many a blossom-moon, And constellations thick with starry flowers.

And deep and still were all the woods, except For the Memnonian, glory-stricken birds; And golden beetles 'mid the shadowy roots, Green goblins of the gra.s.s, and mining mice; And on the leaves the fairy b.u.t.terflies, Or doubting in the air, scarlet and blue.

The divine depth of summer clasped the Earth.

But 'twixt their hearts and summer's perfectness Came a dividing thought that seemed to say: "_Ye wear strange looks._" Did summer speak, or they?

They said within: "We know that ye are fair, Bright flowers; but ye s.h.i.+ne far away, as in A land of other thoughts. Alas! alas!

"Where shall we find the snowdrop-bell half-blown?

What shall we do? we feel the throbbing spring Bursting in new and unexpressive thoughts; Our hearts are swelling like a tied-up bud, And summer crushes them with too much light.

Action is bubbling up within our souls; The woods oppress us more than stony streets; That was the life indeed; this is the dream; Summer is too complete for growing hearts; They need a broken season, and a land With shadows pointing ever far away; Where incompleteness rouses longing thoughts With spires abrupt, and broken spheres, and circles Cut that they may be widened evermore: Through shattered cloudy roof, looks in the sky, A discord from a loftier harmony; And tempests waken peace within our thoughts, Driving them inward to the inmost rest.

Come, my beloved, we will haste and go To those pale faces of our fellow men; Our loving hearts, burning with summer-fire, Will cast a glow upon their pallidness; Our hands will help them, far as servants may; Hands are apostles still to saviour-hearts.

So we may share their blessedness with them; So may the snowdrop time be likewise ours; And Earth smile tearfully the spirit smile Wherewith she smiled upon our holiday, As a sweet child may laugh with weeping eyes.

If ever we return, these glorious flowers May all be snowdrops of a higher spring."

Their eyes one moment met, and then they knew That they did mean the same thing in their hearts.

So with no farther words they turned and went Back to the boat, and so across the mere.

I wake from out my dream, and know my room, My darling books, the cherub forms above; I know 'tis springtime in the world without; I feel it springtime in my world within; I know that bending o'er an early flower, Crocus, or primrose, or anemone, The heart that striveth for a higher life, And hath not yet been conquered, findeth there A beauty deep, unshared by any rose, A human loveliness about the flower; That a heath-bell upon a lonely waste Hath more than scarlet splendour on thick leaves; That a blue opening 'midst rain-bosomed clouds Is more than Paphian sun-set harmonies; That higher beauty dwells on earth, because Man seeks a higher home than Paradise; And, having lost, is roused thereby to fill A deeper need than could be filled by all The lost ten times restored; and so he loves The snowdrop more than the magnolia; Spring-hope is more to him than summer-joy; Dark towns than Eden-groves with rivers four.

AFTER AN OLD LEGEND.

The monk was praying in his cell, And he did pray full sore; He had been praying on his knees For two long hours and more.

And in the midst, and suddenly, He felt his eyes ope wide; And he lifted not his head, but saw A man's feet him beside.

And almost to his feet there reached A garment strangely knit; Some woman's fingers, ages agone, Had trembled, in making it.

The monk's eyes went up the garment, Until a hand they spied; A cut from a chisel was on it, And another scar beside.

Then his eyes sprang to the face With a single thirsty bound; 'Twas He, and he nigh had fainted; His eyes had the Master found.

On his ear fell the convent bell, That told him the poor did wait For his hand to divide the daily bread, All at the convent-gate.

And a storm of thoughts within him Blew hither and thither long; And the bell kept calling all the time With its iron merciless tongue.

He looked in the Master's eyes, And he sprang to his feet in strength: "Though I find him not when I come back, I shall find him the more at length."

He went, and he fed the poor, All at the convent-gate; And like one bereft, with heavy feet Went back to be desolate.

He stood by the door, unwilling To see the cell so bare; He opened the door, and lo!

The Master was standing there.