The Project Gutenberg eBook of The espalier This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The espalier Author: Sylvia Townsend Warner Release date: July 10, 2026 [eBook #79065] Language: English Original publication: London: Chatto & Windus, 1925 Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79065 Credits: Paul Fatula (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ESPALIER *** THE ESPALIER SYLVIA TOWNSEND WARNER THE ESPALIER LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS 1925 Printed at the Curwen Press Plaistow, London, E.13 TO P. C. Buck CONTENTS QUIET NEIGHBOURS 1 LONDON CHURCHYARD 3 COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 5 IN THE PARLOUR (i) 7 IN THE PARLOUR (ii) 8 TUDOR CHURCH MUSIC 10 AN AFTERNOON CALL 12 WISH IN SPRING 13 THE VIRGIN AND THE SCALES 14 I BRING HER A FLOWER 21 THE LENTEN OFFERING 22 CAVES OF HARMONY 23 OLD MAN 24 SONG FROM THE BRIDE OF SMITHFIELD 25 LET ME GO! 26 COUNTRY THOUGHT FROM A TOWN (i) 27 COUNTRY THOUGHT FROM A TOWN (ii) 28 THE GREEN VALLEY 29 GHOSTS AT CHALDON HERRING 30 THE TRAVELLER ENCOUNTERED 32 THE REPOSE 35 THE TRAVELLER BENIGHTED 36 THE HAPPY DAY 37 NELLY TRIM 38 EPITAPHS 43 THE SAILOR 44 THE IMAGE 46 GREEN PASTURES 49 THE SOLDIER’S RETURN 50 BLACK EYES 51 BLUE EYES 53 FARMER MAW 54 MRS. SUMMERBEE GROWN OLD 56 STOCK 59 THE OLD SQUIRE 60 MOPING CASTLE 61 THE SICK MAN’S GARDEN 62 WHITE MAGIC 65 AS I WAS A-WALKING 66 IN THE COTSWOLDS 67 THE LITTLE DEATH 68 THE DIVER 70 UPON A GENTLEMAN FALLING SERIOUSLY IN LOVE 72 THE CAPRICIOUS LADY 74 THEODORIC 75 HONEY FOR TEA 76 BODLEY’S LIBRARY 78 A SONG ABOUT A LAMB 79 HYMN FOR A CHILD 80 THE SCAPEGOAT 81 BYRON 1924 82 GRACE AND GOOD WORKS 82 MORNING 82 FAITHFUL CROSS 83 THE MAID’S TRAGEDY 85 COMMON ENTRY 86 THE ALARUM 87 MATCH ME O ROSE 88 THE ONLY CHILD 89 THE BURNING-GLASS 90 PEEPING TOM 92 THE ESPALIER QUIET NEIGHBOURS Sitting alone at night Careless of time, From the house next door I hear the clock chime. Ten, eleven, twelve; One, two, three-- It is all the same to the clock, And much the same to me. But to-night more than sense heard it: I opened my eyes wide To look at the wall and wonder What lay on the other side. They are quiet people That live next door; I never hear them scrape Their chairs along the floor, They do not laugh loud, or sing, Or scratch in the grate, I have never seen a taxi Drawn up at their gate; And though their back-garden Is always neat and trim It has a humbled look, And no one walks therein. So did not their chiming clock Imply some hand to wind it, I might doubt if the wall between us Had any life behind it. London neighbours are such That I may never know more Than this of the people Who live next door. While they, for their part, Should they hazard a guess At me on my side of the wall Will know as little, or less; For my life has grown quiet, As quiet as theirs; And the clock has been silent on my chimney-piece For years and for years. LONDON CHURCHYARD As I walked through London To ease my care, I snuffed amid the houses A greener air; And behind iron railings I saw branches wave, Tossing their wild arms Over, O! many a grave. Such a sight as this Pleased me very well. I peered through the railings That had a rusty smell-- All of a sudden I heard a cry; And saw a dark something Crouched a new stone near-by. It seemed lorn and witless As sea-weed on a beach; But it lamented With a woman’s speech. ‘Woe’s me, my lover! Cold-hearted you are grown. The breast where I laid my head Lies beneath a stone. ‘I thought I held you fast My kind arms between, But now you are gone from me As if you’d never been. ‘Falsely have you dealt with me, Falsely have you beguiled. Dead and buried with you Lies my child.’ Piteously, piteously, Thus did she rave, And wrung her hands, And scratched on the grave. COUNTRY CHURCHYARD ‘Awake, good neighbours all, That wake not for the day. The churchyard yews won’t spread the news-- No tales tell they. Awake, good neighbours, scramble out of your sepulchres, Cold lying is clay:’ ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ ‘You loved a merry life-- For one more jaunt uprouse. The moonlit stones above your bones Show where you house: Benjamin Harris, John French late of this parish, Mary his spouse:’ ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ ‘Awake, for time is short, Your hour will soon be told. Link bony hands, and dance in bands, Nor dint the mould. You’ll caper limberly with no flesh to cumber ye-- Better than of old:’ ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ ‘Let friends and neighbours meet With curtsey, beck, and bow. When back in bed, if a maidenhead Or a marriage vow Doesn’t tally exactly with who’s under which blanket, ’Twon’t matter now:’ ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. Suppose the golden cock should crow.’ ‘Faint-hearted you are grown, Neighbours, by lying dead. This cock, your bane, is a weather-vane With gilt overspread; A trumpery figure, put up by the new vicar-- Nothing to dread:’ ‘No,’ mumbled they, ‘No, no. Suppose the golden cock should +crow+.’ IN THE PARLOUR (i) Come away from the door. It has grown late; The air is chill and frore, And those whom you await Will not pass by any more. Close the shutters aright And make all fast. We shall have rain belike, The sky is overcast: No one will come here to-night. Sit you down by my side, Sing an old song. Since you have been my bride How well I like these long Quiet evenings in Advent-tide. IN THE PARLOUR (ii) _He_ How unobtrusively the snow Comes down beyond the crimson blind! I see it not, but through my mind Sieve the large flakes, both soft and slow, Warding us in from humankind. _She_ My nimble needle forth and back Goes twanging through the tambour-frame To stitch a bird without a name. If an indifferent heart should crack ’Twould sound, I fancy, much the same. _He_ A cruel night for beast or man To be abroad. But we might doubt By this warm hearth the snow shut out, Save for a denser silence than Is wont to compass us about. _She_ The needle and the web, how fine! The silks no thicker than a hair! Each choice of tint calls forth my care, And slowly goes the great design. No matter. I have time to spare. _He_ ’Twill soon be time to go to bed-- Sweet bed, but cold! Drowsed though I be I’ll sit it out until I see The wooden bird put forth his head, And beck, and cry Cuckoo! to me. _She_ With every length of gliding floss Wrought in to make my sampler gay So much life’s thread I stitch away. But this bright wing will flaunt the gloss Of life when I am dull as clay. _He_ Cuckoo! Cuckoo! My dear, you heard The clock? Another evening gone! _She_ Asleep? _He_ Not quite. _She_ You’ve scarcely stirred. _He_ In grave consideration My thoughts upon that silly bird Were fixed. _She_ And mine on this. _He_ Absurd! We even think in unison. TUDOR CHURCH MUSIC Here in the minster tower I sit alone, While to mind’s ear old books Mumble and drone; And the warm sun slants in Over the cold stone. Through the long afternoon I hear the clock Preach to the empty church: Tick-tock. Tick-tock. O, a rare text to expound To a sleeping flock! The patient organist Who scrolled this clef; The boy who drew him horned On Gibbons in F; Singers and hearers all Are dumb and deaf-- ‘Dumb and deaf, dead and dust,’ Confirms the clock. And life seems so far off That at the shock I see my calm hand start, When footsteps knock Upon stair. Holiday-makers Out on a trip To whom the verger propounds Each trusty quip, While, mute, they fidget together In uneasy fellowship. And only when they are gone Do I doff the mask Of the scholar deep in his book: ‘Did they see me?’ I ask, ‘Or am I, too, a ghost?’ and so Turn once more to my task. AN AFTERNOON CALL To shelter from the thunder-drench A scorched and sorefoot tramping wench Came to my door and proffered me Lilac, that I had viewed her wrench Out of my neighbour’s tree. I bade her in. With glances keen She eyed my well-found kitchen, scene Of kind domestic arts; Like one who curious and serene Looks round on foreign parts. She talked of winds and wayside fruits, Seas, cities, fair-times, landmarks, routes Of journeys past and gone. I gave her an old pair of boots That she might wander on. WISH IN SPRING To-day I wish that I were a tree, And not myself, Confronting spring with a neat little row of poems Like cups and saucers on a shelf. For then I should have poems innumerable, One kissing the other; Authentic, perfect in shape and lovely variety, And all of the same tireless green colour. No one would think it unnatural Or question my right; All day I would wave them above the heads of people, And sing them to myself all night. But as I am only a woman And not a tree, With piteous human care I have made this poem, And set it now on the shelf with the rest to be. THE VIRGIN AND THE SCALES This is a public park; You may not pick the flowers, Or loiter after hours, Or kiss too deep in the dark. Yet here is green, and sweet Forgetfulness of the street; Deep walks of chestnut and lime Where the old may pass away time, Pleasant picnicing places For children with shabby faces, Lawns blowing in the sun Where dogs may roll and run, And the patient grass For lover and lass. Is this then not enough? No, not enough for one I met there. Who? A nun. (And yet, God knows, so old, So battered with untold Heavenly housewifery, So vowed to poverty, You would not think to find Ambition in her mind.) In wintry woollen stuff Of abstinence was she dressed, And winter was on her breast; But midsummer’s most complete Honey-coloured, honey-sweet Plenteousness was her plunder, Standing the lime-tree under. No housewife shelling peas, No Saint upon her knees Telling God’s praises over, Slip-finger, nor bees in clover, Nor girl-child gathering Cowslips in the spring Showed with more innocence Delight in diligence Than she, cramming her bag With golden handfuls of swag. Love knit my heart to her: I approached; but at the stir Of footfall she glanced round, Loosed her rich branch, and frowned With such an air of doubt As children show found out In fault, till seeing that I Smiled, she in turn looked sly And faster than before Plucked on. Said I: ‘Here’s more Than you can lessen, though you Should gather the whole day through For your lime-blossom tea.’ ‘It is God’s gift,’ said she, ‘And pleasant for the sick. It grows so clean and thick ’Twere shame to let it waste. Aye, gathered it _should_ be. But I must work in haste Lest the Keeper come along And tell me I do wrong.’ I looked up overhead And saw the lime-tree spread Above us like a tent; Like a green and golden pavilion Of some Arabian Night, Murmuring as with consent, And gleaming as though alight With a million, with a million Loops and tassels of scent. I thought then: Who could grudge Blooms to this holy drudge, Or stay her wrinkled, deft Old hands from their kind theft? She thief, lawbreaker? She? As well accuse the tree, That day-long with sweet skill Steals sap, steals chlorophyl; That from earth, from dew, from air Thieves that it may be fair And show its works to men, Who beholding it then May glorify their Father In heaven. No, but look farther. I touch not blossom nor leaf, And I, I am the Thief! Thief so cunning and fell That I am Keeper as well. Good cause had she to frown At my shadow blackening down; For every joy I take Becomes an iron grate, And my innocent delights Plant rows of iron spikes; Worst, self-denying, this trick Of integrity--not to pick Blossom, bruise leaf, destroy Aught from the common joy-- Binds in an iron band My heart and prompts my hand, Now lifted up to bless In scrupulous emptiness, To write these words of hate +Thou shalt not+ on every gate. Yet here is solace, and sweet Redemption from the street; A pause, a look of pity For the begrimed city, Green almsgiving, a lake Of green where men may slake Parched senses, wash off care. Ah, if it only were Not so precious, so deadly dear, So dearly defrayed a delight That whosoever comes here Must come as Thief outright, Or cloaking his envious mind With love of humankind, And with caution and mistrust Walking among the just Grow Thief so cunning and fell That perforce he’s Keeper as well. Poor drudge, you had reason to start, When with love in my heart I approached you, as though you saw In me the offended law. Truly, to-day I must be Offended because of thee. For every blossom you pick Must wound me to the quick, And by that bag you’ve crammed With mercies I am damned; Worst, worst, your innocence, Your happy, happy love, Your hand, so hand in glove With the tree’s consenting, Is a sword to drive me hence, Lamenting, lamenting; Is a flame brandished to fright Me from a forfeited delight, Repenting, repenting; Is a key in the unrelenting Hand of the uncreate, Locking the garden gate. O why must my spirit pine For a few handfuls of lime Plucked by a poor old nun, Whose cares are all in one Concern so summed up and shriven That were I to tell her but half Of the coil through which she’s driven My thoughts, she must either laugh As a nurse laughs at a child, Or with a sigh, maybe a frown For one so devil-wiled, Brush all my vain-wit down? And yet I linger, I delay, Hankering, as though some clue She had hold of, answer knew. As though, should I say: ‘No, dear, you may not pick Lime-blossom for the sick; For know you not, since the Fall Not one tree, but all, all Must bear forbidden fruit, And are poisoned at the root By man’s repentant tears?’-- She might reply: ‘Yet here’s Good warrant for what I do. When he was walking through The harvest he plucked the ears Of corn and shared them among Those with him, for they were an hungered, and so was he. Thus his disciples he taught How to steal as they ought, In joy and peace of heart; Thus he took the sinner’s part; So much to thieves a friend That he had them with him till the end; Thus, thus, he would set us free. But till everyone believes In him we must all be thieves.’ I BRING HER A FLOWER Sweet faith Such looks of quiet hath That those on whom she’s smiled Lie down to sleep as easy as a child. No night, However dark, can fright Them, no, nor day To come, however bleak and fell, dismay. But sound Sleep they in prison-bound As when at liberty. And if they wake, they wake in charity; Like her, Who rousing at the jar Of weary foot in the rain Pitied the wakeful sentry for his pain. _Like her_: Rosa Luxemburg. THE LENTEN OFFERING Christ, here’s a thorn More poison-fanged than any that you knew: On the north side of our churchyard it grew, Where lie the suicides and babes chance-born. Christ, here are nails, Once driven in, will never lose their hold: Forged at Krupp’s, Creusot’s, Vickers’, and tipped with gold Pen-nibs that signed the Treaty of Versailles. Christ, here’s a sharp Spear, can wound deeper than all other spears: In baths of human blood and human tears Tempered, and whetted on the human heart. CAVES OF HARMONY Play, dark musician, play-- How almost human sounds your saxophone! (Somewhere in Africa An angry lion tosses up a bone.) Sambo’s a ready scholar And hides his black skin under a black coat. Although he wears a collar Adam’s own apple yet sticks in his throat. Play, dark musician, play-- I see your imitation diamond flash. (Once in America Your fathers howled and writhed beneath the lash.) How leers the blackamoor, Exhaling his melodious delight! Music’s his paramour; And yours, and mine, since we dance here to-night. Play, dark musician, play-- Outdo the beast’s roar and the scourged slave’s moan. Ambassador from U.S.A., How almost human sounds your saxophone! OLD MAN Reading in bawdy books The old man sits. De Sade plays Abishag To his cold wits. Under his bushy brows His eyes are mild-- There’s no more harm in him Than in a child. SONG FROM THE BRIDE OF SMITHFIELD A thousand guileless sheep have bled, A thousand bullocks knelt in fear, To daub my Henry’s cheek with red And round the curl above his ear. And wounded calves hung up to drip Have in slow sweats distilled for him The dew that polishes his lip, The inward balm that oils each limb. In vain I spread my maiden arts, In vain for Henry’s love I pine. He is too skilled in bleeding hearts To turn this way and pity mine. LET ME GO! Any wind but this-- That with remembrance of rain Grown soft and pitiful, embraced me As I walked homeward. And any other look Than the full-moon sheds to-night-- As though she bent like a mother Above her sleeping children. Not to be denied The wind gropes over the house; And now it has brushed aside the curtains And walks about the room. Too well, too well I know Whence you have journeyed, O Wind! And what the landscape of nestling hill and valley That the moon eyes so lovingly. COUNTRY THOUGHT FROM A TOWN (i) Averted from myself I walk up and down-- I see how in the light of the arc-lamps The trees look stricken and brown. Autumn is an unkindly thing In a town. The leaves fall aimlessly; Frustrated in their decay, With scraps of paper and bus-tickets They will be swept away. All the mortality in me Yearns to go Somewhere alone into the country, Where elms stand in the hedgerow; Through fields completed and contented To walk to and fro-- To hear leaves falling Like a quiet breath; To be a partaker In their death. COUNTRY THOUGHT FROM A TOWN (ii) Cold, is it cold? Blows there a wind All night through? Does a frozen dew Lie on the wold? Dark, is it dark? Blotted from being Cottage and garth? Has the last hearth Quenched its spark? Still, is it still? Wakes the wind only? Sunk in a deep Midwinter sleep Valley and hill? No, not all cold, Nor yet all dark, Nor yet quite still. Such is not God’s will. In the sheepfold, Warm in the ewe’s fleece, Lies the lamb newborn. To and fro all night The shepherd bears a light, Telling his flock’s increase. THE GREEN VALLEY Here in the green scooped valley I walk to and fro. In all my journeyings I have not seen A place so tranquil, so green; And yet I think I have seen it long ago, The grassy slopes, and the cart-track winding, so. O now I remember it well, now all is plain, Why twitched my memory like a dowser’s rod At waters hidden under sod. When I was a child they told me of Charlemagne, Of Gan the traitor, and Roland outmatched and slain. Weeping for Roland then, I scooped in my spirit A scant green Roncesvalles, a holy ground, Which here in Dorset I’ve found: But finding, I knew it not. The years disinherit Their children. The horn is blown, but I do not hear it. GHOSTS AT CHALDON HERRING Hush, my dear, hush! Who are these that pass Up Shady Lane? Their feet don’t brush Any dew from the grass And they are silent, too. Hand in kind hand Go some, and closelier linked Another twain; And others stand As a-drouse, indistinct Beneath the darkening boughs. Ghosts, ghosts are these!-- Long-dead lasses, each Beside her swain-- Between the trees Pacing slow, without speech, As they were wont to go. Strange, some should choose Thus their mouldered dears To meet again, Whom long misuse Of marriage, taunts and tears, And the slow grudge of age Warped and estranged; Sure, this place above All others fain They’d leave unranged, Lest a gaunt dead love Them, like a dead child, haunt. Ah, but not so These who in true-love-knot Their arms enchain. Dead long ago Are they all, and forgot The life that held them thrall. Nought now exists Save fancies nursed apart. And of all this train Scarce one that trysts With a seeming sweetheart But walks beside a dream. THE TRAVELLER ENCOUNTERED The highroad runs plain Between Thaxted and Dunmow, But I had chosen to go By bridle-path and lane; To see the champaign, And the stooks a-row-- There I met an old fellow Standing in the rain. He was bowed and lean; But clear was his eye As a rift of March sky, His face like a quarrendine. ‘You must have seen Many changes,’ said I. ‘Changes, lady? Aye! Four times I have been ‘Forced to lie abed; Once I had the ague, And thrice did I spew Up my blood so red. ’Twas my lungs, Doctor said, And the most I could do To last a week or two-- Ten years he’s been dead. ‘My wife died. And then after her My eldest daughter. Eight years come Whitsuntide The house where we did bide Was pulled down. It stood yonder, Just by that tall fir With the rick alongside.’ Thus did he talk, Twisting the while A sprig of camomile Or a corn-stalk. ‘Follow the grassy baulk Till you come to a stile.’ So, mile by mile, He told over my walk. Musing on country folk I bade him good-day. And going on my way To myself I spoke: As well might I invoke These hedges to say Who passed by yesterday; Or question yonder oak, Bidding it declare What changes it had seen, ‘In summer I was green, Acorns did I bear. Come winter, I was bare. For years full eighteen This meadow has not been Under the ploughshare.’ But Labour-in-Vain Was the epitome Of changes sighed to me By the doomed champaign. And turning once again, Far off did I see The man and the tree Standing in the rain. THE REPOSE At Bradwell in the marshes There is an inn. Few are the travellers Have rested therein. The folk that sit there Have but little to say; They sit looking out of the window At the churchyard across the way. Growing among the graves Is a green weeping willow. The graves are all green And peaceful as a pillow. The bar-parlour is shaded With a green gloom, As if the willow-branches Were waving in the room. Churchyard and church and inn-- They are all very old. Even the beer they draw there Seems to taste of the mould. THE TRAVELLER BENIGHTED On through the quiet country-side The road runs small and white, The trees stand still on either side As if to watch me there-- But stilled, stilled is the air At the oncome of night. And see, behind my back the moon Eyes me with steadfast gaze; I did not think she’d spill so soon Her silver in the brook-- But calm, calm is her look As she mounts through the haze. As though I’d shed it like a husk, My body casts no shade; I walk suspended in the dusk Just as a spirit might, For yet, yet there is light In the west--but ’twill fade Yes, fade it will, and I shall trace My bobbing shadow spread Before me on the whitened face Of the road where I must go. And then, then I shall know What it is that I dread. THE HAPPY DAY All day long I purpose in yonder Green meadows to wander And think of a song. I shall take Provision of berries, Black treacle cherries, And possibly cake. Where the boughs Of gliding willows Freckle green pillows I shall drowse, Or wander blithe Through scented acres Where haymakers Sharpen the scythe. I shall not lack, I shall not trouble; Through fields of stubble I shall come back-- While dusk is spread, While twilight lingers-- With purple fingers, A song in my head. NELLY TRIM ‘Like men riding, The mist from the sea Drives down the valley And baffles me.’ ‘Enter, traveller, Whoever you be.’ By lamplight confronted He staggered and peered; Like a wet bramble Was his beard. ‘Sit down, stranger, You look a-feared.’ Shudders rent him To the bone, The wet ran off him And speckled the stone. ‘Dost bide here alone, maid?’ ‘Yes, alone.’ As he sat down In the chimney-nook Over his shoulder He cast a look, As if the night Were pursuing; she took A handful of brash To mend the fire, He eyed her close As the flame shot higher; He spoke--and the cattle Moved in the byre. ‘Though you should heap Your fire with wood, ’Twouldn’t warm me, Nor do no good, Unless you first warm me As a maiden should.’ With looks unwavering, With breath unstirred, She took off her clothes Without a word; And stood up naked And white as a curd. He breathed her to him With famished sighs, Against her bosom He sheltered his eyes, And warmed his hands Between her thighs. Strangely assembled In the quiet room, Alone alight Amidst leagues of gloom, So brave a bride, So sad a groom; And strange love-traffic Between these two; Nor mean, nor shamefaced-- As though they’d do Something more solemn Than they knew: As though by this greeting Which chance had willed ’Twixt him so silent And her so stilled, Some pledge or compact Were fulfilled, Made for all time In times unknown, ’Twixt man and woman Standing alone In mirk night By a tall stone. His wayfaring terrors All cast aside, Brave now the bridegroom Quitted the bride; As he came, departing-- Undenied. But once from darkness Turned back his sight To where in the doorway She held a light: ‘Goodbye to you, maiden.’ ‘Stranger, good night.’ Long time has this woman Been bedded alone. The house where she dwelt Lies stone on stone: She’d not know her ash-tree, So warped has it grown. But yet this story Is told of her As a memorial; And some aver She’d comfort thus any Poor traveller. A wanton, you say-- Yet where’s the spouse, However true To her marriage-vows, To whom the lot Of the earth-born allows More than this?-- To comfort the care Of a stranger, bound She knows not where, And afraid of the dark, As his fathers were. EPITAPHS (i) Here lies Melissa Mary Thorn Together with her son, still-born; Whose loss her husband doth lament. He has a large estate in Kent. (ii) After long thirty years re-met I, William Clarke, and I, Jeanette His wife, lie side by side once more; But quieter than we lay before. (iii) A widowed mother reared this stone To Annott Clare, aged twenty-one. Seven live sons have I, but she Was dearer than them all to me. (iv) Here lies the body of Tom Fool, Who died, a little boy, at school Oft did he bleed and oft did weep, And whimpering, now has fallen asleep. (v) John Bird, a labourer, lies here, Who served the earth for sixty years With spade and mattock, drill and plough; But never found it kind till now. THE SAILOR I have a young love-- A landward lass is she-- And thus she entreated: ‘O tell me of the sea, That on thy next voyage My thoughts may follow thee.’ I took her up a hill And showed her hills green, One after other With valleys between: So green and gentle, I said, Are the waves I’ve seen. I led her by the hand Down the grassy way, And showed her the hedgerows That were white with may: So white and fleeting, I said, Is the salt sea-spray. I bade her lean her head Down against my side, Rising and falling On my breath to ride: Thus rode the vessel, I said, On the rocking tide. For she so young is, and tender, I would not have her know What it is that I go to When to sea I must go, Lest she should lie awake and tremble When the great storm-winds blow. THE IMAGE ‘Why do you look so pale, my son William? Where have you been so long?’ ‘I’ve been to my sweetheart, Mother, As it says in the song.’ ‘Though you be pledged and cried to the parish ’Tis not fitting or right To visit a young maiden At this hour of night.’ ‘I went not for her sweet company, I meant not any sin, But only to walk round her house And think she was within. ‘Unbeknown I looked in at the window; And there I saw my bride Sitting lonesome in the chimney-nook, With the cat alongside. ‘Slowly she drew out from under her apron An image made of wax, Shaped like a man, and all stuck over With pins and with tacks. ‘Hair it had, hanging down to its shoulders, Straight as any tow-- Just such a lock she begged of me But three days ago. ‘She set it down to stand in the embers-- The wax began to run. Mother! Mother! That waxen image, I think it was your son!’ ‘’Twas but a piece of maiden’s foolishness, Never think more of it. I warrant that when she’s a wife She’ll have a better wit.’ ‘Maybe, maybe, Mother. I pray you, mend the fire. For I am cold to the knees With walking through the mire. ‘The snow is melting under the rain, The ways are full of mud; The cold has crept into my bones, And glides along my blood. ‘Take out, take out my winding-sheet From the press where it lies, And borrow two pennies from my money-box To put upon my eyes; ‘For now the cold creeps up to my heart, My ears go Ding, go Dong: I shall be dead long before day, For winter nights are long.’ ‘Cursèd, cursèd be that Devil’s vixen To rob you of your life! And cursèd be the day you left me To go after a wife!’ ‘Why do you speak so loud, Mother? I was almost asleep. I thought the churchbells were ringing And the snow lay deep. ‘Over the white fields we trod to our wedding, She leant upon my arm-- What have I done to her that she Should do me this harm?’ GREEN PASTURES ‘O, I could lean And look for ever At such a scene!-- And bless the Giver, Who beauty gave, and best of all, Sameness, unwearied and perpetual. ‘Let such a sight Brim up my seeing, And with delight Renew my being, Until the prospect calm and kind Seem the reflection of my mind!’ Said t’other: ‘At most This field you’re praising Has but the boast Of being good grazing. You’re easy pleased if what you like Best be a green field and a stone dyke.’ THE SOLDIER’S RETURN Jump through the hedge, lass! Run down the lane! Here’s your soldier-laddie Come back again. Coming over the hill With the sunset at his back-- Never be feared, lass, Though he look black; Coming through the meadow And leaping the watercourse-- Never be feared, lass, Though his voice be hoarse; Belike he’s out of breath With walking from the town. He will speak better When the sun’s gone down. BLACK EYES Long Molly Samways Went by just then. Strange, how that girl Gets off with the men! With her head wig-waggling On her long neck, And her hair straggling Down her back. Past ten of the clock She’ll get up in a daze, And spend the morning Lacing her stays. She wouldn’t go To the Whitsun Fair Because of the trouble Of getting there; And if she be common To half the town, ’Tis to please her back That she lies her down. Such a long, lazy Slug-a-bed Won’t have her sleep out Until she’s dead. And the Judgement Trump May split the skies-- Though it should wake her I doubt if she’ll rise. BLUE EYES Barbara Cushion Weeps in the lane, And vows she will never Go brambling again. Down her fat face Fat teardrops run, And splash on her bosom, One by one; With sobs and cries She shakes like a shape-- What is the matter, Is it a rape? Oh no! It’s her feelings, Poor girl, that smart; And Jem’s unkindness Has broken her heart. For months she has had A mind to Jem, So when she set out She smiled at him; Down the green lane She watched him come-- But all he did Was to pinch her bum. FARMER MAW Who’s he you saw, Stranger, among the stooks?-- ’Tis Farmer Maw Scaring away the rooks. Once, stout and tall, He had no peer to plough; But this is all Poor Farmer’s fit for now. On Lammas Eve He hoed the Seven Acre, And taking leave Looked round like God the Maker: His hay well ricked-- His fields secure and small-- With a most strict Eye he surveyed them all; And finding less Than usual to offend His carefulness, Went home, and made an end. After she saw Hired bailiff reap and bind, Poor Widow Maw Sat down and called to mind How oft her Dear Exclaimed with scornful oaths At waste of gear Unthrift. His working clothes She fetched, and laid Them out upon a table; Though patched and frayed They yet were serviceable-- Aye, in such worn Apparel, and bemired, As men might scorn, Scarecrow were well-attired. Thus, stuffed with straw, As large as life he stands-- A shape of awe-- And overlooks his lands, His flocks and herds: But sore, poor soul! beshit; For those bold birds Don’t honour him a whit. MRS. SUMMERBEE GROWN OLD As tall as the church tower, And as stark, The churchyard elm Rears into the dark. And many’s the evening I’ve walked in dread To think that its boughs Were overhead; And many’s the midnight I’ve waked in fear To think that its branches Were drawing near. For we live here alone-- The Rector and I, Both of us grown old, And unwilling to die; And the churchyard elm Has arms like a fiend: Many’s the dark night I’ve thought they leaned Downward, downward-- As though they’d claw Us into the churchyard Like things of straw. But thanks to the rulers Of the realm We are delivered From the elm. For the Inspector Chanced this way. He wrote in his book, And had his say Of regulations And bye-laws-- Then came the woodman And cut its claws. Harmless and glum The monster stands And holds to heaven Its baffled hands. The Rector and I Can walk beneath, Untroubled by The fear of death. And on still nights When no one’s about I dance round the elm, And thus do I flout: Coffin-tree, coffin-tree, You shall get neither him nor me! Your branches are lopped, Your games are all stopped. STOCK Farmer Hood’s wife Was brought to bed. ‘Look at the baby!’ The midwife said. Scantly he glanced At the babe she bore. He had seen plenty Like it before; And ‘Troubles,’ quoth he, ‘Never come by half, For the Guernsey heifer Has slipped her calf.’ THE OLD SQUIRE Squire England has grown old: Too stiff to ride to hounds, Too blind to shoot his coverts, He takes up his great stick And potters about the grounds. The meadows and the pond, The fig-tree on the south wall, The plantation of young spruces, The yew hedge twelve foot thick-- He stares at them all; And grumbling as he goes, He stops here and there To spud up a dandelion. His mind is full of doubt, For a stranger is his heir. House, meadows, walks and trees, Although his sight be dim He sees them very plainly; He prays that none may flout The things so dear to him. MOPING CASTLE ‘Why have you planted firs About your dwelling, Of trees created Choosing the most adverse To mortal cheer? Whose breasts uncouth, both song And spring repelling, With endless sighs are freighted; Foreboding every year A deeper wrong. ‘Or have you planted firs About your dwelling That they in proxy Might all your sighs rehearse? Ill-starred one! doomed To mourn your frustrate prime, Your sons rebelling, Your Dear another’s doxy, Your mouldered heart entombed In waste of time.’ ‘No, Friend. I planted firs About my dwelling; But, I protest, meant No clue so apt for verse As you conceive These sombre groves to give. Soon ripe for felling, Firs are a good investment; And though I live to grieve, Yet I must live.’ THE SICK MAN’S GARDEN He has been ill so long On whom it depended, That the garden untended Is beginning to go wrong. The gate has fallen awry, The tools are half rusted-- They will be encrusted All over, by and by. The rose has broken loose From the arch where he trained it; Dead petal on petal has stained it With its own juice. Walks and plots are unkempt-- It is all dishevelled; Like a skein unravelled, Like a forgotten thing dream’d. And peering through the gate, And closing in around it, The thickets that bound it Seem to be lying in wait. My heart foretells the day Toward which it moulders, When men with bowed shoulders Shall carry him away. Herb-border and flower-bed Underfoot they shall trample, And briar and bramble Make slower their slow tread. The mourners as they pass Will stumble and shuffle, Their steps shall be muffled With the swishing of long grass. Departed the last black form And the last black shadow, From thicket and meadow Shall clamber in a swarm Of wildings and weeds out-cast, By exile eagered For the garden beleaguered Which has fallen to them at last. By these remorseless, dumb Spoilers invaded, The flowers unaided Shall all be overcome; Save only those at need’s Touch who turn traitors, Changing their natures And reverting again to weeds. Thus shall wild earth be paid The debt so long owing; Whilst he, unknowing, Deep in wild earth is laid. WHITE MAGIC Young man, be warned by me, And shun the hour When the full moon has power To sway men like the sea. I with my love kept tryst One moonlight night. Something did us affright-- And she went home unkissed. We saw as clear as day The things we knew; Only the sky more blue Seemed, and the grass grown grey. Round us the orchard trees Like spirits stood-- When she threw back her hood, She looked like one of these; So blanched the face I knew It seemed estranged: Its moonlight aspect changed My eager blood to dew. Disheartened, we returned; Nor met again. I have grown old since then, But I have never learned By what mysterious art The moonlight thieves Colour from the young leaves, And passion from the heart. AS I WAS A-WALKING Sweetly fell the rain on the springing grass, The birds sang all with voices as clear as glass; To greet the blackthorn I turned aside-- A presence too lovely to pass-- But as with worship I neared it, a man I espied Asleep in the rain beneath the blossoming tree. I forgot to look at the tree, I looked instead At the man who lay so still with averted head. Because I could not see his face I wondered if he were dead. My mind was full of doubt as I left the place-- But dead or alive he was a stranger to me. IN THE COTSWOLDS All day the rain Fell on the wheat And dripped from the gable On to the stone; And all day long I sat alone Save for the dog Who slept at my feet. Slept--till a-sudden He roused in fear, And snuffed at the door, And would not be quelled. I opened--and there An old crone I beheld, And round about her The dusk drawn near. Something she said-- But her voice was hollow, And chill was the hand She laid on mine. Her words were a riddle I could not untwine; And when she turned onward I knew I must follow. I felt the watery Stubble souse My ankles, and round me Saw corn-shocks blurred. And faint and fainter Yet I heard The dog bark on In the empty house. THE LITTLE DEATH What voice is this Sings so, rings so Within my head? Not mine, for I am dead, And a deep peace Wraps me, haps me From head to feet Like a smooth winding-sheet. Before my eyes Reeling, wheeling, Leaf-green stars Have changed to purple bars And flickered out; Spinning, thinning, Up the wall, That has grown very tall. Only that voice-- Distant, insistent; Like the high Stroked glass’s airy cry; Echoing on, Winds me, binds me As with a thread Spun from my own head. O speak not yet! Forget me, let me Lie here as calm As saints that nurse their palm; Whilst like a tide Turning, returning, Silence and gloom Flow in and fill the room. THE DIVER Self-loving I strayed Through leagues of fir-wood-- Dream-like as woods In water suspended, So hushed was the shade, So cool the silence; Nor stayed, till I saw My watery woodlands In a deep tarn Hanging head-downward, As though they would draw The soul down after them. I thought: How sweet To bathe in those waters! I stripped myself bare; On the pine-needles I settled my feet, And dived in fearless To greet with the glow Of an ardent lover That limpid depth, That bride-bed of stillness Which far below Awaited my coming. O, but beneath The rocky cornice, Ready to pounce There lurked a Nixy! With ice-cold teeth She bit and tore me, And wreathed her fierce Embraces about me In coil on coil Of anguish unspeakable, And snarled in my ears With a voice of darkness. In fear of my life I fought the Nixy Till back to her den At last I drove her; To whet her knife And await the next-comer. Dry-footed on shore I scrunched the pine-needles, And watched the tarn And its basking tree-tops Resume once more Their lovely stillness: All, all like a charm Inveigled the spirit; Prompted: How sweet To bathe in these waters Here is no harm-- But I knew better. UPON A GENTLEMAN FALLING SERIOUSLY IN LOVE Who loves his kind, loves bone, Flesh, play of sinew, shoot Of sense, the turn of a head, A voice answering his own: Who loves a house, loves stone, Iron, plaster, brick, glass, lead, Timber hewn off and mute-- And these alone. Who wins his kind, wins store Of joys, griefs, memories, brain’s Diligence, heart’s ease, a share Of life not his before: Who gains a house, a core Of blank and senseless air Cased up in matter gains-- And nothing more. Sun may warm stone, awaken Casement, with farewell kiss Flush thatch--’tis all a show. Though man a more unshaken Diurnal love bestow-- He gains not even this. And blest are they whose thrall Hearts can endure this passion, Hopeless, uncompromised By aught reciprocal; Yea, saints emparadised May love God after this fashion. THE CAPRICIOUS LADY No, no, I do not choose Commonplace flowers like these! Such artless pinks and blues-- Forget-me-not, maiden’s-blush-- Are tedious to my sight. But give me, if you’d please, Blossoms more recondite: Cocks-combs of crimson plush, Large, spider-speckled, rare Orchids, or tulips whose Smooth flesh has learnt to wear The colour of a bruise. THEODORIC Praise the great Goth, Theodoric! Who, a true patriot, led His northern hordes into Italy, Where he’d be better fed. Sturgeon, peacock, assafœtida-- Nought came amiss to him (Though Peter Vischer of Nuremberg Makes him out to be slim). Once only did his appetite Quail at a new dish; When they served up an aged senator In the shape of a large fish. The dead eyes glared reproachfully-- Fear spawned in his blood Agueish pangs innumerable As fishes in the flood. Not furs of marmot and zibeline, Nor a great fire near-by, Could warm the wretched Theodoric As he lay waiting to die; Chattering about old Symmachus, And Boëthius his friend, Who with no consolation but philosophy Made a far braver end. HONEY FOR TEA I’ve sat in the sun From three to five Watching the bees About the hive. They are horribly alive! From white to red, From red to white, They weave Euclidean Tangles of flight, And nowhere find delight: But them a maniac Industry eggs Onward; they grapple With hairy legs, Methodical to the dregs. The blossom rifled, With laden thighs Further each willing Eunuch plies: A dull way to fertilize. And back to their cells They come at last; Armed, incurious, Sailing past Me where I sit aghast. Oh, horrible That aught can be So sufficient, yet So unlike me! I shall go in to tea. There in the parlour I shall find Things to restore My peace of mind; By man for man designed. The rat-tail spoons, The china dishes, Smooth as the sequined Sides of fishes, Obedient to my wishes; The sturdy table So plain and whole, The meek sweet Of the sugar-bowl; These shall confirm my soul Till I, emboldened, Lift down from the shelf The hoarded treasure, Taken by stealth From that inimical Commonwealth. BODLEY’S LIBRARY Chained to their shelves Sit Origen, Aquinas, Gregory Nazianzen, Bede, Alcuin, Scotus-- All the wise men Of golden mouth And faithful pen. Falcons once Of piercing flight, Chained they must needs be Or out of sight They’d soar. But now They blink at the light, Like old brown owls Awaiting the night. A SONG ABOUT A LAMB ‘O God, the Sure Defence Of Jacob’s race, Lover of innocence And a smooth face, Accept my sacrifice-- A little lamb, bought at the market price. ‘With fleece so soft and clean And horns not yet A-bud, the creature’s been The children’s pet. And sore they wept to see Their snub-nosed friend come trotting after me.’ God heard: the lightnings brake Forth in his honour; But by some slight mistake Consumed the donor. The lamb fell in a muse-- But soon took heart, and leaped among the pews. HYMN FOR A CHILD Flocking to the Temple See the priests assemble Where a child expounds What the wise confounds. All the scribes and sages Quit their dog’s-eared pages; Spell-bound by his sense And his eloquence. Speaking without bias, He reviewed Elias; Said the dogs did well, Eating Jezebel. Just as he disposes Of the Law and Moses, Mary came in haste-- Caught him to her breast: ‘We have sought thee’ saying-- Chid him for delaying. Then without demur He went back with her. Those he was amazing Straightway broke out praising; Calling him a mild, Nicely brought-up child. Teach me, gentle Saviour, Such discreet behaviour That my elders be Always pleased with me. THE SCAPEGOAT See the scapegoat, happy beast, From every personal sin released, And in the desert hidden apart, Dancing with a careless heart. ‘Lightly weigh the sins of others.’ See him skip! ‘Am I my brother’s Keeper? O never, no, no, no! Lightly come and lightly go!’ In the town, from sin made free, Righteous men hold jubilee. In the desert all alone The scapegoat dances on and on. BYRON 1924 Much as they all deplored his morals Our fathers left the bard his laurels. But in these more precisian days We shake our young heads over the lays. GRACE AND GOOD WORKS Blest are the poor, whose needs enable The rich but timely charitable To take the Kingdom of Heaven by force. The poor are also saved, of course. MORNING The long, long-looked-for night has sped. ’Tis time we should arise Out of this tossed and blood-stained bed Where a dead woman lies. FAITHFUL CROSS Strange, that his sorrow should Only be understood By two rough pieces of wood. The friends that lingered there, However true they were, Had grief of their own to bear. They stood and mourned apart: With but half a heart For his sorrow and smart; They mourned, and went their way Into Heaven to be gay. The Cross is faithful to this day. O Tree of Life, that root Hast not, nor hope of shoot, Nor but this one sad fruit-- Thou, not Mary or John-- Thou, that he died upon He chose for his eidòlon. Though he by a word or two Or a look, men’s hearts could woo And knit, as none else could do; Not one of the brotherhood To whom he did good, But two rough pieces of wood, Hewn-off, exanimate, Could carry and constate His and his sorrow’s weight. THE MAID’S TRAGEDY I kept two singing birds In a cage of bone-- Hatched-out on the same day; But since one flew away, T’other’s alone. I spoke him gentle words And bade him sing. But he hung down his head As if discomforted, And drooped his wing. My mood was turned to rage; I stinted his seed, Opened the cage-door wide-- Starve, or begone! I cried. He did not heed. Silent within his cage I see him mope Like any turtle-dove. The dumb bird I called Love, The flown bird, Hope. COMMON ENTRY I hate my neighbour with bitter hate-- Night and morning, early and late, Her and her works to the Fiend I commend; For she’s had it mended--the garden gate. For every comer ’twould grind and squeak; But when One came here who had most to seek It would cry aloud at his hasty shove, ‘Here, here’s your lover!’ and redden my cheek. Oh yes, he still comes, though the gate doesn’t tell-- But I wish my neighbour were deep in Hell. How dare she the least of my joys estrange, Or threat me with changes when all’s so well? THE ALARUM With its rat’s tooth the clock Gnaws away delight. Piece by piece, piece by piece It will gnaw away to-night, Till the coiled spring released Rouses me with a hiss To a day, to another night Less happy than this. And yet my own hands wound it To keep watch while I slept; For though they be with sorrow, Appointments must be kept. MATCH ME O ROSE! A red rose shining in the sun Told me of summer new-begun. I smoothed each petal, and kissed each petal, And counted them one by one. Eighteen--and I had two years more. ‘Match me, O rose!’ I said; and tore In half two petals, two crimson petals, To bring them to a score. Just at that moment the wind blew-- Petal by petal away I threw, And turned to the rose-bush, the lovely rose-bush, Where other roses grew. THE ONLY CHILD When I was small My mother had an Indian shawl, Spun from the friendliest kind of goat And dyed a comfortable red. And when I had a pain in my throat I used to take the shawl to bed. So soft it was That through her wedding-ring ’twould pass; So warm, it nursed all care aside; So wide, a covey of babes might be Happed up in it--soft, warm and wide As sleep, that shawl was lent to me. THE BURNING-GLASS All day the Sun looked down On England; heath and town, Cornland and woodland, mountain and champaign, And the bright tangled skein Of Thames, Avon, Severn, Trent-- Everywhere his beams went. They lightened upon ships far out to sea, And sifted every tree. And few, and dull, were they Abroad in England that day, But looking up at the blue heavens overhead, ‘Fine harvest weather,’ said. Turning him to his rest Within the patient West-- As though he kept the primal law in mind To multiply his kind-- Throughout the land his rays Set windows in a blaze; But nowhere, save at Wells in Somerset, Did a live Sun beget. There, under cottage brows, Glittered intact the spouse Whose steadfast welcome the steadfast greeting could match, And fired a neighbour’s thatch. Strange chance! (Enough to undo Man’s wit, might he look through Seeing, and know the Sun an enormous spark In caves of endless dark; And, like ourselves, condemned His little light to expend By rote. But our imaginations deck The heaven’s hideous black.) Strange chance! meeting well-met! Chance more wild-faring yet I woo, that with long hope and true intent My burning-glass present To that unmeasured, un- surmiseable incendiary of suns-- Life--that some beam of it, matched by my art, May fire a stranger’s heart. PEEPING TOM +to T. F. Powys+ Out of the land He grew as grows the weed, But had no land For his own need. He to a farmer His crafty sinews hired, Rising up early And going home tired For six days of the week-- Poor Tom!--and said on Sunday, Leaning over a gate: ‘To-morrow be Monday.’ Few were his thoughts, Devious, and unexpressed; Yet one strong yearning Swelled in his breast Through rain and shine, Through months of earthly labour; Till at last he spoke His thought to a neighbour. ‘I should like well To have some land of my own, To be my land And mine alone: ‘Say, half an acre-- More would outdo my means-- To grow potatoes And a few beans.’ Up at the Inn His neighbour made it known How Tom wished For land of his own. About the village To all men’s ears it ran; The farmer heard it, Who was a rich man. Green water-meadows, Large barns, deep fields he had; His servant’s wish Made his heart glad, For he in plenty Was rooted like an oak; And Tom’s half-acre Seemed a good joke. He gave the ground. And all men said of him He could well afford To have his whim. The plot of ground which the farmer gave Did not cost him dear. All unfenced and untilled it lay, And far away From cottage and inland tree; Where the rolling down rears up like a great slow wave And then falls sheer Four hundred feet to the sea. Thither poor Tom, His day’s toil over, would walk; And marked, and swaled, And scratched on the chalk-- Too much intent To note the oncome of night Till to ease his back He stood upright. And plodding homeward Through nurtured fields, his mind Still delved in the patch He had left behind. Sea-winds blew there, Sea-birds flew there, Nothing grew there Save the inherent tares of barren ground; Grasses shrivelled and stiff, And frantic thistles scattering their seed. Claw-rooted was each necessitous weed And salt to the taste, For the blown rack groped over the waste, And evermore the sea with a trampling sound Beleaguered the cliff. A row of beans Was the first thing Tom set. Most died: the rest The rabbits ate. He gave up beer And saved to buy a fence. His wife blamed him For having no sense; And all his friends That saw him study and grieve-- Landless themselves-- Laughed in their sleeve. Tom heard them out; He did not say them Nay, But still to his patch Went day by day, Disheartened, perhaps, But redeless to forgo The dogged dream He had cherished so. And little thought His straitened brain-pan knew Save only that There was much to do. From the beginning The weeds had been his bane, And tilling the ground Made them as bad again. He groaned aloud To see how they would thrive Where nothing he planted Could keep alive; And fresh weeds grew That had not grown before; For each he spudded There sprang ten more, That bloomed in his face As if from very spite. It chanced, such a blossom Caught his sight Just as he struck work. His back was aching so That he was half-minded To let it go, But from long habit, With look indifferent, Above the invader Wearily he bent To root it up: His face by slow degrees Awakened, He went on his knees-- There is no beauty like the beauty of the wild, That blossoms suddenly out of the bare hillside. It is the barren woman that goes with child, It is the clenched knot of necessity untied, Eternity waylaid, and labouring creation Into forgetfulness and laughter beguiled: A relenting, a reconciliation, a glimpse of the bride, Nature, hidden under her dark veils of Time and Space and Causation. Out of the hillside a word: ‘Lo, here I am! Quick, gather my secret, cried-- Had you not come--to the waste, from pole to pole To echo forever unheard. Had I died, had I died, Perished had with me, unguessed, the clue of the whole. But now are the heavens opened, and Salvation Is sprung up like a flower cut of the earth. Look! I am newly-made, the dew of my birth Is of the womb of the morning; I hold in my wide- open petals the epitome of that blue In seas drowned, in distance secluded, in air enskied: And all, all is for you. Come! Kneel beside me and unlearn your soul.’ Ah, not for man the message, the revelation! On hillsides desolate and bare, by paths untravelled, In swamps, and skyey wastes the tokens are spilled. Wild beauty like a bird flits here and there, Homes not to hand nor snare, and nowhere settles. Who’s he shall augur from her flight? And who shall dare Unravel the plain speech of five blue petals? Not man’s mind, that chooseth a good Obsequious to the God his proud heart hath chosen, That parteth light from darkness and right from wrong, Nor brooketh the unfulfilled. Let him tread out the blossom and ignore the song And go upon his way. But some there are who hearken, who stay, Who kneel and worship before the undesigned, And all their strength relinquish to obey A voice that seeks not to be understood-- No, nor yet purpose has enough to be a mock. Awhile they feed on brightness; but ere long They find their hearts astray, and their blood frozen, And know themselves averted from their kind. Extremity of light has made them blind. With look so vacant as to seem serene, They wander towards darkness, and as they go Idly a few belated berries glean, Or darnel and the clammy nightshade wreathe, Or to themselves speak low; And in the end lie down upon the rock, And to the heedless air their last loud groan bequeath. Darkness rose up out of the deep; Headland by headland along the coast Lost colour, shape, identity, stole from sight, Folded in darkness like a flock of sheep. Up on the height The flower ebbed from his vision like a ghost, And Tom went home to sleep. Changed henceforward was his mood. All he’d endeavoured, all he’d planned Forgetting, his mind at ease, he would sit awhile To watch the gulls, or stretched full-length would brood; And camomile, Chance-plucked, chafed for its savour in his hand, And thyme or fennel chewed. Mildly now he could behold Thistle and coney flourish unchecked. The unequal combat relinquishing he let fall His spade, or only dug to smell the mould; But joys past all Former surmise he harvested from neglect, That joyed nor reaped of old. Sweetness had pierced him like a dart. Careless of duty, afield he ranged, And spared with fostering hand the weeds amid The farmer’s crops, such wonder was in his heart. The farmer chid-- And swore the politicians were deranged To take the labourer’s part. Christmas came, and quarter-day; ‘Goodwill to all men’ chanted the choir, ‘And on earth, peace.’ The earth in a riveted black Frost fast bound like a cataleptic lay. The times were slack. The farmer said to Tom: ‘I don’t require Servants not worth their pay.’ Household shipwreck disposing as best He could, since none near by would employ Such a half-wit, on a tramp for work he set out; Of more than land and livelihood dispossessed, For care and doubt Sat plotting deep in his heart that his secret joy Might vade with all the rest. Everywhere rejected, he turned Onward by darkening ways and grim Gaunt woodlands where yet would kindle from bough to bough The irresistible wildfire of spring for which he had yearned. Small difference now ’Twixt leaves unborn or dead underfoot to him Whom spring no more concerned. Lengthening days would but strengthen his care, Nor spring be even what once it had been-- A dazzle in dull eyes, chance heart-thrust of a bird’s song, Hint of a covenanted joy all creatures share; For he too long Had watched a wildflower’s visage, and had seen No hope, no purpose there. Whither he went, And what the welcome he found, Or if he yet Were above ground, Came never word. His name was clean forgot; Unless folk said Tom was a bad lot. Many years after, His tale was told to me. I for a whim Went off to see Tom’s patch, but might Have sought in vain for it Had not my foot Caught in a bit Of galvanised netting-- Good heartless shop-stuff, wrought To outlast man And man’s thought. I gave it a kick; And after one more look, Moved off to find Some sheltered nook Where I might sit And watch the seagulls fly. All that afternoon No one came by, Save one old man Scarcely more human than they-- And he, I think, Had lost his way. For as he went He’d stop and look about, And shake his head, As if in doubt Of where he was; And once, as though he’d read The answer there, Pulled up a weed And peered at it Full steadfastly--and then Throwing it down, Limped on again. 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