The Project Gutenberg eBook of "Poems by the way & Love is enough, New ed.", by William Morris.

POEMS BY THE WAY

FROM THE UPLAND TO THE SEA

Shall we wake one morn of spring,

Glad at heart of everything,

Yet pensive with the thought of eve?

Then the white house shall we leave.

Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,

Through the garth, and go our ways,

Wandering down among the meads

Till our very joyance needs

Rest at last; till we shall come

To that Sun-god's lonely home,

Lonely on the hillside grey,

Whence the sheep have gone away;

Lonely till the feast-time is,

When with prayer and praise of bliss,

Thither comes the country side.

There awhile shall we abide,

Sitting low down in the porch

By that image with the torch:

Thy one white hand laid upon

The black pillar that was won

From the far-off Indian mine;

And my hand nigh touching thine,

But not touching; and thy gown

Fair with spring-flowers cast adown

From thy bosom and thy brow.

There the south-west wind shall blow

Through thine hair to reach my cheek,

As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,

Nor mayst move the hand I kiss

For the very depth of bliss;

Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me.

Then desire of the great sea

Nigh enow, but all unheard,

In the hearts of us is stirred,

And we rise, we twain at last,

And the daffodils downcast,

Feel thy feet and we are gone

From the lonely Sun-Crowned one,

Then the meads fade at our back,

And the spring day 'gins to lack

That fresh hope that once it had;

But we twain grow yet more glad,

And apart no more may go

When the grassy slope and low

Dieth in the shingly sand:

Then we wander hand in hand

By the edges of the sea,

And I weary more for thee

Than if far apart we were,

With a space of desert drear

'Twixt thy lips and mine, O love!

Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!

OF THE WOOING OF HALLBIORN THE STRONG

A STORY FROM THE LAND-SETTLING BOOK OF ICELAND, CHAPTER XXX.

At Deildar-Tongue in the autumn-tide,

So many times over comes summer again,

Stood Odd of Tongue his door beside.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Dim and dusk the day was grown,

As he heard his folded wethers moan.

Then through the garth a man drew near,

With painted shield and gold-wrought spear.

Good was his horse and grand his gear,

And his girths were wet with Whitewater.

"Hail, Master Odd, live blithe and long!

How fare the folk at Deildar-Tongue?"

"All hail, thou Hallbiorn the Strong!

How fare the folk by the Brothers'-Tongue?"

"Meat have we there, and drink and fire,

Nor lack all things that we desire.

But by the other Whitewater

Of Hallgerd many a tale we hear."

"Tales enow may my daughter make

If too many words be said for her sake."

"What saith thine heart to a word of mine,

That I deem thy daughter fair and fine?

Fair and fine for a bride is she,

And I fain would have her home with me."

"Full many a word that at noon goes forth

Comes home at even little worth.

Now winter treadeth on autumn-tide,

So here till the spring shalt thou abide.

Then if thy mind be changed no whit.

And ye still will wed, see ye to it!

And on the first of summer days,

A wedded man, ye may go your ways.

Yet look, howso the thing will fall,

My hand shall meddle nought at all.

Lo, now the night and rain draweth up.

And within doors glimmer stoop and cup.

And hark, a little sound I know,

The laugh of Snæbiorn's fiddle-bow,

My sister's son, and a craftsman good,

When the red rain drives through the iron wood."

Hallbiorn laughed, and followed in,

And a merry feast there did begin.

Hallgerd's hands undid his weed,

Hallgerd's hands poured out the mead.

Her fingers at his breast he felt,

As her hair fell down about his belt.

Her fingers with the cup he took,

And o'er its rim at her did look.

Cold cup, warm hand, and fingers slim.

Before his eyes were waxen dim.

And if the feast were foul or fair,

He knew not, save that she was there.

He knew not if men laughed or wept,

While still 'twixt wall and daïs she stept.

Whether she went or stood that eve,

Not once his eyes her face did leave.

But Snæbiorn laughed and Snæbiorn sang,

And sweet his smitten fiddle rang.

And Hallgerd stood beside him there,

So many times over comes summer again

Nor ever once he turned to her,

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Master Odd on the morrow spake,

So many times over comes summer again.

"Hearken, O guest, if ye be awake,"

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

"Sure ye champions of the south

Speak many things from a silent mouth.

And thine, meseems, last night did pray

That ye might well be wed to-day.

The year's ingathering feast it is,

A goodly day to give thee bliss.

Come hither, daughter, fine and fair,

Here is a wooer from Whitewater.

Fast away hath he gotten fame,

And his father's name is e'en my name.

Will ye lay hand within his hand,

That blossoming fair our house may stand?"

She laid her hand within his hand;

White she was as the lily wand.

Low sang Snæbiorn's brand in its sheath,

And his lips were waxen grey as death.

"Snæbiorn, sing us a song of worth.

If your song must be silent from now henceforth.

Clear and loud his voice outrang,

And a song of worth at the wedding he sang.

"Sharp sword," he sang, "and death is sure."

So many times over comes summer again,

"But love doth over all endure."

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Now winter cometh and weareth away,

So many times over comes summer again,

And glad is Hallbiorn many a day.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Full soft he lay his love beside;

But dark are the days of winter-tide.

Dark are the days, and the nights are long,

And sweet and fair was Snæbiorn's song.

Many a time he talked with her,

Till they deemed the summer-tide was there.

And they forgat the wind-swept ways

And angry fords of the flitting-days.

While the north wind swept the hillside there

They forgat the other Whitewater.

While nights at Deildar-Tongue were long,

They clean forgat the Brothers'-Tongue.

But whatso falleth 'twixt Hell and Home,

So many times over comes summer again,

Full surely again shall summer come.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

To Odd spake Hallbiorn on a day

So many times over comes summer again,

"Gone is the snow from everyway."

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

"Now green is grown Whitewater-side,

And I to Whitewater will ride."

Quoth Odd, "Well fare thou winter-guest,

May thine own Whitewater be best

Well is a man's purse better at home

Than open where folk go and come."

"Come ye carles of the south country,

Now shall we go our kin to see!

For the lambs are bleating in the south,

And the salmon swims towards Olfus mouth,

Girth and graithe and gather your gear!

And ho for the other Whitewater!"

Bright was the moon as bright might be,

And Snæbiorn rode to the north country.

And Odd to Reykholt is gone forth,

To see if his mares be ought of worth.

But Hallbiorn into the bower is gone

And there sat Hallgerd all alone.

She was not dight to go nor ride,

She had no joy of the summer-tide.

Silent she sat and combed her hair,

That fell all round about her there.

The slant beam lay upon her head,

And gilt her golden locks to red.

He gazed at her with hungry eyes

And fluttering did his heart arise.

"Full hot," he said, "is the sun to-day,

And the snow is gone from the mountain-way

The king-cup grows above the grass,

And through the wood do the thrushes pass."

Of all his words she hearkened none,

But combed her hair amidst the sun.

"The laden beasts stand in the garth

And their heads are turned to Helliskarth."

The sun was falling on her knee,

And she combed her gold hair silently.

"To-morrow great will be the cheer

At the Brothers'-Tongue by Whitewater."

From her folded lap the sunbeam slid;

She combed her hair, and the word she hid.

"Come, love; is the way so long and drear

From Whitewater to Whitewater?"

The sunbeam lay upon the floor;

She combed her hair and spake no more.

He drew her by the lily hand:

"I love thee better than all the land."

He drew her by the shoulders sweet:

"My threshold is but for thy feet."

He drew her by the yellow hair:

"O why wert thou so deadly fair?

O am I wedded to death?" he cried,

"Is the Dead-strand come to Whitewater side?"

And the sun was fading from the room,

But her eyes were bright in the change and the gloom.

"Sharp sword," she sang, "and death is sure,

But over all doth love endure."

She stood up shining in her place

And laughed beneath his deadly face.

Instead of the sunbeam gleamed a brand,

The hilts were hard in Hallbiorn's hand:

The bitter point was in Hallgerd's breast

That Snæbiorn's lips of love had pressed.

Morn and noon, and nones passed o'er,

And the sun is far from the bower door.

To-morrow morn shall the sun come back,

So many times over comes summer again,

But Hallgerd's feet the floor shall lack.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Now Hallbiorn's house-carles ride full fast,

So many times over comes summer again,

Till many a mile of way is past.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

But when they came over Oxridges,

'Twas, "Where shall we give our horses ease?"

When Shieldbroad-side was well in sight,

'Twas, "Where shall we lay our heads to-night?"

Hallbiorn turned and raised his head;

"Under the stones of the waste," he said.

Quoth one, "The clatter of hoofs anigh."

Quoth the other, "Spears against the sky!"

"Hither ride men from the Wells apace;

Spur we fast to a kindlier place."

Down from his horse leapt Hallbiorn straight:

"Why should the supper of Odin wait?

Weary and chased I will not come

To the table of my fathers' home."

With that came Snæbiorn, who but he,

And twelve in all was his company.

Snæbiorn's folk were on their feet;

He spake no word as they did meet.

They fought upon the northern hill:

Five are the howes men see there still.

Three men of Snæbiorn's fell to earth

And Hallbiorn's twain that were of worth.

And never a word did Snæbiorn say,

Till Hallbiorn's foot he smote away.

Then Hallbiorn cried: "Come, fellow of mine,

To the southern bent where the sun doth shine."

Tottering into the sun he went,

And slew two more upon the bent.

And on the bent where dead he lay

Three howes do men behold to-day.

And never a word spake Snæbiorn yet,

Till in his saddle he was set.

Nor was there any heard his voice,

So many times over comes summer again

Till he came to his ship in Grimsar-oyce.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

On so fair a day they hoisted sail,

So many times over comes summer again,

And for Norway well did the wind avail.

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

But Snæbiorn looked aloft and said:

"I see in the sail a stripe of red:

Murder, meseems, is the name of it,

And ugly things about it flit.

A stripe of blue in the sail I see:

Cold death of men it seems to me.

And next I see a stripe of black,

For a life fulfilled of bitter lack."

Quoth one, "So fair a wind doth blow

That we shall see Norway soon enow."

"Be blithe, O shipmate," Snæbiorn said,

"Tell Hacon the Earl that I be dead."

About the midst of the Iceland main

Round veered the wind to the east again.

And west they drave, and long they ran

Till they saw a land was white and wan.

"Yea," Snæbiorn said, "my home it is,

Ye bear a man shall have no bliss.

Far off beside the Greekish sea

The maidens pluck the grapes in glee.

Green groweth the wheat in the English land,

And the honey-bee flieth on every hand.

In Norway by the cheaping town

The laden beasts go up and down.

In Iceland many a mead they mow

And Hallgerd's grave grows green enow.

But these are Gunnbiorn's skerries wan,

Meet harbour for a hapless man.

In all lands else is love alive,

But here is nought with grief to strive.

Fail not for a while, O eastern wind,

For nought but grief is left behind.

And before me here a rest I know,"

So many times over comes summer again,

"A grave beneath the Greenland snow,"

What healing in summer if winter be vain?

ECHOES OF LOVE'S HOUSE

Love gives every gift whereby we long to live:

"Love takes every gift, and nothing back doth give."

Love unlocks the lips that else were ever dumb:

"Love locks up the lips whence all things good might come."

Love makes clear the eyes that else would never see:

"Love makes blind the eyes to all but me and thee."

Love turns life to joy till nought is left to gain:

"Love turns life to woe till hope is nought and vain."

Love, who changest all, change me nevermore!

"Love, who changest all, change my sorrow sore!"

Love burns up the world to changeless heaven and blest,

"Love burns up the world to a void of all unrest."

And there we twain are left, and no more work we need:

"And I am left alone, and who my work shall heed?"

Ah! I praise thee, Love, for utter joyance won!

"And is my praise nought worth for all my life undone?"

THE BURGHERS' BATTLE

Thick rise the spear-shafts o'er the land

That erst the harvest bore;

The sword is heavy in the hand,

And we return no more.

The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox,

Our banner of the war,

And ripples in the Running Ox,

And we return no more.

Across our stubble acres now

The teams go four and four;

But out-worn elders guide the plough,

And we return no more.

And now the women heavy-eyed

Turn through the open door

From gazing down the highway wide,

Where we return no more.

The shadows of the fruited close

Dapple the feast-hall floor;

There lie our dogs and dream and doze,

And we return no more.

Down from the minster tower to-day

Fall the soft chimes of yore

Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play:

And we return no more.

But underneath the streets are still;

Noon, and the market's o'er!

Back go the goodwives o'er the hill;

For we return no more.

What merchant to our gates shall come?

What wise man bring us lore?

What abbot ride away to Rome,

Now we return no more?

What mayor shall rule the hall we built?

Whose scarlet sweep the floor?

What judge shall doom the robber's guilt,

Now we return no more?

New houses in the street shall rise

Where builded we before,

Of other stone wrought otherwise;

For we return no more.

And crops shall cover field and hill

Unlike what once they bore,

And all be done without our will,

Now we return no more.

Look up! the arrows streak the sky,

The horns of battle roar;

The long spears lower and draw nigh,

And we return no more.

Remember how beside the wain,

We spoke the word of war,

And sowed this harvest of the plain,

And we return no more.

Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox!

The days of old are o'er;

Heave sword about the Running Ox!

For we return no more.

HOPE DIETH: LOVE LIVETH

Strong are thine arms, O love, and strong

Thine heart to live, and love, and long;

But thou art wed to grief and wrong:

Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!

Live on, and labour through the years!

Make pictures through the mist of tears,

Of unforgotten happy fears,

That crossed the time ere hope was dead.

Draw near the place where once we stood

Amid delight's swift-rushing flood,

And we and all the world seemed good

Nor needed hope now cold and dead.

Dream in the dawn I come to thee

Weeping for things that may not be!

Dream that thou layest lips on me!

Wake, wake to clasp hope's body dead!

Count o'er and o'er, and one by one,

The minutes of the happy sun

That while agone on kissed lips shone,

Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.

Weep, though no hair's breadth thou shalt move

The living Earth, the heaven above,

By all the bitterness of love!

Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!

Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,

Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:

The years change not, though they decrease,

For hope is dead, for hope is dead.

Speak, love, I listen: far away

I bless the tremulous lips, that say,

"Mock not the afternoon of day,

Mock not the tide when hope is dead!"

I bless thee, O my love, who say'st:

"Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;

I hold Love's hand, and make no haste

Down the long way, now hope is dead.

With other names do we name pain,

The long years wear our hearts in vain.

Mock not our loss grown into gain,

Mock not our lost hope lying dead.

Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,

No glimmer of the dawn afar;

Full silent wayfarers we are

Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.

Behold with lack of happiness

The master, Love, our hearts did bless

Lest we should think of him the less:

Love dieth not, though hope is dead!"

ERROR AND LOSS

Upon an eve I sat me down and wept,

Because the world to me seemed nowise good;

Still autumn was it, and the meadows slept,

The misty hills dreamed, and the silent wood

Seemed listening to the sorrow of my mood:

I knew not if the earth with me did grieve,

Or if it mocked my grief that bitter eve.

Then 'twixt my tears a maiden did I see,

Who drew anigh me on the leaf-strewn grass,

Then stood and gazed upon me pitifully

With grief-worn eyes, until my woe did pass

From me to her, and tearless now I was,

And she mid tears was asking me of one

She long had sought unaided and alone.

I knew not of him, and she turned away

Into the dark wood, and my own great pain

Still held me there, till dark had slain the day,

And perished at the grey dawn's hand again;

Then from the wood a voice cried: "Ah, in vain,

In vain I seek thee, O thou bitter-sweet!

In what lone land are set thy longed-for feet?"

Then I looked up, and lo, a man there came

From midst the trees, and stood regarding me

Until my tears were dried for very shame;

Then he cried out: "O mourner, where is she

Whom I have sought o'er every land and sea?

I love her and she loveth me, and still

We meet no more than green hill meeteth hill."

With that he passed on sadly, and I knew

That these had met and missed in the dark night,

Blinded by blindness of the world untrue,

That hideth love and maketh wrong of right.

Then midst my pity for their lost delight,

Yet more with barren longing I grew weak,

Yet more I mourned that I had none to seek.

THE HALL AND THE WOOD

'Twas in the water-dwindling tide

When July days were done,

Sir Rafe of Greenhowes 'gan to ride

In the earliest of the sun.

He left the white-walled burg behind,

He rode amidst the wheat.

The westland-gotten wind blew kind

Across the acres sweet.

Then rose his heart and cleared his brow,

And slow he rode the way:

"As then it was, so is it now,

Not all hath worn away."

So came he to the long green lane

That leadeth to the ford,

And saw the sickle by the wain

Shine bright as any sword.

The brown carles stayed 'twixt draught and draught,

And murmuring, stood aloof,

But one spake out when he had laughed:

"God bless the Green-wood Roof!"

Then o'er the ford and up he fared:

And lo the happy hills!

And the mountain-dale by summer cleared,

That oft the winter fills.

Then forth he rode by Peter's gate,

And smiled and said aloud:

"No more a day doth the Prior wait;

White stands the tower and proud."

There leaned a knight on the gateway side

In armour white and wan,

And after the heels of the horse he cried,

"God keep the hunted man!"

Then quoth Sir Rafe, "Amen, amen!"

For he deemed the word was good;

But never a while he lingered then

Till he reached the Nether Wood.

He rode by ash, he rode by oak,

He rode the thicket round,

And heard no woodman strike a stroke,

No wandering wife he found.

He rode the wet, he rode the dry,

He rode the grassy glade:

At Wood-end yet the sun was high,

And his heart was unafraid.

There on the bent his rein he drew,

And looked o'er field and fold,

O'er all the merry meads he knew

Beneath the mountains old.

He gazed across to the good Green Howe

As he smelt the sun-warmed sward;

Then his face grew pale from chin to brow,

And he cried, "God save the sword!"

For there beyond the winding way,

Above the orchards green,

Stood up the ancient gables grey

With ne'er a roof between.

His naked blade in hand he had,

O'er rough and smooth he rode,

Till he stood where once his heart was glad

Amidst his old abode.

Across the hearth a tie-beam lay

Unmoved a weary while.

The flame that clomb the ashlar grey

Had burned it red as tile.

The sparrows bickering on the floor

Fled at his entering in;

The swift flew past the empty door

His winged meat to win.

Red apples from the tall old tree

O'er the wall's rent were shed.

Thence oft, a little lad, would he

Look down upon the lead.

There turned the cheeping chaffinch now

And feared no birding child;

Through the shot-window thrust a bough

Of garden-rose run wild.

He looked to right, he looked to left,

And down to the cold grey hearth,

Where lay an axe with half burned heft

Amidst the ashen dearth.

He caught it up and cast it wide

Against the gable wall;

Then to the daïs did he stride,

O'er beam and bench and all.

Amidst there yet the high-seat stood,

Where erst his sires had sat;

And the mighty board of oaken wood,

The fire had stayed thereat.

Then through the red wrath of his eyne

He saw a sheathed sword,

Laid thwart that wasted field of wine,

Amidmost of the board.

And by the hilts a slug-horn lay,

And therebeside a scroll,

He caught it up and turned away

From the lea-land of the bowl.

Then with the sobbing grief he strove,

For he saw his name thereon;

And the heart within his breast uphove

As the pen's tale now he won.

"O Rafe, my love of long ago!

Draw forth thy father's blade,

And blow the horn for friend and foe,

And the good green-wood to aid!"

He turned and took the slug-horn up,

And set it to his mouth,

And o'er that meadow of the cup

Blew east and west and south.

He drew the sword from out the sheath

And shook the fallow brand;

And there a while with bated breath,

And hearkening ear did stand.

Him-seemed the horn's voice he might hear—

Or the wind that blew o'er all.

Him-seemed that footsteps drew anear—

Or the boughs shook round the hall.

Him-seemed he heard a voice he knew—

Or a dream of while agone.

Him-seemed bright raiment towards him drew—

Or bright the sun-set shone.

She stood before him face to face,

With the sun-beam thwart her hand,

As on the gold of the Holy Place

The painted angels stand.

With many a kiss she closed his eyes;

She kissed him cheek and chin:

E'en so in the painted Paradise

Are Earth's folk welcomed in.

There in the door the green-coats stood,

O'er the bows went up the cry,

"O welcome, Rafe, to the free green-wood,

With us to live and die."

It was bill and bow by the high-seat stood,

And they cried above the bows,

"Now welcome, Rafe, to the good green-wood,

And welcome Kate the Rose!"

White, white in the moon is the woodland plash,

White is the woodland glade,

Forth wend those twain, from oak to ash,

With light hearts unafraid.

The summer moon high o'er the hill,

All silver-white is she,

And Sir Rafe's good men with bow and bill,

They go by two and three.

In the fair green-wood where lurks no fear,

Where the King's writ runneth not,

There dwell they, friends and fellows dear,

While summer days are hot.

And when the leaf from the oak-tree falls,

And winds blow rough and strong,

With the carles of the woodland thorps and halls

They dwell, and fear no wrong.

And there the merry yule they make,

And see the winter wane,

And fain are they for true-love's sake,

And the folk thereby are fain.

For the ploughing carle and the straying herd

Flee never for Sir Rafe:

No barefoot maiden wends afeard,

And she deems the thicket safe.

But sore adread do the chapmen ride;

Wide round the wood they go;

And the judge and the sergeants wander wide,

Lest they plead before the bow.

Well learned and wise is Sir Rafe's good sword,

And straight the arrows fly,

And they find the coat of many a lord,

And the crest that rideth high.

THE DAY OF DAYS

Each eve earth falleth down the dark,

As though its hope were o'er;

Yet lurks the sun when day is done

Behind to-morrow's door.

Grey grows the dawn while men-folk sleep,

Unseen spreads on the light,

Till the thrush sings to the coloured things,

And earth forgets the night.

No otherwise wends on our Hope:

E'en as a tale that's told

Are fair lives lost, and all the cost

Of wise and true and bold.

We've toiled and failed; we spake the word;

None hearkened; dumb we lie;

Our Hope is dead, the seed we spread

Fell o'er the earth to die.

What's this? For joy our hearts stand still,

And life is loved and dear,

The lost and found the Cause hath crowned,

The Day of Days is here.

TO THE MUSE OF THE NORTH

O muse that swayest the sad Northern Song,

Thy right hand full of smiting and of wrong,

Thy left hand holding pity; and thy breast

Heaving with hope of that so certain rest:

Thou, with the grey eyes kind and unafraid,

The soft lips trembling not, though they have said

The doom of the World and those that dwell therein.

The lips that smile not though thy children win

The fated Love that draws the fated Death.

O, borne adown the fresh stream of thy breath,

Let some word reach my ears and touch my heart,

That, if it may be, I may have a part

In that great sorrow of thy children dead

That vexed the brow, and bowed adown the head,

Whitened the hair, made life a wondrous dream,

And death the murmur of a restful stream,

But left no stain upon those souls of thine

Whose greatness through the tangled world doth shine.

O Mother, and Love and Sister all in one,

Come thou; for sure I am enough alone

That thou thine arms about my heart shouldst throw,

And wrap me in the grief of long ago.

OF THE THREE SEEKERS

There met three knights on the woodland,

And the first was clad in silk array:

The second was dight in iron and steel,

But the third was rags from head to heel.

"Lo, now is the year and the day come round

When we must tell what we have found."

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 befall?

Draw not near, speak under your breath,

For all new-comers 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 God wrought well in making her.

The first and second knights abode

To gaze upon her as she rode,

Forth passed 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 space 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 space 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 spring-tide, 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 township to township, 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 fashioned 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?

How long, and for what is their patience abiding?

How oft and how oft shall their story be told,

While the hope that none seeketh in darkness is hiding,

And in grief and in sorrow the world groweth old?

Come back to the inn, love, and the lights and the fire,

And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet;

For there in a while shall be rest and desire,

And there shall the morrow's uprising be sweet.

Yet, love, as we wend, the wind bloweth behind us,

And beareth the last tale it telleth to-night,

How here in the spring-tide the message shall find us;

For the hope that none seeketh is coming to light.

Like the seed of mid-winter, unheeded, unperished,

Like the autumn-sown wheat 'neath the snow lying green,

Like the love that overtook us, unawares and uncherished,

Like the babe 'neath thy girdle that groweth unseen;

So the hope of the people now buddeth and groweth,

Rest fadeth before it, and blindness and fear;

It biddeth us learn all the wisdom it knoweth;

It hath found us and held us, and biddeth us hear:

For it beareth the message: "Rise up on the morrow

And go on your ways toward the doubt and the strife;

Join hope to our hope and blend sorrow with sorrow.

And seek for men's love in the short days of life."

But lo, the old inn, and the lights, and the fire,

And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet;

Soon for us shall be quiet and rest and desire,

And to-morrow's uprising to deeds shall be sweet.

A DEATH SONG

What cometh here from west to east awending?

And who are these, the marchers stern and slow?

We bear the message that the rich are sending

Aback to those who bade them wake and know.

Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,

But one and all if they would dusk the day.

We asked them for a life of toilsome earning,

They bade us bide their leisure for our bread;

We craved to speak to tell our woeful learning:

We come back speechless, bearing back our dead.

Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,

But one and all if they would dusk the day.

They will not learn; they have no ears to hearken.

They turn their faces from the eyes of fate;

Their gay-lit halls shut out the skies that darken.

But, lo! this dead man knocking at the gate.

Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,

But one and all if they would dusk the day.

Here lies the sign that we shall break our prison;

Amidst the storm he won a prisoner's rest;

But in the cloudy dawn the sun arisen

Brings us our day of work to win the best.

Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay,

But one and all if they would dusk the day.

ICELAND FIRST SEEN

Lo from our loitering ship

a new land at last to be seen;

Toothed rocks down the side of the firth

on the east guard a weary wide lea,

And black slope the hillsides above,

striped adown with their desolate green:

And a peak rises up on the west

from the meeting of cloud and of sea,

Foursquare from base unto point

like the building of Gods that have been,

The last of that waste of the mountains

all cloud-wreathed and snow-flecked and grey,

And bright with the dawn that began

just now at the ending of day.

Ah! what came we forth for to see

that our hearts are so hot with desire?

Is it enough for our rest,

the sight of this desolate strand,

And the mountain-waste voiceless as death

but for winds that may sleep not nor tire?

Why do we long to wend forth

through the length and breadth of a land,

Dreadful with grinding of ice,

and record of scarce hidden fire,

But that there 'mid the grey grassy dales

sore scarred by the ruining streams

Lives the tale of the Northland of old

and the undying glory of dreams?

O land, as some cave by the sea

where the treasures of old have been laid,

The sword it may be of a king

whose name was the turning of fight:

Or the staff of some wise of the world

that many things made and unmade.

Or the ring of a woman maybe

whose woe is grown wealth and delight.

No wheat and no wine grows above it,

no orchard for blossom and shade;

The few ships that sail by its blackness

but deem it the mouth of a grave;

Yet sure when the world shall awaken,

this too shall be mighty to save.

Or rather, O land, if a marvel

it seemeth that men ever sought

Thy wastes for a field and a garden

fulfilled of all wonder and doubt,

And feasted amidst of the winter

when the fight of the year had been fought,

Whose plunder all gathered together

was little to babble about;

Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou land,

"Not for this nor for that was I wrought

Amid waning of realms and of riches

and death of things worshipped and sure,

I abide here the spouse of a God,

and I made and I make and endure."

O Queen of the grief without knowledge,

of the courage that may not avail,

Of the longing that may not attain,

of the love that shall never forget,

More joy than the gladness of laughter

thy voice hath amidst of its wail:

More hope than of pleasure fulfilled

amidst of thy blindness is set;

More glorious than gaining of all

thine unfaltering hand that shall fail:

For what is the mark on thy brow

but the brand that thy Brynhild doth bear?

Lone once, and loved and undone

by a love that no ages outwear.

Ah! when thy Balder comes back,

and bears from the heart of the Sun

Peace and the healing of pain,

and the wisdom that waiteth no more;

And the lilies are laid on thy brow

'mid the crown of the deeds thou hast done;

And the roses spring up by thy feet

that the rocks of the wilderness wore.

Ah! when thy Balder comes back

and we gather the gains he hath won,

Shall we not linger a little

to talk of thy sweetness of old,

Yea, turn back awhile to thy travail

whence the Gods stood aloof to behold?

THE RAVEN AND THE KING'S DAUGHTER

THE RAVEN

King's daughter sitting in tower so high,

Fair summer is on many a shield.

Why weepest thou as the clouds go by?

Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field.

Why weepest thou in the window-seat

Till the tears run through thy fingers sweet?

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

I weep because I sit alone

Betwixt these walls of lime and stone.

Fair folk are in my father's hall,

But for me he built this guarded wall.

And here the gold on the green I sew

Nor tidings of my true-love know.

THE RAVEN

King's daughter, sitting above the sea,

I shall tell thee a tale shall gladden thee.

Yestreen I saw a ship go forth

When the wind blew merry from the north.

And by the tiller Steingrim sat,

And O, but my heart was glad thereat!

For 'twixt ashen plank and dark blue sea

His sword sang sweet of deeds to be.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

O barren sea, thou bitter bird,

And a barren tale my ears have heard.

THE RAVEN

Thy father's men were hard thereby

In byrny bright and helmet high.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

O worser waxeth thy story far,

For these drew upon me bolt and bar.

Fly south, O fowl, to the field of death

For nothing sweet thy grey neb saith.

THE RAVEN

O, there was Olaf the lily-rose,

As fair as any oak that grows.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

O sweet bird, what did he then

Among the spears of my father's men?

THE RAVEN

'Twixt ashen plank and dark blue sea,

He sang: My true love waiteth me.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

As well as this dull floor knows my feet,

I am not weary yet, my sweet.

THE RAVEN

He sang: As once her hand I had,

Her lips at last shall make me glad.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

As once our fingers met, O love,

So shall our lips be fain thereof.

THE RAVEN

He sang: Come wrack and iron and flame,

For what shall breach the wall but fame?

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

Be swift to rise and set, O Sun,

Lest life 'twixt hope and death be done.

THE RAVEN

King's daughter sitting in tower so high,

A gift for my tale ere forth I fly,

The gold from thy finger fair and fine,

Thou hadst it from no love of thine.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

By my father's ring another there is,

I had it with my mother's kiss.

Fly forth, O fowl, across the sea

To win another gift of me.

Fly south to bring me tidings true,

Fair summer is on many a shield.

Of the eve grown red with the battle-dew,

Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field.

THE RAVEN

King's daughter sitting in tower so high,

Fair summer is on many a shield.

Tidings to hearken ere thou die,

Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field.

In the Frankish land the spear points met,

And wide about the field was wet.

And high ere the cold moon quenched the sun,

Blew Steingrim's horn for battle won.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

Fair fall thee, fowl! Tell tidings true

Of deeds that men that day did do.

THE RAVEN

Steingrim before his banner went,

And helms were broke and byrnies rent.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

A doughty man and good at need;

Tell men of any other's deed?

THE RAVEN

Where Steingrim through the battle bore

Still Olaf went a foot before.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

O fair with deeds the world doth grow!

Where is my true-love gotten now?

THE RAVEN

Upon the deck beside the mast

He lieth now, and sleepeth fast.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

Heard'st thou before his sleep began

That he spake word of any man?

THE RAVEN

Methought of thee he sang a song,

But nothing now he saith for long.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

And wottest thou where he will wend

With the world before him from end to end?

THE RAVEN

Before the battle joined that day

Steingrim a word to him did say:

"If we bring the banner back in peace,

In the King's house much shall my fame increase;

Till there no guarded door shall be

But it shall open straight to me.

Then to the bower we twain shall go

Where thy love the golden seam doth sew.

I shall bring thee in and lay thine hand

About the neck of that lily-wand.

And let the King be lief or loth

One bed that night shall hold you both."

Now north belike runs Steingrim's prow,

And the rain and the wind from the south do blow.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER

Lo, fowl of death, my mother's ring,

But the bridal song I must learn to sing.

And fain were I for a space alone,

For O the wind, and the wind doth moan.

And I must array the bridal bed,

Fair summer is on many a shield.

For O the rain, and the rain drifts red!

Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field.

Before the day from the night was born,

Fair summer is on many a shield.

She heard the blast of Steingrim's horn,

Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field.

Before the day was waxen fair

Were Steingrim's feet upon the stair.

"O bolt and bar they fall away,

But heavy are Steingrim's feet to-day."

"O heavy the feet of one who bears

The longing of days and the grief of years!

Lie down, lie down, thou lily-wand

That on thy neck I may lay his hand.

Whether the King be lief or loth

To-day one bed shall hold you both.

O thou art still as he is still,

So sore as ye longed to talk your fill

And good it were that I depart,

Now heart is laid so close to heart.

For sure ye shall talk so left alone

Fair summer is on many a shield.

Of days to be below the stone."

Fair sing the swans 'twixt firth and field.

SPRING'S BEDFELLOW

Spring went about the woods to-day,

The soft-foot winter-thief,

And found where idle sorrow lay

'Twixt flower and faded leaf.

She looked on him, and found him fair

For all she had been told;

She knelt adown beside him there,

And sang of days of old.

His open eyes beheld her nought,

Yet 'gan his lips to move;

But life and deeds were in her thought,

And he would sing of love.

So sang they till their eyes did meet,

And faded fear and shame;

More bold he grew, and she more sweet,

Until they sang the same.

Until, say they who know the thing,

Their very lips did kiss,

And Sorrow laid abed with Spring

Begat an earthly bliss.

MEETING IN WINTER

Winter in the world it is,

Round about the unhoped kiss

Whose dream I long have sorrowed o'er;

Round about the longing sore,

That the touch of thee shall turn

Into joy too deep to burn.

Round thine eyes and round thy mouth

Passeth no murmur of the south,

When my lips a little while

Leave thy quivering tender smile,

As we twain, hand holding hand,

Once again together stand.

Sweet is that, as all is sweet;

For the white drift shalt thou meet,

Kind and cold-cheeked and mine own,

Wrapped about with deep-furred gown

In the broad-wheeled chariot:

Then the north shall spare us not;

The wide-reaching waste of snow

Wilder, lonelier yet shall grow

As the reddened sun falls down.

But the warders of the town,

When they flash the torches out

O'er the snow amid their doubt,

And their eyes at last behold

Thy red-litten hair of gold;

Shall they open, or in fear

Cry, "Alas! what cometh here?

Whence hath come this Heavenly One

To tell of all the world undone?"

They shall open, and we shall see

The long street litten scantily

By the long stream of light before

The guest-hall's half-open door;

And our horses' bells shall cease

As we reach the place of peace;

Thou shalt tremble, as at last

The worn threshold is o'er-past,

And the fire-light blindeth thee:

Trembling shalt thou cling to me

As the sleepy merchants stare

At thy cold hands slim and fair

Thy soft eyes and happy lips

Worth all lading of their ships.

O my love, how sweet and sweet

That first kissing of thy feet,

When the fire is sunk alow,

And the hall made empty now

Groweth solemn, dim and vast!

O my love, the night shall last

Longer than men tell thereof

Laden with our lonely love!

THE TWO SIDES OF THE RIVER

THE YOUTHS

O winter, O white winter, wert thou gone,

No more within the wilds were I alone,

Leaping with bent bow over stock and stone!

No more alone my love the lamp should burn,

Watching the weary spindle twist and turn,

Or o'er the web hold back her tears and yearn:

O winter, O white winter, wert thou gone!

THE MAIDENS

Sweet thoughts fly swiftlier than the drifting snow,

And with the twisting threads sweet longings grow,

And o'er the web sweet pictures come and go,

For no white winter are we long alone.

THE YOUTHS

O stream so changed, what hast thou done to me,

That I thy glittering ford no more can see

Wreathing with white her fair feet lovingly?

See, in the rain she stands, and, looking down

With frightened eyes upon thy whirlpools brown,

Drops to her feet again her girded gown.

O hurrying turbid stream, what hast thou done?

THE MAIDENS

The clouds lift, telling of a happier day

When through the thin stream I shall take my way,

Girt round with gold, and garlanded with may,

What rushing stream can keep us long alone?

THE YOUTHS

O burning Sun, O master of unrest,

Why must we, toiling, cast away the best,

Now, when the bird sleeps by her empty nest?

See, with my garland lying at her feet,

In lonely labour stands mine own, my sweet,

Above the quern half-filled with half-ground wheat.

O red taskmaster, that thy flames were done!

THE MAIDENS

O love, to-night across the half-shorn plain

Shall I not go to meet the yellow wain,

A look of love at end of toil to gain?

What flaming sun can keep us long alone?

THE YOUTHS

To-morrow, said I, is grape gathering o'er;

To-morrow, and our loves are twinned no more.

To-morrow came, to bring us woe and war.

What have I done, that I should stand with these

Hearkening the dread shouts borne upon the breeze,

While she, far off, sits weeping 'neath her trees?

Alas, O kings, what is it ye have done?

THE MAIDENS

Come, love, delay not; come, and slay my dread!

Already is the banquet table spread;

In the cool chamber flower-strewn is my bed:

Come, love, what king shall keep us long alone?

THE YOUTHS

O city, city, open thou thy gate!

See, with life snatched from out the hand of fate!

How on thy glittering triumph I must wait!

Are not her hands stretched out to me? Her eyes,

Grow they not weary as each new hope dies,

And lone before her still the long road lies?

O golden city, fain would I be gone!

THE MAIDENS

And thou art happy, amid shouts and songs,

And all that unto conquering men belongs.

Night hath no fear for me, and day no wrongs.

What brazen city gates can keep us, lone?

THE YOUTHS

O long, long road, how bare thou art, and grey!

Hill after hill thou climbest, and the day

Is ended now, O moonlit endless way!

And she is standing where the rushes grow,

And still with white hand shades her anxious brow,

Though 'neath the world the sun is fallen now,

O dreary road, when will thy leagues be done?

THE MAIDENS

O tremblest thou, grey road, or do my feet

Tremble with joy, thy flinty face to meet?

Because my love's eyes soon mine eyes shall greet?

No heart thou hast to keep us long alone.

THE YOUTHS

O wilt thou ne'er depart, thou heavy night?

When will thy slaying bring on the morning bright,

That leads my weary feet to my delight?

Why lingerest thou, filling with wandering fears

My lone love's tired heart; her eyes with tears

For thoughts like sorrow for the vanished years?

Weaver of ill thoughts, when wilt thou be gone?

THE MAIDENS

Love, to the east are thine eyes turned as mine,

In patient watching for the night's decline?

And hast thou noted this grey widening line?

Can any darkness keep us long alone?

THE YOUTHS

O day, O day, is it a little thing

That thou so long unto thy life must cling,

Because I gave thee such a welcoming?

I called thee king of all felicity,

I praised thee that thou broughtest joy so nigh;

Thine hours are turned to years, thou wilt not die;

O day so longed for, would that thou wert gone!

THE MAIDENS

The light fails, love; the long day soon shall be

Nought but a pensive happy memory

Blessed for the tales it told to thee and me.

How hard it was, O love, to be alone.

LOVE FULFILLED

Hast thou longed through weary days

For the sight of one loved face?

Hast thou cried aloud for rest,

Mid the pain of sundering hours;

Cried aloud for sleep and death,

Since the sweet unhoped for best

Was a shadow and a breath?

O, long now, for no fear lowers

O'er these faint feet-kissing flowers.

O, rest now; and yet in sleep

All thy longing shalt thou keep.

Thou shalt rest and have no fear

Of a dull awaking near,

Of a life for ever blind,

Uncontent and waste and wide.

Thou shalt wake and think it sweet

That thy love is near and kind.

Sweeter still for lips to meet;

Sweetest that thine heart doth hide

Longing all unsatisfied

With all longing's answering

Howsoever close ye cling.

Thou rememberest how of old

E'en thy very pain grew cold,

How thou might'st not measure bliss

E'en when eyes and hands drew nigh.

Thou rememberest all regret

For the scarce remembered kiss.

The lost dream of how they met,

Mouths once parched with misery.

Then seemed Love born but to die,

Now unrest, pain, bliss are one,

Love, unhidden and alone.

THE KING OF DENMARK'S SONS

In Denmark gone is many a year,

So fair upriseth the rim of the sun,

Two sons of Gorm the King there were,

So grey is the sea when day is done.

Both these were gotten in lawful bed

Of Thyrre Denmark's Surety-head.

Fair was Knut of face and limb

As the breast of the Queen that suckled him.

But Harald was hot of hand and heart

As lips of lovers ere they part.

Knut sat at home in all men's love,

But over the seas must Harald rove.

And for every deed by Harald won,

Gorm laid more love on Knut alone.

On a high-tide spake the King in hall,

"Old I grow as the leaves that fall.

"Knut shall reign when I am dead,

So shall the land have peace and aid.

"But many a ship shall Harald have,

For I deem the sea well wrought for his grave."

Then none spake save the King again,

"If Knut die all my days be vain.

"And whoso the tale of his death shall tell,

Hath spoken a word to gain him hell.

"Lo here a doom I will not break,"

So fair upriseth the rim of the sun.

"For life or death or any man's sake,"

So grey is the sea when day is done.

O merry days in the summer-tide!

So fair upriseth the rim of the sun.

When the ships sail fair and the young men ride,

So grey is the sea when day is done.

Now Harald has got him east away,

And each morrow of fight was a gainful day.

But Knut is to his fosterer gone

To deal in deeds of peace alone.

So wear the days, and well it is

Such lovely lords should dwell in bliss.

O merry in the winter-tide

When men to Yule-feast wend them wide.

And here lieth Knut in the Lima-firth

When the lift is low o'er the Danish earth.

"Tell me now, Shipmaster mine,

What are yon torches there that shine?"

"Lord, no torches may these be

But golden prows across the sea.

"For over there the sun shines now

And the gold worms gape from every prow."

The sun and the wind came down o'er the sea,

"Tell them over how many they be!"

"Ten I tell with shield-hung sides.

Nought but a fool his death abides."

"Ten thou tellest, and we be three,

Good need that we do manfully.

"Good fellows, grip the shield and spear

For Harald my brother draweth near.

"Well breakfast we when night is done,

And Valhall's cock crows up the sun."

Up spoke Harald in wrathful case:

"I would have word with this waxen face!

"What wilt thou pay, thou huckstered

That I let thee live another year?

"For oath that thou wilt never reign

Will I let thee live a year or twain."

"Kisses and love shalt thou have of me

If yet my liegeman thou wilt be.

"But stroke of sword, and dint of axe,

Or ere thou makest my face as wax."

As thick the arrows fell around

As fall sere leaves on autumn ground.

In many a cheek the red did wane

No maid might ever kiss again.

"Lay me aboard," Lord Harald said,

"The winter day will soon be dead!

"Lay me aboard the bastard's ship,

And see to it lest your grapnels slip!"

Then some they knelt and some they drowned,

And some lay dead Lord Knut around.

"Look here at the wax-white corpse of him,

As fair as the Queen in face and limb!

"Make now for the shore, for the moon is bright,

And I would be home ere the end of night.

"Two sons last night had Thyrre the Queen,

So fair upriseth the rim of the sun.

And both she may lack ere the woods wax green,"

So grey is the sea when day is done.

A little before the morning tide,

So fair upriseth the rim of the sun,

Queen Thyrre looked out of her window-side,

So grey is the sea when day is done.

"O men-at-arms, what men be ye?"

"Harald thy son come over the sea."

"Why is thy face so pale, my son?"

"It may be red or day is done."

"O evil words of an evil hour!

Come, sweet son, to thy mother's bower!"

None from the Queen's bower went that day

Till dark night over the meadows lay.

None thenceforth heard wail or cry

Till the King's feast was waxen high.

Then into the hall Lord Harald came

When the great wax lights were all aflame.

"What tidings, son, dost thou bear to me?

Speak out before I drink with thee."

"Tidings small for a seafarer.

Two falcons in the sea-cliffs were;

"And one was white and one was grey,

And they fell to battle on a day;

"They fought in the sun, they fought in the wind,

No boot the white fowl's wounds to bind.

"They fought in the wind, they fought in the sun,

And the white fowl died when the play was done."

"Small tidings these to bear o'er the sea!

Good hap that nothing worser they be!

"Small tidings for a travelled man!

Drink with me, son, whiles yet ye can!

"Drink with me ere thy day and mine,

So fair upriseth the rim of the sun,

Be nought but a tale told over the wine."

So grey is the sea when day is done.

Now fareth the King with his men to sleep,

So fair upriseth the rim of the sun,

And dim the maids from the Queen's bower creep,

So grey is the sea when day is done.

And in the hall is little light,

And there standeth the Queen with cheeks full white.

And soft the feet of women fall

From end to end of the King's great hall.

These bear the gold-wrought cloths away,

And in other wise the hall array;

Till all is black that hath been gold

So heavy a tale there must be told.

The morrow men looked on King Gorm and said,

"Hath he dreamed a dream or beheld the dead?

"Why is he sad who should be gay?

Why are the old man's lips so grey?"

Slow paced the King adown the hall,

Nor looked aside to either wall,

Till in high-seat there he sat him down,

And deadly old men deemed him grown.

"O Queen, what thrall's hands durst do this,

To strip my hall of mirth and bliss?"

"No thrall's hands in the hangings were,

No thrall's hands made the tenters bare.

"King's daughters' hands have done the deed,

The hands of Denmark's Surety-head."

"Nought betters the deed thy word unsaid.

Tell me that Knut my son is dead!"

She said: "The doom on thee, O King!

For thine own lips have said the thing."

Men looked to see the King arise,

The death of men within his eyes.

Men looked to see his bitter sword

That once cleared ships from board to board.

But in the hall no sword gleamed wide,

His hand fell down along his side.

No red there came into his cheek,

He fell aback as one made weak.

His wan cheek brushed the high-seat's side,

And in the noon of day he died.

So lieth King Gorm beneath the grass,

But from mouth to mouth this tale did pass.

And Harald reigned and went his way,

So fair upriseth the rim of the sun.

And still is the story told to-day,

So grey is the sea when day is done.

ON THE EDGE OF THE WILDERNESS

PUELLÆ

Whence comest thou, and whither goest thou?

Abide! abide! longer the shadows grow;

What hopest thou the dark to thee will show?

Abide! abide! for we are happy here.

AMANS

Why should I name the land across the sea

Wherein I first took hold on misery?

Why should I name the land that flees from me?

Let me depart, since ye are happy here.

PUELLÆ

What wilt thou do within the desert place

Whereto thou turnest now thy careful face?

Stay but a while to tell us of thy case.

Abide! abide! for we are happy here.

AMANS

What, nigh the journey's end shall I abide,

When in the waste mine own love wanders wide,

When from all men for me she still doth hide?

Let me depart, since ye are happy here.

PUELLÆ

Nay, nay; but rather she forgetteth thee,

To sit upon the shore of some warm sea,

Or in green gardens where sweet fountains be.

Abide! abide! for we are happy here.

AMANS

Will ye then keep me from the wilderness,

Where I at least, alone with my distress,

The quiet land of changing dreams may bless?

Let me depart, since ye are happy here.

PUELLÆ

Forget the false forgetter and be wise,

And 'mid these clinging hands and loving eyes,

Dream, not in vain, thou knowest paradise.

Abide! abide! for we are happy here.

AMANS

Ah! with your sweet eyes shorten not the day,

Nor let your gentle hands my journey stay!

Perchance love is not wholly cast away.

Let me depart, since ye are happy here.

PUELLÆ

Pluck love away as thou wouldst pluck a thorn

From out thy flesh; for why shouldst thou be born

To bear a life so wasted and forlorn?

Abide! abide! for we are happy here.

AMANS

Yea, why then was I born, since hope is pain,

And life a lingering death, and faith but vain,

And love the loss of all I seemed to gain?

Let me depart, since ye are happy here.

PUELLÆ

Dost thou believe that this shall ever be,

That in our land no face thou e'er shalt see,

No voice thou e'er shalt hear to gladden thee?

Abide! abide! for we are happy here.

AMANS

No longer do I know of good or bad,

I have forgotten that I once was glad;

I do but chase a dream that I have had.

Let me depart, since ye are happy here.

PUELLÆ

Stay! take one image for thy dreamful night;

Come, look at her, who in the world's despite

Weeps for delaying love and lost delight.

Abide! abide! for we are happy here.

AMANS

Mock me not till to-morrow. Mock the dead,

They will not heed it, or turn round the head,

To note who faithless are, and who are wed.

Let me depart, since ye are happy here.

PUELLÆ

We mock thee not. Hast thou not heard of those

Whose faithful love the loved heart holds so close,

That death must wait till one word lets it loose?

Abide! abide! for we are happy here.

AMANS

I hear you not: the wind from off the waste

Sighs like a song that bids me make good haste

The wave of sweet forgetfulness to taste.

Let me depart, since ye are happy here.

PUELLÆ

Come back! like such a singer is the wind,

As to a sad tune sings fair words and kind,

That he with happy tears all eyes may blind!

Abide! abide! for we are happy here.

AMANS

Did I not hear her sweet voice cry from far,

That o'er the lonely waste fair fields there are,

Fair days that know not any change or care?

Let me depart, since ye are happy here.

PUELLÆ

Oh, no! not far thou heardest her, but nigh;

Nigh, 'twixt the waste's edge and the darkling sky.

Turn back again, too soon it is to die.

Abide! a little while be happy here.

AMANS

How with the lapse of lone years could I strive,

And can I die now that thou biddest live?

What joy this space 'twixt birth and death can give.

Can we depart, who are so happy here?

A GARDEN BY THE SEA

I know a little garden-close,

Set thick with lily and red rose,

Where I would wander if I might

From dewy morn to dewy night,

And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing,

And though no pillared house is there,

And though the apple-boughs are bare

Of fruit and blossom, would to God

Her feet upon the green grass trod,

And I beheld them as before.

There comes a murmur from the shore,

And in the close two fair streams are,

Drawn from the purple hills afar,

Drawn down unto the restless sea:

Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee,

Dark shore no ship has ever seen,

Tormented by the billows green

Whose murmur comes unceasingly

Unto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night,

For which I let slip all delight,

Whereby I grow both deaf and blind,

Careless to win, unskilled to find,

And quick to lose what all men seek.

Yet tottering as I am and weak,

Still have I left a little breath

To seek within the jaws of death

An entrance to that happy place,

To seek the unforgotten face,

Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me

Anigh the murmuring of the sea.

MOTHER AND SON

Now sleeps the land of houses,

and dead night holds the street,

And there thou liest, my baby,

and sleepest soft and sweet;

My man is away for awhile,

but safe and alone we lie,

And none heareth thy breath but thy mother,

and the moon looking down from the sky

On the weary waste of the town,

as it looked on the grass-edged road

Still warm with yesterday's sun,

when I left my old abode;

Hand in hand with my love,

that night of all nights in the year;

When the river of love o'erflowed

and drowned all doubt and fear,

And we two were alone in the world,

and once if never again,

We knew of the secret of earth

and the tale of its labour and pain.

Lo amidst London I lift thee,

and how little and light thou art,

And thou without hope or fear

thou fear and hope of my heart!

Lo here thy body beginning,

O son, and thy soul and thy life;

But how will it be if thou livest,

and enterest into the strife,

And in love we dwell together

when the man is grown in thee,

When thy sweet speech I shall hearken,

and yet 'twixt thee and me

Shall rise that wall of distance,

that round each one doth grow,

And maketh it hard and bitter

each other's thought to know.

Now, therefore, while yet thou art little

and hast no thought of thine own,

I will tell thee a word of the world;

of the hope whence thou hast grown;

Of the love that once begat thee,

of the sorrow that hath made

Thy little heart of hunger,

and thy hands on my bosom laid.

Then mayst thou remember hereafter,

as whiles when people say

All this hath happened before

in the life of another day;

So mayst thou dimly remember

this tale of thy mother's voice,

As oft in the calm of dawning

I have heard the birds rejoice,

As oft I have heard the storm-wind

go moaning through the wood;

And I knew that earth was speaking,

and the mother's voice was good.

Now, to thee alone will I tell it

that thy mother's body is fair,

In the guise of the country maidens

Who play with the sun and the air;

Who have stood in the row of the reapers

in the August afternoon,

Who have sat by the frozen water

in the high day of the moon,

When the lights of the Christmas feasting

were dead in the house on the hill,

And the wild geese gone to the salt-marsh

had left the winter still.

Yea, I am fair, my firstling;

if thou couldst but remember me!

The hair that thy small hand clutcheth

is a goodly sight to see;

I am true, but my face is a snare;

soft and deep are my eyes,

And they seem for men's beguiling

fulfilled with the dreams of the wise.

Kind are my lips, and they look

as though my soul had learned

Deep things I have never heard of.

My face and my hands are burned

By the lovely sun of the acres;

three months of London town

And thy birth-bed have bleached them indeed,

"But lo, where the edge of the gown"

(So said thy father) "is parting

the wrist that is white as the curd

From the brown of the hand that I love,

bright as the wing of a bird."

Such is thy mother, O firstling,

yet strong as the maidens of old,

Whose spears and whose swords were the warders

of homestead, of field, and of fold.

Oft were my feet on the highway,

often they wearied the grass;

From dusk unto dusk of the summer

three times in a week would I pass

To the downs from the house on the river

through the waves of the blossoming corn.

Fair then I lay down in the even,

and fresh I arose on the morn,

And scarce in the noon was I weary.

Ah, son, in the days of thy strife,

If thy soul could but harbour a dream

of the blossom of my life!

It would be as the sunlit meadows

beheld from a tossing sea,

And thy soul should look on a vision

of the peace that is to be.

Yet, yet the tears on my cheek!

and what is this doth move

My heart to thy heart, beloved,

save the flood of yearning love?

For fair and fierce is thy father,

and soft and strange are his eyes

That look on the days that shall be

with the hope of the brave and the wise.

It was many a day that we laughed,

as over the meadows we walked,

And many a day I hearkened

and the pictures came as he talked;

It was many a day that we longed,

and we lingered late at eve

Ere speech from speech was sundered,

and my hand his hand could leave.

Then I wept when I was alone,

and I longed till the daylight came;

And down the stairs I stole,

and there was our housekeeping dame

(No mother of me, the foundling)

kindling the fire betimes

Ere the haymaking folk went forth

to the meadows down by the limes;

All things I saw at a glance;

the quickening fire-tongues leapt

Through the crackling heap of sticks,

and the sweet smoke up from it crept,

And close to the very hearth

the low sun flooded the floor,

And the cat and her kittens played

in the sun by the open door.

The garden was fair in the morning,

and there in the road he stood

Beyond the crimson daisies

and the bush of southernwood.

Then side by side together

through the grey-walled place we went,

And O the fear departed,

and the rest and sweet content!

Son, sorrow and wisdom he taught me,

and sore I grieved and learned

As we twain grew into one;

and the heart within me burned

With the very hopes of his heart.

Ah, son, it is piteous,

But never again in my life

shall I dare to speak to thee thus;

So may these lonely words

about thee creep and cling,

These words of the lonely night

in the days of our wayfaring.

Many a child of woman

to-night is born in the town,

The desert of folly and wrong;

and of what and whence are they grown?

Many and many an one

of wont and use is born;

For a husband is taken to bed

as a hat or a ribbon is worn.

Prudence begets her thousands;

"good is a housekeeper's life,

So shall I sell my body

that I may be matron and wife."

"And I shall endure foul wedlock

and bear the children of need."

Some are there born of hate,

many the children of greed.

"I, I too can be wedded,

though thou my love hast got."

"I am fair and hard of heart,

and riches shall be my lot."

And all these are the good and the happy,

on whom the world dawns fair.

O son, when wilt thou learn

of those that are born of despair,

As the fabled mud of the Nile

that quickens under the sun

With a growth of creeping things,

half dead when just begun?

E'en such is the care of Nature

that man should never die,

Though she breed of the fools of the earth,

and the dregs of the city sty.

But thou, O son, O son,

of very love wert born,

When our hope fulfilled bred hope,

and fear was a folly outworn.

On the eve of the toil and the battle

all sorrow and grief we weighed,

We hoped and we were not ashamed,

we knew and we were not afraid.

Now waneth the night and the moon;

ah, son, it is piteous

That never again in my life

shall I dare to speak to thee thus.

But sure from the wise and the simple

shall the mighty come to birth;

And fair were my fate, beloved,

if I be yet on the earth

When the world is awaken at last,

and from mouth to mouth they tell

Of thy love and thy deeds and thy valour,

and thy hope that nought can quell.

THUNDER IN THE GARDEN

When the boughs of the garden hang heavy with rain

And the blackbird reneweth his song,

And the thunder departing yet rolleth again,

I remember the ending of wrong.

When the day that was dusk while his death was aloof

Is ending wide-gleaming and strange

For the clearness of all things beneath the world's roof,

I call back the wild chance and the change.

For once we twain sat through the hot afternoon

While the rain held aloof for a while,

Till she, the soft-clad, for the glory of June

Changed all with the change of her smile.

For her smile was of longing, no longer of glee,

And her fingers, entwined with mine own,

With caresses unquiet sought kindness of me

For the gift that I never had known.

Then down rushed the rain, and the voice of the thunder

Smote dumb all the sound of the street,

And I to myself was grown nought but a wonder,

As she leaned down my kisses to meet.

That she craved for my lips that had craved her so often,

And the hand that had trembled to touch,

That the tears filled her eyes I had hoped not to soften

In this world was a marvel too much.

It was dusk 'mid the thunder, dusk e'en as the night,

When first brake out our love like the storm,

But no night-hour was it, and back came the light

While our hands with each other were warm.

And her smile killed with kisses, came back as at first

As she rose up and led me along,

And out to the garden, where nought was athirst,

And the blackbird renewing his song.

Earth's fragrance went with her, as in the wet grass,

Her feet little hidden were set;

She bent down her head, 'neath the roses to pass,

And her arm with the lily was wet.

In the garden we wandered while day waned apace

And the thunder was dying aloof;

Till the moon o'er the minster-wall lifted his face,

And grey gleamed out the lead of the roof.

Then we turned from the blossoms, and cold were they grown:

In the trees the wind westering moved;

Till over the threshold back fluttered her gown,

And in the dark house was I loved.

THE GOD OF THE POOR

There was a lord that hight Maltete,

Among great lords he was right great,

On poor folk trod he like the dirt,

None but God might do him hurt.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

With a grace of prayers sung loud and late

Many a widow's house he ate;

Many a poor knight at his hands

Lost his house and narrow lands.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

He burnt the harvests many a time,

He made fair houses heaps of lime;

Whatso man loved wife or maid

Of Evil-head was sore afraid.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

He slew good men and spared the bad;

Too long a day the foul dog had,

E'en as all dogs will have their day;

But God is as strong as man, I say.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

For a valiant knight, men called Boncoeur,

Had hope he should not long endure,

And gathered to him much good folk,

Hardy hearts to break the yoke.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

But Boncoeur deemed it would be vain

To strive his guarded house to gain;

Therefore, within a little while,

He set himself to work by guile.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

He knew that Maltete loved right well

Red gold and heavy. If from hell

The Devil had cried, "Take this gold cup,"

Down had he gone to fetch it up.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

Twenty poor men's lives were nought

To him, beside a ring well wrought.

The pommel of his hunting-knife

Was worth ten times a poor man's life.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

A squire new-come from over-sea

Boncoeur called to him privily,

And when he knew his lord's intent,

Clad like a churl therefrom he went

Deus est Deus pauperum.

But when he came where dwelt Maltete,

With few words did he pass the gate,

For Maltete built him walls anew,

And, wageless, folk from field he drew.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

Now passed the squire through this and that,

Till he came to where Sir Maltete sat,

And over red wine wagged his beard:

Then spoke the squire as one afeard.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Lord, give me grace, for privily

I have a little word for thee."

"Speak out," said Maltete, "have no fear,

For how can thy life to thee be dear?"

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Such an one I know," he said,

"Who hideth store of money red."

Maltete grinned at him cruelly:

"Thou florin-maker, come anigh."

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"E'en such as thou once preached of gold,

And showed me lies in books full old,

Nought gat I but evil brass,

Therefore came he to the worser pass."

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Hast thou will to see his skin?

I keep my heaviest marks therein,

For since nought else of wealth had he,

I deemed full well he owed it me."

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Nought know I of philosophy,"

The other said, "nor do I lie.

Before the moon begins to shine,

May all this heap of gold be thine."

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Ten leagues from this a man there is,

Who seemeth to know but little bliss,

And yet full many a pound of gold

A dry well nigh his house doth hold."

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"John-a-Wood is he called, fair lord,

Nor know I whence he hath this hoard."

Then Maltete said, "As God made me,

A wizard over-bold is he!"

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"It were a good deed, as I am a knight,

To burn him in a fire bright;

This John-a-Wood shall surely die,

And his gold in my strong chest shall lie."

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"This very night, I make mine avow.

The truth of this mine eyes shall know."

Then spoke an old knight in the hall,

"Who knoweth what things may befall?"

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"I rede thee go with a great rout,

For thy foes they ride thick about."

"Thou and the devil may keep my foes,

Thou redest me this gold to lose."

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"I shall go with but some four or five,

So shall I take my thief alive.

For if a great rout he shall see,

Will he not hide his wealth from me?"

Deus est Deus pauperum.

The old knight muttered under his breath,

"Then mayhap ye shall but ride to death."

But Maltete turned him quickly round,

"Bind me this grey-beard under ground!"

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Because ye are old, ye think to jape.

Take heed, ye shall not long escape.

When I come back safe, old carle, perdie,

Thine head shall brush the linden-tree."

Deus est Deus pauperum.

Therewith he rode with his five men,

And Boncoeur's spy, for good leagues ten,

Until they left the beaten way,

And dusk it grew at end of day.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

There, in a clearing of the wood,

Was John's house, neither fair nor good.

In a ragged plot his house anigh,

Thin coleworts grew but wretchedly.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

John-a-Wood in his doorway sat,

Turning over this and that,

And chiefly how he best might thrive,

For he had will enough to live.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

Green coleworts from a wooden bowl

He ate; but careful was his soul,

For if he saw another day,

Thenceforth was he in Boncoeur's pay.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

So when he saw how Maltete came,

He said, "Beginneth now the game!"

And in the doorway did he stand

Trembling, with hand joined fast to hand.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

When Maltete did this carle behold

Somewhat he doubted of his gold,

But cried out, "Where is now thy store

Thou hast through books of wicked lore?"

Deus est Deus pauperum.

Then said the poor man, right humbly,

"Fair lord, this was not made by me,

I found it in mine own dry well,

And had a mind thy grace to tell.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Therefrom, my lord, a cup I took

This day, that thou thereon mightst look,

And know me to be leal and true,"

And from his coat the cup he drew.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

Then Maltete took it in his hand,

Nor knew he aught that it used to stand

On Boncoeur's cupboard many a day.

"Go on," he said, "and show the way.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Give me thy gold, and thou shalt live,

Yea, in my house thou well mayst thrive."

John turned about and 'gan to go

Unto the wood with footsteps slow.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

But as they passed by John's woodstack,

Growled Maltete, "Nothing now doth lack

Wherewith to light a merry fire,

And give my wizard all his hire."

Deus est Deus pauperum.

The western sky was red as blood,

Darker grew the oaken-wood;

"Thief and carle, where are ye gone?

Why are we in the wood alone?

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"What is the sound of this mighty horn?

Ah, God! that ever I was born!

The basnets flash from tree to tree;

Show me, thou Christ, the way to flee!"

Deus est Deus pauperum.

Boncoeur it was with fifty men;

Maltete was but one to ten,

And his own folk prayed for grace,

With empty hands in that lone place.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Grace shall ye have," Boncoeur said,

"All of you but Evil-head."

Lowly could that great lord be,

Who could pray so well as he?

Deus est Deus pauperum.

Then could Maltete howl and cry,

Little will he had to die.

Soft was his speech, now it was late,

But who had will to save Maltete?

Deus est Deus pauperum.

They brought him to the house again,

And toward the road he looked in vain.

Lonely and bare was the great highway,

Under the gathering moonlight grey.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

They took off his gilt basnet,

That he should die there was no let;

They took off his coat of steel,

A damned man he well might feel.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Will ye all be rich as kings,

Lacking naught of all good things?"

"Nothing do we lack this eve;

When thou art dead, how can we grieve?"

Deus est Deus pauperum.

"Let me drink water ere I die,

None henceforth comes my lips anigh."

They brought it him in that bowl of wood.

He said, "This is but poor men's blood!"

Deus est Deus pauperum.

They brought it him in the cup of gold.

He said, "The women I have sold

Have wept it full of salt for me;

I shall die gaping thirstily."

Deus est Deus pauperum.

On the threshold of that poor homestead

They smote off his evil head;

They set it high on a great spear,

And rode away with merry cheer.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

At the dawn, in lordly state,

They rode to Maltete's castle-gate.

"Whoso willeth laud to win,

Make haste to let your masters in!"

Deus est Deus pauperum.

Forthwith opened they the gate,

No man was sorry for Maltete.

Boncoeur conquered all his lands,

A good knight was he of his hands.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

Good men he loved, and hated bad;

Joyful days and sweet he had;

Good deeds did he plenteously;

Beneath him folk lived frank and free.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

He lived long, with merry days;

None said aught of him but praise.

God on him have full mercy;

A good knight merciful was he.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

The great lord, called Maltete, is dead;

Grass grows above his feet and head,

And a holly-bush grows up between

His rib-bones gotten white and clean.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

A carle's sheep-dog certainly

Is a mightier thing than he.

Till London-bridge shall cross the Nen,

Take we heed of such-like men.

Deus est Deus pauperum.

LOVE'S REWARD

It was a knight of the southern land

Rode forth upon the way

When the birds sang sweet on either hand

About the middle of the May.

But when he came to the lily-close,

Thereby so fair a maiden stood,

That neither the lily nor the rose

Seemed any longer fair nor good.

"All hail, thou rose and lily-bough!

What dost thou weeping here,

For the days of May are sweet enow,

And the nights of May are dear?"

"Well may I weep and make my moan.

Who am bond and captive here;

Well may I weep who lie alone,

Though May be waxen dear."

"And is there none shall ransom thee?

Mayst thou no borrow find?"

"Nay, what man may my borrow be,

When all my wealth is left behind?"

"Perchance some ring is left with thee,

Some belt that did thy body bind?"

"Nay, no man may my borrow be,

My rings and belt are left behind."

"The shoes that the May-blooms kissed on thee

Might yet be things to some men's mind."

"Nay, no man may my borrow be,

My golden shoes are left behind."

"The milk-white sark that covered thee

A dear-bought token some should find."

"Nay, no man may my borrow be,

My silken sark is left behind."

"The kiss of thy mouth and the love of thee

Better than world's wealth should I find."

"Nay, thou mayst not my borrow be,

For all my love is left behind.

"A year agone come Midsummer-night

I woke by the Northern sea;

I lay and dreamed of my delight

Till love no more would let me be.

"Seaward I went by night and cloud

To hear the white swans sing;

But though they sang both clear and loud,

I hearkened a sweeter thing.

"O sweet and sweet as none may tell

Was the speech so close 'twixt lip and lip:

But fast, unseen, the black oars fell

That drave to shore the rover's ship.

"My love lay bloody on the strand

Ere stars were waxen wan:

Naught lacketh graves the Northern land

If to-day it lack a lovelier man.

"I sat and wept beside the mast

When the stars were gone away.

Naught lacketh the Northland joy gone past

If it lack the night and day."

"Is there no place in any land

Where thou wouldst rather be than here?"

"Yea, a lone grave on a cold sea-strand

My heart for a little holdeth dear."

"Of all the deeds that women do

Is there none shall bring thee some delight?"

"To lie down and die where lay we two

Upon Midsummer night."

"I will bring thee there where thou wouldst be,

A borrow shalt thou find."

"Wherewith shall I reward it thee

For wealth and good-hap left behind?"

"A kiss from lips that love not me,

A good-night somewhat kind;

A narrow house to share with thee

When we leave the world behind."

They have taken ship and sailed away

Across the Southland main;

They have sailed by hills were green and gay,

A land of goods and gain.

They have sailed by sea-cliffs stark and white

And hillsides fair enow;

They have sailed by lands of little night

Where great the groves did grow.

They have sailed by islands in the sea

That the clouds lay thick about;

And into a main where few ships be

Amidst of dread and doubt.

With broken mast and battered side

They drave amidst the tempest's heart;

But why should death to these betide

Whom love did hold so well apart?

The flood it drave them toward the strand,

The ebb it drew them fro;

The swallowing seas that tore the land

Cast them ashore and let them go.

"Is this the land? is this the land,

Where life and I must part a-twain?"

"Yea, this is e'en the sea-washed strand

That made me yoke-fellow of pain.

"The strand is this, the sea is this,

The grey bent and the mountains grey;

But no mound here his grave-mound is;

Where have they borne my love away?"

"What man is this with shield and spear

Comes riding down the bent to us?

A goodly man forsooth he were

But for his visage piteous."

"Ghost of my love, so kind of yore,

Art thou not somewhat gladder grown

To feel my feet upon this shore?

O love, thou shalt not long be lone."

"Ghost of my love, each day I come

To see where God first wrought us wrong:

Now kind thou com'st to call me home.

Be sure I shall not tarry long."

"Come here, my love; come here for rest,

So sore as my body longs for thee!

My heart shall beat against thy breast,

As arms of thine shall comfort me."

"Love, let thy lips depart no more

From those same eyes they once did kiss,

The very bosom wounded sore

When sorrow clave the heart of bliss!"

O was it day, or was it night,

As there they told their love again?

The high-tide of the sun's delight,

Or whirl of wind and drift of rain?

"Speak sweet, my love, of how it fell,

And how thou cam'st across the sea,

And what kind heart hath served thee well,

And who thy borrow there might be?"

Naught but the wind and sea made moan

As hastily she turned her round;

From light clouds wept the morn alone,

Not the dead corpse upon the ground.

"O look, my love, for here is he

Who once of all the world was kind,

And led my sad heart o'er the sea!

And now must he be left behind."

She kissed his lips that yet did smile,

She kissed his eyes that were not sad:

"O thou who sorrow didst beguile,

And now wouldst have me wholly glad!

"A little gift is this," she said,

"Thou once hadst deemed great gift enow;

Yet surely shalt thou rest thine head

Where I one day shall lie alow.

"There shalt thou wake to think of me,

And by thy face my face shall find;

And I shall then thy borrow be

When all the world is left behind."

THE FOLK-MOTE BY THE RIVER

It was up in the morn we rose betimes

From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes.

It was but John the Red and I,

And we were the brethren of Gregory;

And Gregory the Wright was one

Of the valiant men beneath the sun,

And what he bade us that we did

For ne'er he kept his counsel hid.

So out we went, and the clattering latch

Woke up the swallows under the thatch.

It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt,

And thrust the whetstone under the belt.

Through the cold garden boughs we went

Where the tumbling roses shed their scent.

Then out a-gates and away we strode

O'er the dewy straws on the dusty road,

And there was the mead by the town-reeve's close

Where the hedge was sweet with the wilding rose.

Then into the mowing grass we went

Ere the very last of the night was spent.

Young was the moon, and he was gone,

So we whet our scythes by the stars alone:

But or ever the long blades felt the hay

Afar in the East the dawn was grey.

Or ever we struck our earliest stroke

The thrush in the hawthorn-bush awoke.

While yet the bloom of the swathe was dim

The blackbird's bill had answered him.

Ere half of the road to the river was shorn

The sunbeam smote the twisted thorn.

Now wide was the way 'twixt the standing grass

For the townsfolk unto the mote to pass,

And so when all our work was done

We sat to breakfast in the sun,

While down in the stream the dragon-fly

'Twixt the quivering rushes flickered by;

And though our knives shone sharp and white

The swift bleak heeded not the sight.

So when the bread was done away

We looked along the new-shorn hay,

And heard the voice of the gathering-horn

Come over the garden and the corn;

For the wind was in the blossoming wheat

And drave the bees in the lime-boughs sweet.

Then loud was the horn's voice drawing near,

And it hid the talk of the prattling weir.

And now was the horn on the pathway wide

That we had shorn to the river-side.

So up we stood, and wide around

We sheared a space by the Elders' Mound;

And at the feet thereof it was

That highest grew the June-tide grass;

And over all the mound it grew

With clover blent, and dark of hue.

But never aught of the Elders' Hay

To rick or barn was borne away.

But it was bound and burned to ash

In the barren close by the reedy plash.

For 'neath that mound the valiant dead

Lay hearkening words of valiance said

When wise men stood on the Elders' Mound,

And the swords were shining bright around.

And now we saw the banners borne

On the first of the way that we had shorn;

So we laid the scythe upon the sward

And girt us to the battle-sword.

For after the banners well we knew

Were the Freemen wending two and two.

There then that highway of the scythe

With many a hue was brave and blythe.

And first below the Silver Chief

Upon the green was the golden sheaf.

And on the next that went by it

The White Hart in the Park did sit.

Then on the red the White Wings flew,

And on the White was the Cloud-fleck blue.

Last went the Anchor of the Wrights

Beside the Ship of the Faring-Knights.

Then thronged the folk the June-tide field

With naked sword and painted shield,

Till they came adown to the river-side,

And there by the mound did they abide.

Now when the swords stood thick and white

As the mace reeds stand in the streamless bight,

There rose a man on the mound alone

And over his head was the grey mail done.

When over the new-shorn place of the field

Was nought but the steel hood and the shield.

The face on the mound shone ruddy and hale,

But the hoar hair showed from the hoary mail.

And there rose a hand by the ruddy face

And shook a sword o'er the peopled place.

And there came a voice from the mound and said:

"O sons, the days of my youth are dead,

And gone are the faces I have known

In the street and the booths of the goodly town.

O sons, full many a flock have I seen

Feed down this water-girdled green.

Full many a herd of long-horned neat

Have I seen 'twixt water-side and wheat.

Here by this water-side full oft

Have I heaved the flowery hay aloft.

And oft this water-side anigh

Have I bowed adown the wheat-stalks high.

And yet meseems I live and learn

And lore of younglings yet must earn.

For tell me, children, whose are these

Fair meadows of the June's increase?

Whose are these flocks and whose the neat,

And whose the acres of the wheat?"

Scarce did we hear his latest word,

On the wide shield so rang the sword.

So rang the sword upon the shield

That the lark was hushed above the field.

Then sank the shouts and again we heard

The old voice come from the hoary beard:

"Yea, whose are yonder gables then,

And whose the holy hearths of men?

Whose are the prattling children there,

And whose the sunburnt maids and fair?

Whose thralls are ye, hereby that stand,

Bearing the freeman's sword in hand?"

As glitters the sun in the rain-washed grass,

So in the tossing swords it was;

As the thunder rattles along and adown

E'en so was the voice of the weaponed town.

And there was the steel of the old man's sword.

And there was his hollow voice, and his word:

"Many men, many minds, the old saw saith,

Though hereof ye be sure as death.

For what spake the herald yestermorn

But this, that ye were thrall-folk born;

That the lord that owneth all and some

Would send his men to fetch us home

Betwixt the haysel, and the tide

When they shear the corn in the country-side?

O children, Who was the lord? ye say,

What prayer to him did our fathers pray?

Did they hold out hands his gyves to bear?

Did their knees his high hall's pavement wear?

Is his house built up in heaven aloft?

Doth he make the sun rise oft and oft?

Doth he hold the rain in his hollow hand?

Hath he cleft this water through the land?

Or doth he stay the summer-tide,

And make the winter days abide?

O children, Who is the lord? ye say,

Have we heard his name before to-day?

O children, if his name I know,

He hight Earl Hugh of the Shivering Low:

For that herald bore on back and breast

The Black Burg under the Eagle's Nest."

As the voice of the winter wind that tears

At the eaves of the thatch and its emptied ears,

E'en so was the voice of laughter and scorn

By the water-side in the mead new-shorn;

And over the garden and the wheat

Went the voice of women shrilly-sweet.

But now by the hoary elder stood

A carle in raiment red as blood.

Red was his weed and his glaive was white,

And there stood Gregory the Wright.

So he spake in a voice was loud and strong:

"Young is the day though the road is long;

There is time if we tarry nought at all

For the kiss in the porch and the meat in the hall.

And safe shall our maidens sit at home

For the foe by the way we wend must come.

Through the three Lavers shall we go

And raise them all against the foe.

Then shall we wend the Downland ways,

And all the shepherd spearmen raise.

To Cheaping Raynes shall we come adown

And gather the bowmen of the town;

And Greenstead next we come unto

Wherein are all folk good and true.

When we come our ways to the Outer Wood

We shall be an host both great and good;

Yea when we come to the open field

There shall be a many under shield.

And maybe Earl Hugh shall lie alow

And yet to the house of Heaven shall go.

But we shall dwell in the land we love

And grudge no hallow Heaven above.

Come ye, who think the time o'er long

Till we have slain the word of wrong!

Come ye who deem the life of fear

On this last day hath drawn o'er near!

Come after me upon the road

That leadeth to the Erne's abode."

Down then he leapt from off the mound

And back drew they that were around

Till he was foremost of all those

Betwixt the river and the close.

And uprose shouts both glad and strong

As followed after all the throng;

And overhead the banners flapped,

As we went on our ways to all that happed.

The fields before the Shivering Low

Of many a grief of manfolk know;

There may the autumn acres tell

Of how men met, and what befell.

The Black Burg under the Eagle's nest

Shall tell the tale as it liketh best.

And sooth it is that the River-land

Lacks many an autumn-gathering hand.

And there are troth-plight maids unwed

Shall deem awhile that love is dead;

And babes there are to men shall grow

Nor ever the face of their fathers know.

And yet in the Land by the River-side

Doth never a thrall or an earl's man bide;

For Hugh the Earl of might and mirth

Hath left the merry days of Earth;

And we live on in the land we love,

And grudge no hallow Heaven above.

THE VOICE OF TOIL

I heard men saying, Leave hope and praying,

All days shall be as all have been;

To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow,

The never-ending toil between.

When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger,

In hope we strove, and our hands were strong;

Then great men led us, with words they fed us,

And bade us right the earthly wrong.

Go read in story their deeds and glory,

Their names amidst the nameless dead;

Turn then from lying to us slow-dying

In that good world to which they led;

Where fast and faster our iron master,

The thing we made, for ever drives,

Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleasure

For other hopes and other lives.

Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel,

Forgetting that the world is fair;

Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul perish;

Where mirth is crime, and love a snare.

Who now shall lead us, what god shall heed us

As we lie in the hell our hands have won?

For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers,

The great are fallen, the wise men gone.

I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying,

The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep;

Are we not stronger than the rich and the wronger,

When day breaks over dreams and sleep?

Come, shoulder to shoulder ere the world grows older!

Help lies in nought but thee and me;

Hope is before us, the long years that bore us

Bore leaders more than men may be.

Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry,

And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth,

While we the living our lives are giving

To bring the bright new world to birth.

Come, shoulder to shoulder ere earth grows older!

The Cause spreads over land and sea;

Now the world shaketh, and fear awaketh,

And joy at last for thee and me.

GUNNAR'S HOWE ABOVE THE HOUSE AT LITHEND

Ye who have come o'er the sea

to behold this grey minster of lands,

Whose floor is the tomb of time past,

and whose walls by the toil of dead hands

Show pictures amidst of the ruin

of deeds that have overpast death,

Stay by this tomb in a tomb

to ask of who lieth beneath.

Ah! the world changeth too soon,

that ye stand there with unbated breath,

As I name him that Gunnar of old,

who erst in the haymaking tide

Felt all the land fragrant and fresh,

as amidst of the edges he died.

Too swiftly fame fadeth away,

if ye tremble not lest once again

The grey mound should open and show him

glad-eyed without grudging or pain.

Little labour methinks to behold him

but the tale-teller laboured in vain.

Little labour for ears that may hearken

to hear his death-conquering song,

Till the heart swells to think of the gladness

undying that overcame wrong.

O young is the world yet meseemeth

and the hope of it flourishing green,

When the words of a man unremembered

so bridge all the days that have been,

As we look round about on the land

that these nine hundred years he hath seen.

Dusk is abroad on the grass

of this valley amidst of the hill:

Dusk that shall never be dark

till the dawn hard on midnight shall fill

The trench under Eyiafell's snow,

and the grey plain the sea meeteth grey.

White, high aloft hangs the moon

that no dark night shall brighten ere day,

For here day and night toileth the summer

lest deedless his time pass away.

THE DAY IS COMING

Come hither, lads, and hearken,

for a tale there is to tell,

Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all

shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country,

a land in the midst of the sea,

And folk shall call it England

in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand

in the days that are yet to come,

Shall have some hope of the morrow,

some joy of the ancient home.

For then, laugh not, but listen

to this strange tale of mine,

All folk that are in England

shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him,

and rejoice in the deeds of his hand,

Nor yet come home in the even

too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming

shall work and have no fear

For to-morrow's lack of earning

and the hunger-wolf anear.

I tell you this for a wonder,

that no man then shall be glad

Of his fellow's fall and mishap

to snatch at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth

shall then be his indeed,

Nor shall half be reaped for nothing

by him that sowed no seed.

O strange new wonderful justice!

But for whom shall we gather the gain?

For ourselves and for each of our fellows,

and no hand shall labour in vain.

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours,

and no more shall any man crave

For riches that serve for nothing

but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us

when none shall gather gold

To buy his friend in the market,

and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city,

and the little house on the hill,

And the wastes and the woodland beauty,

and the happy fields we till;

And the homes of ancient stories,

the tombs of the mighty dead;

And the wise men seeking out marvels,

and the poet's teeming head;

And the painter's hand of wonder;

and the marvellous fiddle-bow,

And the banded choirs of music:

all those that do and know.

For all these shall be ours and all men's,

nor shall any lack a share

Of the toil and the gain of living

in the days when the world grows fair.

Ah! such are the days that shall be!

But what are the deeds of to-day

In the days of the years we dwell in,

that wear our lives away?

Why, then, and for what are we waiting?

There are three words to speak;

WE WILL IT, and what is the foeman

but the dream-strong wakened and weak?

O why and for what are we waiting?

while our brothers droop and die,

And on every wind of the heavens

a wasted life goes by.

How long shall they reproach us

where crowd on crowd they dwell,

Poor ghosts of the wicked city,

the gold-crushed hungry hell?

Through squalid life they laboured,

in sordid grief they died,

Those sons of a mighty mother,

those props of England's pride.

They are gone; there is none can undo it,

nor save our souls from the curse;

But many a million cometh,

and shall they be better or worse?

It is we must answer and hasten,

and open wide the door

For the rich man's hurrying terror,

and the slow-foot hope of the poor.

Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched,

and their unlearned discontent,

We must give it voice and wisdom

till the waiting-tide be spent.

Come, then, since all things call us,

the living and the dead,

And o'er the weltering tangle

a glimmering light is shed.

Come, then, let us cast off fooling,

and put by ease and rest,

For the Cause alone is worthy

till the good days bring the best.

Come, join in the only battle

wherein no man can fail,

Where whoso fadeth and dieth,

yet his deed shall still prevail.

Ah! come, cast off all fooling,

for this, at least, we know:

That the Dawn and the Day is coming,

and forth the Banners go.

EARTH THE HEALER, EARTH THE KEEPER

So swift the hours are moving

Unto the time un-proved:

Farewell my love unloving,

Farewell my love beloved!

What! are we not glad-hearted?

Is there no deed to do?

Is not all fear departed

And Spring-tide blossomed new?

The sails swell out above us,

The sea-ridge lifts the keel;

For They have called who love us,

Who bear the gifts that heal:

A crown for him that winneth,

A bed for him that fails,

A glory that beginneth

In never-dying tales.

Yet now the pain is ended

And the glad hand grips the sword,

Look on thy life amended

And deal out due award.

Think of the thankless morning,

The gifts of noon unused;

Think of the eve of scorning,

The night of prayer refused.

And yet. The life before it,

Dost thou remember aught,

What terrors shivered o'er it

Born from the hell of thought?

And this that cometh after:

How dost thou live, and dare

To meet its empty laughter,

To face its friendless care?

In fear didst thou desire,

At peace dost thou regret,

The wasting of the fire,

The tangling of the net.

Love came and gat fair greeting;

Love went; and left no shame.

Shall both the twilights meeting

The summer sunlight blame?

What! cometh love and goeth

Like the dark night's empty wind,

Because thy folly soweth

The harvest of the blind?

Hast thou slain love with sorrow?

Have thy tears quenched the sun?

Nay even yet to-morrow

Shall many a deed be done.

This twilight sea thou sailest,

Has it grown dim and black

For that wherein thou failest,

And the story of thy lack?

Peace then! for thine old grieving

Was born of Earth the kind,

And the sad tale thou art leaving

Earth shall not leave behind.

Peace! for that joy abiding

Whereon thou layest hold

Earth keepeth for a tiding

For the day when this is old.

Thy soul and life shall perish,

And thy name as last night's wind;

But Earth the deed shall cherish

That thou to-day shalt find.

And all thy joy and sorrow

So great but yesterday,

So light a thing to-morrow,

Shall never pass away.

Lo! lo! the dawn-blink yonder,

The sunrise draweth nigh,

And men forget to wonder

That they were born to die.

Then praise the deed that wendeth

Through the daylight and the mirth!

The tale that never endeth

Whoso may dwell on earth.

ALL FOR THE CAUSE

Hear a word, a word in season,

for the day is drawing nigh,

When the Cause shall call upon us,

some to live, and some to die!

He that dies shall not die lonely,

many an one hath gone before;

He that lives shall bear no burden

heavier than the life they bore.

Nothing ancient is their story,

e'en but yesterday they bled,

Youngest they of earth's beloved,

last of all the valiant dead.

E'en the tidings we are telling

was the tale they had to tell,

E'en the hope that our hearts cherish,

was the hope for which they fell.

In the grave where tyrants thrust them,

lies their labour and their pain,

But undying from their sorrow

springeth up the hope again.

Mourn not therefore, nor lament it,

that the world outlives their life;

Voice and vision yet they give us,

making strong our hands for strife.

Some had name, and fame, and honour,

learn'd they were, and wise and strong;

Some were nameless, poor, unlettered,

weak in all but grief and wrong.

Named and nameless all live in us;

one and all they lead us yet

Every pain to count for nothing,

every sorrow to forget.

Hearken how they cry, "O happy,

happy ye that ye were born

In the sad slow night's departing,

in the rising of the morn.

"Fair the crown the Cause hath for you,

well to die or well to live

Through the battle, through the tangle,

peace to gain or peace to give."

Ah, it may be! Oft meseemeth,

in the days that yet shall be,

When no slave of gold abideth

'twixt the breadth of sea to sea,

Oft, when men and maids are merry,

ere the sunlight leaves the earth,

And they bless the day beloved,

all too short for all their mirth,

Some shall pause awhile and ponder

on the bitter days of old,

Ere the toil of strife and battle

overthrew the curse of gold;

Then 'twixt lips of loved and lover

solemn thoughts of us shall rise;

We who once were fools defeated,

then shall be the brave and wise.

There amidst the world new-builded

shall our earthly deeds abide,

Though our names be all forgotten,

and the tale of how we died.

Life or death then, who shall heed it,

what we gain or what we lose?

Fair flies life amid the struggle,

and the Cause for each shall choose.

Hear a word, a word in season,

for the day is drawing nigh,

When the Cause shall call upon us,

some to live, and some to die!

PAIN AND TIME STRIVE NOT

What part of the dread eternity

Are those strange minutes that I gain,

Mazed with the doubt of love and pain,

When I thy delicate face may see,

A little while before farewell?

What share of the world's yearning-tide

That flash, when new day bare and white

Blots out my half-dream's faint delight,

And there is nothing by my side,

And well remembered is farewell?

What drop in the grey flood of tears

That time, when the long day toiled through,

Worn out, shows nought for me to do,

And nothing worth my labour bears

The longing of that last farewell?

What pity from the heavens above,

What heed from out eternity,

What word from the swift world for me?

Speak, heed, and pity, O tender love,

Who knew'st the days before farewell!

DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT

Lo, when we wade the tangled wood,

In haste and hurry to be there,

Nought seem its leaves and blossoms good,

For all that they be fashioned fair.

But looking up, at last we see

The glimmer of the open light,

From o'er the place where we would be:

Then grow the very brambles bright.

So now, amidst our day of strife,

With many a matter glad we play,

When once we see the light of life

Gleam through the tangle of to-day.

VERSES FOR PICTURES

DAY

I am Day; I bring again

Life and glory, Love and pain:

Awake, arise! from death to death

Through me the World's tale quickeneth.

SPRING

Spring am I, too soft of heart

Much to speak ere I depart:

Ask the Summer-tide to prove

The abundance of my love.

SUMMER

Summer looked for long am I;

Much shall change or e'er I die.

Prithee take it not amiss

Though I weary thee with bliss.

AUTUMN

Laden Autumn here I stand

Worn of heart, and weak of hand:

Nought but rest seems good to me,

Speak the word that sets me free.

WINTER

I am Winter, that do keep

Longing safe amidst of sleep:

Who shall say if I were dead

What should be remembered?

NIGHT

I am Night: I bring again

Hope of pleasure, rest from pain:

Thoughts unsaid 'twixt Life and Death

My fruitful silence quickeneth.

FOR THE BRIAR ROSE

THE BRIARWOOD

The fateful slumber floats and flows

About the tangle of the rose;

But lo! the fated hand and heart

To rend the slumberous curse apart!

THE COUNCIL ROOM

The threat of war, the hope of peace,

The Kingdom's peril and increase

Sleep on, and bide the latter day,

When Fate shall take her chain away.

THE GARDEN COURT

The maiden pleasance of the land

Knoweth no stir of voice or hand,

No cup the sleeping waters fill,

The restless shuttle lieth still.

THE ROSEBOWER

Here lies the hoarded love, the key

To all the treasure that shall be;

Come fated hand the gift to take,

And smite this sleeping world awake.

ANOTHER FOR THE BRIAR ROSE

O treacherous scent, O thorny sight,

O tangle of world's wrong and right,

What art thou 'gainst my armour's gleam

But dusky cobwebs of a dream?

Beat down, deep sunk from every gleam

Of hope, they lie and dully dream;

Men once, but men no more, that Love

Their waste defeated hearts should move.

Here sleeps the world that would not love!

Let it sleep on, but if He move

Their hearts in humble wise to wait

On his new-wakened fair estate.

O won at last is never late!

Thy silence was the voice of fate;

Thy still hands conquered in the strife;

Thine eyes were light; thy lips were life.

THE WOODPECKER

I once a King and chief

Now am the tree-bark's thief,

Ever 'twixt trunk and leaf

Chasing the prey.

THE LION

The Beasts that be

In wood and waste,

Now sit and see,

Nor ride nor haste.

THE FOREST

PEAR-TREE

By woodman's edge I faint and fail;

By craftsman's edge I tell the tale.

CHESTNUT-TREE

High in the wood, high o'er the hall,

Aloft I rise when low I fall.

OAK-TREE

Unmoved I stand what wind may blow.

Swift, swift before the wind I go.

POMONA

I am the ancient Apple-Queen,

As once I was so am I now.

For evermore a hope unseen,

Betwixt the blossom and the bough.

Ah, where's the river's hidden Gold!

And where the windy grave of Troy?

Yet come I as I came of old,

From out the heart of Summer's joy.

FLORA

I am the handmaid of the earth,

I broider fair her glorious gown,

And deck her on her days of mirth

With many a garland of renown.

And while Earth's little ones are fain

And play about the Mother's hem,

I scatter every gift I gain

From sun and wind to gladden them.

THE ORCHARD

Midst bitten mead and acre shorn,

The world without is waste and worn,

But here within our orchard-close,

The guerdon of its labour shows.

O valiant Earth, O happy year

That mocks the threat of winter near,

And hangs aloft from tree to tree

The banners of the Spring to be.

TAPESTRY TREES

OAK

I am the Roof-tree and the Keel;

I bridge the seas for woe and weal.

FIR

High o'er the lordly oak I stand,

And drive him on from land to land.

ASH

I heft my brother's iron bane;

I shaft the spear, and build the wain.

YEW

Dark down the windy dale I grow,

The father of the fateful Bow.

POPLAR

The war-shaft and the milking-bowl

I make, and keep the hay-wain whole.

OLIVE

The King I bless; the lamps I trim;

In my warm wave do fishes swim.

APPLE-TREE

I bowed my head to Adam's will;

The cups of toiling men I fill.

VINE

I draw the blood from out the earth;

I store the sun for winter mirth.

ORANGE-TREE

Amidst the greenness of my night,

My odorous lamps hang round and bright.

FIG-TREE

I who am little among trees

In honey-making mate the bees.

MULBERRY-TREE

Love's lack hath dyed my berries red:

For Love's attire my leaves are shed.

PEAR-TREE

High o'er the mead-flowers' hidden feet

I bear aloft my burden sweet.

BAY

Look on my leafy boughs, the Crown

Of living song and dead renown!

THE FLOWERING ORCHARD

SILK EMBROIDERY

Lo silken my garden,

and silken my sky,

And silken my apple-boughs

hanging on high;

All wrought by the Worm

in the peasant carle's cot

On the Mulberry leafage

when summer was hot!

THE END OF MAY

How the wind howls this morn

About the end of May,

And drives June on apace

To mock the world forlorn

And the world's joy passed away

And my unlonged-for face!

The world's joy passed away;

For no more may I deem

That any folk are glad

To see the dawn of day

Sunder the tangled dream

Wherein no grief they had.

Ah, through the tangled dream

Where others have no grief

Ever it fares with me

That fears and treasons stream

And dumb sleep slays belief

Whatso therein may be.

Sleep slayeth all belief

Until the hopeless light

Wakes at the birth of June

More lying tales to weave,

More love in woe's despite,

More hope to perish soon.

THE HALF OF LIFE GONE

The days have slain the days,

and the seasons have gone by

And brought me the summer again;

and here on the grass I lie

As erst I lay and was glad

ere I meddled with right and with wrong.

Wide lies the mead as of old,

and the river is creeping along

By the side of the elm-clad bank

that turns its weedy stream;

And grey o'er its hither lip

the quivering rashes gleam.

There is work in the mead as of old;

they are eager at winning the hay,

While every sun sets bright

and begets a fairer day.

The forks shine white in the sun

round the yellow red-wheeled wain,

Where the mountain of hay grows fast;

and now from out of the lane

Comes the ox-team drawing another,

comes the bailiff and the beer,

And thump, thump, goes the farmer's nag

o'er the narrow bridge of the weir.

High up and light are the clouds,

and though the swallows flit

So high o'er the sunlit earth,

they are well a part of it,

And so, though high over them,

are the wings of the wandering herne;

In measureless depths above him

doth the fair sky quiver and burn;

The dear sun floods the land

as the morning falls toward noon,

And a little wind is awake

in the best of the latter June.

They are busy winning the hay,

and the life and the picture they make

If I were as once I was,

I should deem it made for my sake;

For here if one need not work

is a place for happy rest,

While one's thought wends over the world

north, south, and east and west.

There are the men and the maids,

and the wives and the gaffers grey

Of the fields I know so well,

and but little changed are they

Since I was a lad amongst them;

and yet how great is the change!

Strange are they grown unto me;

yea I to myself am strange.

Their talk and their laughter mingling

with the music of the meads

Has now no meaning to me

to help or to hinder my needs,

So far from them have I drifted.

And yet amidst of them goes

A part of myself, my boy,

and of pleasure and pain he knows,

And deems it something strange,

when he is other than glad.

Lo now! the woman that stoops

and kisses the face of the lad,

And puts a rake in his hand

and laughs in his laughing face.

Whose is the voice that laughs

in the old familiar place?

Whose should it be but my love's,

if my love were yet on the earth?

Could she refrain from the fields

where my joy and her joy had birth,

When I was there and her child,

on the grass that knew her feet

'Mid the flowers that led her on

when the summer eve was sweet?

No, no, it is she no longer;

never again can she come

And behold the hay-wains creeping

o'er the meadows of her home;

No more can she kiss her son

or put the rake in his hand

That she handled a while agone

in the midst of the haymaking band.

Her laughter is gone and her life;

there is no such thing on the earth,

No share for me then in the stir,

no share in the hurry and mirth.

Nay, let me look and believe

that all these will vanish away,

At least when the night has fallen,

and that she will be there 'mid the hay,

Happy and weary with work,

waiting and longing for love.

There will she be, as of old,

when the great moon hung above,

And lightless and dead was the village,

and nought but the weir was awake;

There will she rise to meet me,

and my hands will she hasten to take,

And thence shall we wander away,

and over the ancient bridge

By many a rose-hung hedgerow,

till we reach the sun-burnt ridge

And the great trench digged by the Romans:

there then awhile shall we stand,

To watch the dawn come creeping

o'er the fragrant lovely land,

Till all the world awaketh,

and draws us down, we twain,

To the deeds of the field and the fold

and the merry summer's gain.

Ah thus, only thus shall I see her,

in dreams of the day or the night,

When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow

to remember past delight.

She is gone. She was and she is not;

there is no such thing on the earth

But e'en as a picture painted;

and for me there is void and dearth

That I cannot name or measure.

Yet for me and all these she died,

E'en as she lived for awhile,

that the better day might betide.

Therefore I live, and I shall live

till the last day's work shall fail.

Have patience now but a little

and I will tell you the tale

Of how and why she died,

And why I am weak and worn,

And have wandered away to the meadows

and the place where I was born;

But here and to-day I cannot;

for ever my thought will stray

To that hope fulfilled for a little

and the bliss of the earlier day.

Of the great world's hope and anguish

to-day I scarce can think;

Like a ghost, from the lives of the living

and their earthly deeds I shrink.

I will go adown by the water

and over the ancient bridge,

And wend in our footsteps of old

till I come to the sun-burnt ridge,

And the great trench digged by the Romans;

and thence awhile will I gaze,

And see three teeming counties

stretch out till they fade in the haze;

And in all the dwellings of man

that thence mine eyes shall see,

What man as hapless as I am

beneath the sun shall be?

O fool, what words are these?

Thou hast a sorrow to nurse,

And thou hast been bold and happy;

but these, if they utter a curse,

No sting it has and no meaning,

it is empty sound on the air.

Thy life is full of mourning,

and theirs so empty and bare,

That they have no words of complaining;

nor so happy have they been

That they may measure sorrow

or tell what grief may mean.

And thou; thou hast deeds to do,

and toil to meet thee soon;

Depart and ponder on these

through the sun-worn afternoon.

MINE AND THINE

FROM A FLEMISH POEM OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY

Two words about the world we see,

And nought but Mine and Thine they be.

Ah! might we drive them forth and wide

With us should rest and peace abide;

All free, nought owned of goods and gear,

By men and women though it were.

Common to all all wheat and wine

Over the seas and up the Rhine.

No manslayer then the wide world o'er

When Mine and Thine are known no more.

Yea, God, well counselled for our health,

Gave all this fleeting earthly wealth

A common heritage to all,

That men might feed them therewithal,

And clothe their limbs and shoe their feet

And live a simple life and sweet.

But now so rageth greediness

That each desireth nothing less

Than all the world, and all his own;

And all for him and him alone.

THE LAY OF CHRISTINE

TRANSLATED FROM THE ICELANDIC

Of silk my gear was shapen,

Scarlet they did on me,

Then to the sea-strand was I borne

And laid in a bark of the sea.