Poems By the Way Part 4

The first said: "I have found a king Who grudgeth no gift of anything."

The second said: "I have found a knight Who hath never turned his back in fight."

But the third said: "I have found a love That Time and the World shall never move."

Whither away to win good cheer?

"With me," said the first, "for my king is near."

So to the King they went their ways; But there was a change of times and days.

"What men are ye," the great King said, "That ye should eat my children's bread?

My waste has fed full many a store, And mocking and grudge have I gained therefore.

Whatever waneth as days wax old, Full worthy to win are goods and gold."

Whither away to win good cheer?

"With me," said the second, "my knight is near."

So to the knight they went their ways, But there was a change of times and days.

He dwelt in castle sure and strong, For fear lest aught should do him wrong.

Guards by gate and hall there were, And folk went in and out in fear.

When he heard the mouse run in the wall, "Hist!" he said, "what next shall befal?

Draw not near, speak under your breath, For all new-corners tell of death.

Bring me no song nor minstrelsy, Round death it babbleth still," said he.

"And what is fame and the praise of men, When lost life cometh not again?"

Whither away to seek good cheer?

"Ah me!" said the third, "that my love were anear!

Were the world as little as it is wide, In a happy house should ye abide.

Were the world as kind as it is hard, Ye should behold a fair reward."

So far by high and low have they gone, They have come to a waste was rock and stone.

But lo, from the waste, a company Full well bedight came riding by; And in the midst, a queen, so fair, That G.o.d wrought well in making her.

The first and second knights abode To gaze upon her as she rode, Forth pa.s.sed the third with head down bent, And stumbling ever as he went.

His shoulder brushed her saddle-bow; He trembled with his head hung low.

His hand brushed o'er her golden gown, As on the waste he fell adown.

So swift to earth her feet she set, It seemed that there her arms he met.

His lips that looked the stone to meet Were on her trembling lips and sweet.

Softly she kissed him cheek and chin, His mouth her many tears drank in.

"Where would'st thou wander, love," she said, "Now I have drawn thee from the dead?"

"I go my ways," he said, "and thine Have nought to do with grief and pine."

"All ways are one way now," she said, "Since I have drawn thee from the dead."

Said he, "But I must seek again Where first I met thee in thy pain: I am not clad so fair," said he, "But yet the old hurts thou may'st see.

And thou, but for thy gown of gold, A piteous tale of thee were told."

"There is no pain on earth," she said, "Since I have drawn thee from the dead."

"And parting waiteth for us there,"

Said he, "As it was yester-year."

"Yet first a s.p.a.ce of love," she said, "Since I have drawn thee from the dead."

He laughed; said he, "Hast thou a home Where I and these my friends may come?"

Laughing, "The world's my home," she said, "Now I have drawn thee from the dead.

Yet somewhere is a s.p.a.ce thereof Where I may dwell beside my love.

There clear the river grows for him Till o'er its stones his keel shall swim.

There faint the thrushes in their song, And deem he tarrieth overlong.

There summer-tide is waiting now Until he bids the roses blow.

Come, tell my flowery fields," she said, "How I have drawn thee from the dead."

Whither away to win good cheer?

"With me," he said, "for my love is here.

The wealth of my house it waneth not; No gift it giveth is forgot.

No fear my house may enter in, For nought is there that death may win.

Now life is little, and death is nought, Since all is found that erst I sought."

LOVE'S GLEANING-TIDE.

Draw not away thy hands, my love, With wind alone the branches move, And though the leaves be scant above The Autumn shall not shame us.

Say; Let the world wax cold and drear, What is the worst of all the year But life, and what can hurt us, dear, Or death, and who shall blame us?

Ah, when the summer comes again How shall we say, we sowed in vain?

The root was joy, the stem was pain, The ear a nameless blending.

The root is dead and gone, my love, The stem's a rod our truth to prove; The ear is stored for nought to move Till heaven and earth have ending.

THE MESSAGE OF THE MARCH WIND.

Fair now is the springtide, now earth lies beholding With the eyes of a lover, the face of the sun; Long lasteth the daylight, and hope is enfolding The green-growing acres with increase begun.

Now sweet, sweet it is through the land to be straying 'Mid the birds and the blossoms and the beasts of the field; Love mingles with love, and no evil is weighing On thy heart or mine, where all sorrow is healed.

From towns.h.i.+p to towns.h.i.+p, o'er down and by tillage Fair, far have we wandered and long was the day; But now cometh eve at the end of the village, Where over the grey wall the church riseth grey.

There is wind in the twilight; in the white road before us The straw from the ox-yard is blowing about; The moon's rim is rising, a star glitters o'er us, And the vane on the spire-top is swinging in doubt.

Down there dips the highway, toward the bridge crossing over The brook that runs on to the Thames and the sea.

Draw closer, my sweet, we are lover and lover; This eve art thou given to gladness and me.

Shall we be glad always? Come closer and hearken: Three fields further on, as they told me down there, When the young moon has set, if the March sky should darken We might see from the hill-top the great city's glare.

Hark, the wind in the elm-boughs! from London it bloweth, And telleth of gold, and of hope and unrest; Of power that helps not; of wisdom that knoweth, But teacheth not aught of the worst and the best.

Of the rich men it telleth, and strange is the story How they have, and they hanker, and grip far and wide; And they live and they die, and the earth and its glory Has been but a burden they scarce might abide.

Hark! the March wind again of a people is telling; Of the life that they live there, so haggard and grim, That if we and our love amidst them had been dwelling My fondness had faltered, thy beauty grown dim.

This land we have loved in our love and our leisure For them hangs in heaven, high out of their reach; The wide hills o'er the sea-plain for them have no pleasure, The grey homes of their fathers no story to teach.

The singers have sung and the builders have builded, The painters have fas.h.i.+oned their tales of delight; For what and for whom hath the world's book been gilded, When all is for these but the blackness of night?