Kitabı oku: «The Cup of Comus: Fact and Fancy», sayfa 4

THE MAGIC PURSE

 
What is the gold of mortal-kind
To that men find
Deep in the poet's mind! —
That magic purse
Of Dreams from which
God builds His universe!
That makes life rich
With many a vision;
Taking the soul from out its prison
Of facts with the precision
A wildflower dons
When Spring comes knocking at the door
Of Earth across the windy lawns;
Calling to Joy to rise and dance before
Her happy feet:
Or with the beat
And bright exactness of a star,
Hanging its punctual point afar,
When Night comes tripping over Heaven's floor,
Leaving a gate ajar.
That leads the Heart from all its aching
Far above where day is breaking;
Out of the doubts, the agonies,
The strife and sin, to join with these —
Hope and Beauty and Joy that build
Their golden walls
Of sunset where, with spirits filled,
A Presence calls,
And points a land
Where Love walks, silent; hand in hand
With the Spirit of God, and leads Man right
Out of the darkness into the light.
 

THE CHILD AT THE GATE

 
The sunset was a sleepy gold,
And stars were in the skies
When down a weedy lane he strolled
In vague and thoughtless wise.
 
 
And then he saw it, near a wood,
An old house, gabled brown,
Like some old woman, in a hood,
Looking toward the town.
 
 
A child stood at its broken gate,
Singing a childish song,
And weeping softly as if Fate
Had done her child's heart wrong.
 
 
He spoke to her: – "Now tell me, dear,
Why do you sing and weep?" —
But she – she did not seem to hear,
But stared as if asleep.
 
 
Then suddenly she turned and fled
As if with soul of fear.
He followed; but the house looked dead,
And empty many a year.
 
 
The light was wan: the dying day
Grew ghostly suddenly:
And from the house he turned away,
Wrapped in its mystery.
 

* * * *

 
They told him no one dwelt there now:
It was a haunted place. —
And then it came to him, somehow,
The memory of a face.
 
 
That child's – like hers, whose name was Joy —
For whom his heart was fain:
The face of her whom, when a boy,
He played with in that lane.
 

THE LOST DREAM

 
The black night showed its hungry teeth,
And gnawed with sleet at roof and pane;
Beneath the door I heard it breathe —
A beast that growled in vain.
 
 
The hunter wind stalked up and down,
And crashed his ice-spears through each tree;
Before his rage, in tattered gown,
I saw the maid moon flee.
 
 
There stole a footstep to my door;
A voice cried in my room and – there!
A shadow cowled and gaunt and hoar,
Death, leaned above my chair.
 
 
He beckoned me; he bade me rise,
And follow through the madman night;
Into my heart's core pierced his eyes,
And lifted me with might.
 
 
I rose; I made no more delay;
And followed where his eyes compelled;
And through the darkness, far away,
They lit me and enspelled.
 
 
Until we reached an ancient wood,
That flung its twisted arms around,
As if in anguish that it stood
On dark, unhallowed ground.
 
 
And then I saw it – cold and blind —
The dream, that had my heart to share,
That fell, before its feet could find
Its home, and perished there.
 

WITCHCRAFT

 
This world is made a witchcraft place
With gazing on a woman's face.
 
 
Now 'tis her smile, whose sorcery
Turns all my thoughts to melody.
 
 
Now 'tis her frown, that comes and goes,
That makes my day a page of prose.
 
 
And now her laugh, or but a word,
That in my heart frees wild a bird.
 
 
Some day, perhaps, a kiss of hers,
Will lift from my dumb life the curse
 
 
Of longing, inarticulate,
That keeps me sad and celibate.
 

TRANSPOSED SEASONS

 
The gentian and the bluebell so
Can change my calendar,
I know not how the year may go,
Or what the seasons are:
The months, in some mysterious wise,
Take their expression from her eyes.
 
 
The gentian speaks to memory
Of autumns long since gone,
When her blue eyes smiled up at me,
And heaven was flushed with dawn:
'T was autumn then and leaves were sere,
But in my heart 't was spring o' the year.
 
 
The bluebell says a message too
Of springs long passed away,
When in my eyes her eyes of blue
Gazed and 't was close of day:
Spring spread around her fragrant chart,
But it was autumn in my heart.
 

THE OLD DREAMER

 
Come, let's climb into our attic,
In our house that's old and gray!
Life, you're old and I'm rheumatic,
And – it's close of day.
 
 
Lay aside your rags and tatters,
Shirt and shoes so soiled with clay!
They're no use now. Nothing matters —
It is close of day.
 
 
Let's to bed. It's cold. No fire.
And no lamp to make a ray. —
Where's our servant, young Desire? —
Gone at close of day.
 
 
Oft she served us with fine glances,
Helped us out at work and play:
She is gone now; better chances;
And it's close of day.
 
 
Where is Hope, who flaunted scarlet?
Hope, who led us oft astray?
Has she proved herself a harlot
At the close of day?
 
 
What's become of Dream and Vision?
Friends we thought were here to stay?
Has life clapped the two in prison
At the close of day?
 
 
They are gone; and how we miss them!
They who made our garret gay.
How we used to hug and kiss them! —
But – 'tis close of day.
 
 
Where's friend Love now? – Who supposes? —
Has he flung himself away?
Left us for a wreath of roses
At the close of day?
 
 
And where's Song? the soul elected —
Has he quit us too for aye? —
Was it poverty he suspected
Near the close of day?
 
 
How our attic rang their laughter!
How it echoed laugh and lay!
None may take their place hereafter? —
It is close of day.
 
 
We have done the best we could do.
Let us kneel awhile and pray.
Now, no matter what we would do,
It is close of day.
 
 
Let's to bed then! It's December.
Long enough since it was May! —
Let's forget it, and remember
Now 'tis close of day.
 

A LAST WORD

 
Oh, for some cup of consummating might,
Filled with life's kind conclusion, lost in night!
A wine of darkness, that with death shall cure
This sickness called existence! – Oh to find
Surcease of sorrow! quiet for the mind,
An end of thought in something dark and sure!
Mandrake and hellebore, or poison pure! —
Some drug of death, wherein there are no dreams! —
No more, no more, with patience, to endure
The wrongs of life, the hate of men, it seems;
Or wealth's authority, tyranny of time,
And lamentations and the boasts of man!
To hear no more the wild complaints of toil,
And struggling merit, that, unknown, must starve:
To see no more life's disregard for Art!
Oh God! to know no longer anything!
Nor good, nor evil, or what either means!
Nor hear the changing tides of customs roll
On the dark shores of Time! No more to hear
The stream of Life that furies on the shoals
Of hard necessity! No more to see
The unavailing battle waged of Need
Against adversity! – Merely to lie, at last,
Pulseless and still, at peace beneath the sod!
To think and dream no more! no more to hope!
At rest at last! at last at peace and rest,
Clasped by some kind tree's gnarled arm of root
Bearing me upward in its large embrace
To gentler things and fairer – clouds and winds,
And stars and sun and moon! To undergo
The change the great trees know when Spring comes in
With shoutings and rejoicings of the rain,
To swiftly rise an atom in a host,
The myriad army of the leaves; and stand
A handsbreadth nearer Heaven and what is God!
To pulse in sap that beats unfevered in
The life we call inanimate – the heart
Of some great tree. And so, unconsciously,
As sleeps a child, clasped in its mother's arm,
Be taken back, in amplitudes of grace,
To Nature's heart, and so be lost in her.
 

THE SHADOW

 
A shadow glided down the way
Where sunset groped among the trees,
And all the woodland bower, asway
With trouble of the evening breeze.
 
 
A shape, it moved with head held down;
I knew it not, yet seemed to know
Its form, its carriage of a clown,
Its raiment of the long-ago.
 
 
It never turned or spoke a word,
But fixed its gaze on something far,
As if within its heart it heard
The summons of the evening star.
 
 
I turned to it and tried to speak;
To ask it of the thing it saw,
Or heard, beyond Earth's outmost peak —
The dream, the splendor, and the awe.
 
 
What beauty or what terror there
Still bade its purpose to ascend
Above the sunset's sombre glare,
The twilight and the long day's end.
 
 
It looked at me but said no word:
Then suddenly I saw the truth: —
This was the call that once I heard
And failed to follow in my youth.
 
 
Now well I saw that this was I —
My own dead self who walked with me,
Who died in that dark hour gone by
With all the dreams that used to be.
 

ON THE ROAD

 
Let us bid the world good-by,
Now while sun and cloud's above us,
While we've nothing to deny,
Nothing but our selves to love us:
Let us fancy, I and you,
All the dreams we dreamed came true.
 
 
We have gone but half the road,
Rugged road of root and bowlder;
Made the best of Life's dark load,
Cares, that helped us to grow older:
We, my dear, have done our best —
Let us stop awhile and rest.
 
 
Let us, by this halfway stile,
Put away the world's desire,
And sit down, a little while,
With our hearts, and light a fire:
Sing the songs that once we sung
In the days when we were young.
 
 
Haply they will bring again,
From the Lands of Song and Story,
To our sides the elfin train
Of the dreams we dreamed of glory,
That are one now with the crew
Of the deeds we did not do.
 
 
Here upon the road of Life
Let us rest us; take our pleasure:
Free from care and safe from strife,
Count again our only treasure —
Love, that helped us on our way,
Our companion night and day.
 

RECONCILIATION

 
Listen, dearest! you must love me more,
More than you did before! —
Hark, what a beating here of wings!
Never at rest,
Dear, in your breast! —
Is it your heart with its flutterings,
Making a music, love, for us both?
Or merely a moth, a velvet-winged moth,
Which out of the garden's fragrance swings,
Weaving a spell,
That holds the rose and the moon in thrall? —
I love you more than I can tell;
And no recall
How long ago
Our quarrel and all! —
You say, you know,
A perfect pearl grows out of – well,
A little friction; tiny grain
Of sand or shell —
So love grew out of that moment's pain,
The heart's disdain —
Since then I have thought of no one but you,
And how your heart would beat on mine,
Like light on dew.
And I thought how foolish to fret and pine!
Better to claim the fault all mine!
To go to you and tell you that:
And how stale and flat
All life without you was, and vain!
And when I came, you turned and smiled,
Like a darling child,
And I knew from your look that, in your heart,
You had followed the self-same train
Of thought that made me yours again. —
 
 
Dearest! no more! —
We shall never part! —
So. Turn your face as you did before. —
 
 
I smooth your brow
And kiss you. – Now…
Tell me true —
Did you miss me, dear, as I missed you?