The Englishman and Other Poems Part 6

That was a most uncanny dream; I thought the wraiths of those Long buried in the Potter's Field, in shredded shrouds arose; They said, 'Against the will of G.o.d We have usurped the fertile sod, Now will we make it yield.'

Oh! but it was a gruesome sight, to see those phantoms toil; Each to his own small garden bent; each spaded up the soil; (I never knew Ghosts laboured so.) Each scattered seed, and watched, till lo!

The Graves were opulent.

Then all among the fragrant greens, the silent, spectral train Walked, as if breathing in the breath of plant, and flower, and grain.

(I never knew Ghosts loved such things; Perchance it brought back early springs Before they thought of death.)

'The mothers' milk for living babes; the earth for living hosts; The clean flame for the un-souled dead.' (Oh, strange the words of Ghosts.) 'If we had owned this little spot In life, we need not lie and rot Here in a pauper's bed.'

THE MUSE AND THE POET

The Muse said, Let us sing a little song Wherein no hint of wrong, No echo of the great world need, or pain, Shall mar the strain.

Lock fast the swinging portal of thy heart; Keep sympathy apart.

Sing of the sunset, of the dawn, the sea; Of any thing or nothing, so there be No purpose to thy art.

Yea, let us make, art for Art's sake.

And sing no more unto the hearts of men, But for the critic's pen.

With songs that are but words, sweet sounding words, Like joyous jargon of the birds.

Tune now thy lyre, O Poet, and sing on.

Sing of

THE DAWN

The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams Of her beloved Darkness, rose in fear, Feeling the presence of another near.

Outside her curtained cas.e.m.e.nt shone the gleams Of burning orbs; and modestly she hid Her brow and bosom with her dusky hair.

When lo! the bold intruder lurking there Leaped through the fragile lattice, all unbid, And half unveiled her. Then the swooning Night Fell pale and dead, while yet her soul was white Before that lawless Ravisher, the Light.

The Muse said, Poet, nay; thou host not caught My meaning. For there lurks a thought Back of thy song.

In art, all thought is wrong.

Re-string thy lyre; and let the echoes bound To nothing but sweet sound.

Strike now the chords And sing of

WORDS

One day sweet Ladye Language gave to me A little golden key.

I sat me down beside her jewel box And turned its locks.

And oh, the wealth that lay there in my sight.

Great solitaires of words, so bright, so bright; Words that no use can commonize; like G.o.d, And Truth, and Love; and words of sapphire blue; And amber words; with suns.h.i.+ne dripping through; And words of that strange hue A pearl reveals upon a wanton's hand.

Again the Muse: Thou dost not understand; A thought within thy song is lingering yet.

Sing but of words; all else forget, forget.

Nor let thy words convey one thought to men.

Try once again.

Down through the dusk and dew there fell a word; Down through the dew and dusk.

And all the garments of the air it stirred Smelled sweet as musk; And all the little waves of air it kissed Turned cold and amethyst.

There in the dew and dusk a heart it found; There in the dusk and dew The sodden silence changed to fragrant sound; And all the world seemed new.

Upon the path that little word had trod, There shone the smile of G.o.d.

The Muse said, Drop thy lyre.

I tire, I tire.

THE SPINSTER

I

Here are the orchard trees all large with fruit; And yonder fields are golden with young grain.

In little journeys, branchward from the nest, A mother bird, with sweet insistent cries, Urges her young to use their untried wings.

A purring Tabby, stretched upon the sward, Shuts and expands her velvet paws in joy, While st.u.r.dy kittens nuzzle at her breast.

O mighty Maker of the Universe, Am I not part and parcel of Thy World, And one with Nature? Wherefore, then, in me Must this great reproductive impulse lie Hidden, ashamed, unnourished, and denied, Until it starves to slow and tortuous death?

I knew the hope of spring-time; like the tree Now ripe with fruit, I budded, and then bloomed; We laughed together through the young May morns; We dreamed together through the summer moons; Till all Thy purposes within the tree Were to fruition brought. Lord, Thou hast heard The Woman in me crying for the Man; The Mother in me crying for the Child; And made no answer. Am I less to Thee Than lover forms of Nature, or in truth Dost Thou hold Somewhere in another Realm Full compensation and large recompense For lonely virtue forced by fate to live A life unnatural, in a natural world?

II

Thou who hast made for such sure purposes The mightiest and the meanest thing that is - Planned out the lives of insects of the air With fine precision and consummate care, Thou who hast taught the bee the secret power Of carrying on love's laws 'twixt flower and flower, Why didst Thou shape this mortal frame of mine, If Heavenly joys alone were Thy design?

Wherefore the wonder of my woman's breast, By lips of lover and of babe unpressed, If spirit children only shall reply Unto my ever urgent mother cry?

Why should the rose be guided to its own, And my love-craving heart beat on alone?

III

Yet do I understand; for Thou hast made Something more subtle than this heart of me; A finer part of me To be obeyed.

Albeit I am a sister to the earth, This nature self is not the whole of me; The deathless soul of me Has n.o.bler birth.

The primal woman hungers for the man; My better self demands the mate of me; The spirit fate of me, Part of Thy plan.

Nature is instinct with the mother-need; So is my heart; but ah, the child of me Should, undefiled of me, Spring from love's seed.

And if, in barren chast.i.ty, I must Know but in dreams that perfect choice of me, Still will the voice of me Proclaim G.o.d just.

BROTHERHOOD

When in the even ways of life The old world jogs along, Our little coloured flags we flaunt: Our little separate selves we vaunt: Each pipes his native song.

And jealousy and greed and pride Join their unG.o.dly hands, And this round lovely world divide Into opposing lands.

But let some crucial hour of pain Sound from the tower of time, Then consciousness of brotherhood Wakes in each heart the latent good, And men become sublime.