Kitabı oku: «The Rainbow and the Rose», sayfa 6

 
  The little pin-hole in heaven's floor—
 
 
  "The Angels pricked it to let it bring
  Our feet to the throne of the new-born King!"
 
 
  And the first king heard and the second heard
  And their hearts grew humble before the third.
 
 
  And they laid them down beside bale and beast
  and their sleeping eyes saw light in the East.
 
 
  For the Angels fanned them with starry wings
  And the waft of visions of unseen things.
 
 
  And the next gold day waned trembling and white
  And the star was born of the waxing night.
 
 
  And the three kings came where the Great King lay,
  A little baby among the hay,
 
 
  The ox and the ass were standing near
  And Mary Mother beside her Dear.
 
 
  Then low in the litter the kings bowed down,
  They gave Him gold for a kingly crown,
 
 
  And frankincense for a great God's breath
  and Myrrh to sweeten the day of death.
 
 
  The Maiden Mother she stood and smiled
  And she took from the manger her little child.
 
 
  On the dark king's head she laid His hand
  And anger died at that dear command.
 
 
  She laid His hand on the gold king's head
  And despair itself was comforted.
 
 
  But when the pale king knelt in the stall
  She heard on the straw his tears down fall.
 
 
  And she stooped where he knelt beside her feet
  And laid on his bosom her baby sweet.
 
 
  And the king in the holy stable-place
  Felt the little lips through the tears on his face.
 

* * * * * * *

 
  Christ! lay Thy hand on the angry king
  Who reigns in my breast to my undoing,
 
 
  And lay thy hands on the king who lays
  The spell of sadness on all my days,
 
 
  And give the white king my soul, Thy soul,
  Of these other kings the high control.
 
 
  That soul and spirit and sense may meet
  In adoration before Thy feet!
 
 
  Now Glory to God the Father Most High,
  And the Star, the Spirit, He leads us by.
 
 
  And to God's dear Son, the Babe who was born
  And laid in the manger on Christmas morn!
 

IX

AFTER DEATH

 
  IF we must part, this parting is the best:
  How would you bear to lay
  Your head on some warm pillow far away—
  Your head, so used to lying on my breast?
 
 
  But now your pillow is cold;
  Your hands have flowers, and not my hands, to hold;
  Upon our bed the worn bride-linen lies.
  I have put the death-money upon your eyes,
  So that you should not wake up in the night.
  I have bound your face with white;
  I have washed you, yes, with water and not with tears,—
  Those arms wherein I have slept so many years,
  Those feet that hastened when they came to me,
  And all your body that belonged to me.
  I have smoothed your dear dull hair,
  And there is nothing left to say for you
  And nothing left to fear or pray for you;
  And I have got the rest of life to bear:
  Thank God it is you, not I, who are lying there.
 
 
  If I had died
  And you had stood beside
  This still white bed
  Where the white, scented, horrible flowers are spread,—
  I know the thing it is,
  And I thank God that He has spared you this.
  If one must bear it, thank God it was I
  Who had to live and bear to see you die,
  Who have to live, and bear to see you dead.
 
 
  You will have nothing of it all to bear:
  You will not even know that in your bed
  You lie alone. You will not miss my head
  Beside you on the pillow: you will rest
  So soft in the grave you will not miss my breast.
  But I—but I—Your pillow and your place—
  And only the darkness laid against my face,
  And only my anguish pressed against my side—
  Thank God, thank God, that it was you who died!
 

CHLOE

 
  NIGHT wind sighing through the poplar leaves,
  Trembling of the aspen, shivering of the willow,
  Every leafy voice of all the night-time grieves,
  Mourning, weeping over Chloe's pillow.
 
 
  Chloe, fresher than the breeze of dawn,
  Fairer than the larches in their young spring glory,
  Brighter than the glow-worms on the dewy lawn,
  Hear the dirge the green trees sing to end your story:—
 
 
  "Chloe lived and Chloe loved: she brought new gladness,
  Hope and life and all things good to all who met her;
  Only, dying, wept to know the lifelong sadness
  Willed, against her will, to those who can't forget her."
 

INVOCATION

 
  COME to-night in a dream to-night,
  Come as you used to do,
  Come in the gown, in the gown of white,
  Come in the ribbon of blue;
  Come in the virgin's colours you wear,
  Come through the dark and the dew,
  Come with the scent of the night in your hair,
  Come as you used to do.
 
 
  Blue and white of your eyes and your face,
  White of your gown and blue,
  Will you not come from the happy place,
  Come as you used to do?
  Tears so many, so many tears
  Where there were once so few—
  Can they not wash the gray of the years
  From the white of your gown and blue?
 

THE LAST BETRAYAL

 
  AND I shall lie alone at last,
  Clear of the stream that ran so fast,
  And feel the flower roots in my hair,
  And in my hands the roots of trees;
  Myself wrapt in the ungrudging peace
  That leaves no pain uncovered anywhere.
 
 
  What—this hope left? this way not barred?
  This last best treasure without guard?
  This heaven free—no prayers to pay?
  Fool—are the Rulers of men asleep?
  Thou knowest what tears They bade thee weep,
  But, when peace comes, 'tis thou wilt sleep, not They.
 

A PRAYER FOR THE KING'S MAJESTY

22nd January, 1901.

 
  THE Queen is dead. God save the King,
  In this his hour of grief,
  When sorrow gathers memories in a sheaf
  To lay them on his shoulders as he stands
  Inheriting her glories and her lands—
  First gain of his at which his Mother's voice
  Has not been first to bless and to rejoice—
  A man, set lonely between gain and loss.
  (O words of love the heart remembereth,
  O mighty loss outweighing every gain!)
  A Son whose kingdom Death's arm lies across,
  A King whose Mother lies alone with Death
  Wrapped in the folds of white implacable sleep.
  O God, who seest the tears Thy children weep,
  O God, who countest each sad heart-beat, see
  How our King needs the grace we ask of Thee!
  Thou knowest how little and how vain a thing
  Is Empire, when the heart is sick with pain—
  God, save the King!
  The Queen is dead. The splendour of her days,
  The sorrow of them both alike merge now
  In the new aureole that lights her brow.
  The clamour of her people's voice in praise
  Must hush itself to the still voice that prays
  In the holy chamber of Death. Tread softly here,
  A mighty Queen lies dead.
  Her people's heart wears black,
  The black bells toll unceasing in their ear,
  And on the gold sun's track
  The great world round
  Like a black ring the voice of mourning goes,
  Till even our ancient foes
  With eyes downbent, and brotherly bared head,
  Keep mourning watch with us. This is the hour
  When Love lends all his power
  To speed grief's arrows from the bow of Death,
  When sighs are idle breath,
  When tears are fountains vain.
  She will not wake again,
  Not now, not here.
  O great and good and infinitely dear,
  O Mother of your people, sleep is sweet,
  No more Life's thorny ways will wound your feet.
 
 
  O Mother dear, sleep sound!
  When you shall wake,
  Your brows freed from the crown that made them ache
  So many a time, and wear the heavenly crown,
  Then, then you will look down
  On us who love you, and, remembering,
  The love of earth will breathe with us our prayer,
  Our prayer prayed here, joined to your prayer prayed there:
  Who knows what radiant answer it may bring?
  "God save the King!"
 
 
  The Queen is dead. God save the King!
  From all ill thought and deed,
  From heartless service and from selfish sway,
  From treason, and the vain imagining
  Of evil counsellors, and the noisome breed
  Of flatterers who eat the soul away,
  God save the King!
 
 
  From loss and pain and tears
  Such as her many years
  Brought her; from battle and strife,
  And the inmost hurt of life,
  The wounds that no crown can heal,
  No ermine robes conceal,
  God save the King!
 
 
  God, by our memories of his Mother's face,
  By the love that makes our heart her dwelling-place,
  Grant to our sorrow this desired grace:
  God save the King!
 

* * * * * * * * *

 
  The Queen is dead. God save the King.
  This is no hour when joy has leave to sing;
  Only, amid our tears, we are bold to pray,
  More boldly, in that we pray sorrowing,
  In this most sorrowful day.
  God, who wast of a mortal Mother born,
  Who driest the tears with which Thy children mourn,
  God, save the King!
 
 
  Look down on him whose crown is wet with tears
  In which its splendour fades and disappears—
  His tears, our tears, tears out of all her lands.
  The Queen is dead.
  God! strengthen the King's hands!
  God, save the King!
 

TRUE LOVE AND NEW LOVE

 
  OVER the meadow and down the lane
  To the gate by the twisted thorn:
  Your feet should know each turn of the way
  You trod so many many a day,
  Before the old love was put out of its pain,
  Before the new love was born.
 
 
  Kiss her, hold her and fold her close,
  Tell her the old true tale:
  You ought to know each turn of the phrase,—
  You learned them all in the poor old days
  Before the birth of the new red rose,
  Before the old rose grew pale.
 
 
  And do not fear I shall creep to-night
  To make a third at your tryst:
  My ghost, if it walked, would only wait
  To scare the others away from the gate
  Where you teach your new love the old delight,
  With the lips that your old love kissed.
 

DEATH

 
  NEVER again:
  No child shall stir the inmost heart of her
  And teach her heaven by that first faint stir;
  No little lips shall lie against her breast
  Save the cold lips that now lie there at rest;
  No little voice shall rouse her from her sleep
  And bid her wake to pain:
  Her sleep is calm and deep,
  Call not! refrain.
 
 
  Close in her arm
  As though even death drew back before the face
  Of Motherhood in this white stilly place,
  The gathered bud lies waxen white and cold,
  As ever a flower your winter gardens hold.
  She bore the pain, she never wore the crown,
  She worked the bitter charm,
  But all she won thereby is here laid down
  Renounced—for good or harm.
 
 
  Dream? Feed your soul
  With dreams, while we must starve our hearts on clay,
  Dream of a glorious white-winged sun-crowned day
  When you shall see her once more face to face
  Beside Christ's Mother in the blessed place!
  But while you dream, they carry her from here,
  The black bells toll and toll.
  Oh God! if only she cannot see or hear,
  Not hear those ghoul-like bells that crowd so near,
  Not see that cold clay hole.
 

IN MEMORY OF SARETTA DEAKIN

Who Died on October 25th, 1899.

 
  THERE was a day,
  A horrible Autumn day,
  When from her home, the home she made for ours
  And that day made a nightmare of white flowers
  And folk in black who whispered pityingly,
  They carried her away;
  And left our hearts all cold
  And empty, yet with such a store to hold
  Of sodden grief the slow drops still ooze out,
  And, falling on all fair things, they wither these.
  Tears came with time—but not with time went by.
 
 
  And still we wander desolate about
  The poor changed house, the garden and the croft,
  Warm kitchen, sunny parlour, with the soft
  Intolerable pervading memories
  Of her whose face and voice made melodies,
  Sweet unforgotten songs of mother-love—
  Dear songs of all the little joys that were.
  We see the sun, and have no joy thereof,
  Because she gathered in her dying hands
  And carried with her to the fair far lands
  The flower of all our joy, because she went
  Out of the garden where her days were spent,
  And took the very sun away with her.
 
 
  The cross stands at her head.
  Over her breast, that loving mother-breast,
  Close buds of pansies purple and white are pressed.
  It seems a place for rest,
  For happy folded sleep; but ah, not there,
  Not there, not there, our hardest tears are shed,
  But in the house made empty for her sake.
  Here, in the night intolerable, wake
  The hungry passionate pains of Love still strong
  To fight with death the bitter slow night long.
  Then the rich price that poor Love has to pay
  Is paid, slow drop by drop, till the new day
  With thin cold fingers pushes back night's wings,
  And drags us out to common cruel things
  That sting, and barb their stings with memory.
  O Love—and is the price too hard to give?
  Thine is the splendour of all things that live,
  And this thy pain the price of life to thee—
  The sacrament that binds to the beloved,
  The chain that holds though mountains be removed,
  The portent of thine immortality.
 
 
  So, in the house of pain imprisoned, we
  Endure our bondage, and work out our time,
  Nor seek from out our dungeon walls to climb—
  Bondsmen, who would not, if we could, be free.
  Thank God, our hands still hold Love's cord—and she—
  Do not her hands still clasp the cord we hold,
  Drawing us near, coiling bright fold on fold,
  Till the far day when it shall draw us near
  To the sight of her—her living hands, her dear
  Tired face, grown weary of watching for our face?
  And we shall hold her, in the happy place,
  And hear her voice, the old same voice we knew—
  "Ah! children, I am tired of wanting you!"
 
 
  Or, in some world more beautiful and dear
  Than any she ever even dreamed of here,
  Where time is changed, does she await the day
  She longed for, and so little a while away,
  When all the love we watered with our tears
  Shall bloom, transplanted by the kindly years?
  Dreaming through her new garden does she go,
  Remembering the old garden, long ago,
  Tending new flowers more fair than those that grow
  In this sad garden where such sad flowers blow;
  And, fondly touching bud and leaf and shoot,
  Training her flowers to perfect branch and root,
  Does she sometimes entreat some darling flower
  To wait a little for its opening hour?
  Can you not hear her voice: "Ah, not to-day,
  While my dear flowers, my own, are far away.
  Be patient, bud! to-morrow soon will come:
  Ah! blossom when my little girl comes home!"
 
 
  But now. But here.
  The empty house, the always empty place—
  The black remembrance that no night blots out,
  The memories, white, unbearable, and dear
  That no white sunlight makes less cruel and clear?
  The resistless riotous rout
  Of cruel conquering thoughts, the night, the day?
  Love is immortal: this the price to pay.
  Worse than all pain it would be to forget—
  On Love's brave brow the crown of thorns is set.
  Love is no niggard: though the price be high
  Into God's market Love goes forth to buy
  With royal meed God's greatest gifts and gain,
  Love offers up his whole rich store of pain,
  And buys of God Love's immortality.
 

FOR DOROTHY, 18th August, 1900

A PARTING

 
  I WILL not wake you, dear; no tears shall creep
  To chill the still bed where you lie asleep;
  No cry, no word, shall break the sanctity
  Of the great silence where God lets you lie.
  I will not tease your grave with flower or stone;
  You are tired, my heart; you shall be left alone.
  And even the kisses that my lips must lay
  Upon the mould of the triumphant clay
  Shall be so soft—like those a mother lays
  Upon her sleeping baby's little face—
  You will not feel my kisses, will not hear;
  You are tired: sleep on, I will not wake you, dear!
  But when the good day comes, you will hear me cry,
  "Ah, make a little place where I can lie!"
  And half awakened, you will feel me creep
  Into the folds of your familiar sleep,
  And draw them round us, with a tender moan,
  "How could you let me sleep so long alone?"