Collected Poems Read online

  That other exit had, and never knock

  Was heard thereat,—bearing a curious lock,

  Some chance had shown me fashioned faultily,

  Whereof Life held content the useless key;

  And great coarse hinges, thick and rough with rust,

  Whose sudden voice across a silence must,

  I knew, be harsh and horrible to hear,—

  A strange door, ugly like a dwarf.—So near

  I came I felt upon my feet the chill

  Of acid wind creeping across the sill.

  So stood longtime, till over me at last

  Came weariness, and all things other passed

  To make it room; the still night drifted deep

  Like snow about me, and I longed for sleep.

  But, suddenly, marking the morning hour,

  Bayed the deep-throated bell within the tower I

  Startled, I raised my head,—and with a shout

  Laid hold upon the latch,—and was without.

  ————

  Ah, long-forgotten, well-remembered road,

  Leading me back unto my old abode,

  My Father’s house! There in the night I came,

  And found them feasting, and all things the same

  As they had been before. A splendour hung

  Upon the walls, and such sweet songs were sung

  As, echoing out of very long ago,

  Had called me from the house of Life, I know.

  So fair their raiment shone I looked in shame

  On the unlovely garb in which I came;

  Then straightway at my hesitancy mocked:

  “It is my Father’s house!” I said and knocked;

  And the door opened. To the shining crowd

  Tattered and dark I entered, like a cloud,

  Seeing no face but His; to Him I crept,

  And “Father!” I cried, and clasped His knees, and wept.

  ————

  Ah, days of joy that followed! All alone

  I wandered through the house. My own, my own,

  My own to touch, my own to taste and smell,

  All I had lacked so long and loved so well!

  None shook me out of sleep, nor hushed my song,

  Nor called me in from the sunlight all day long.

  I know not when the wonder came to me

  Of what my Father’s business might be,

  And whither fared and on what errands bent

  The tall and gracious messengers He sent.

  Yet one day with no song from dawn till night

  Wondering, I sat, and watched them out of sight.

  And the next day I called; and on the third

  Asked them if I might go,—but no one heard.

  Then, sick with longing, I arose at last

  And went unto my Father,—in that vast

  Chamber wherein He for so many years

  Has sat, surrounded by His charts and spheres.

  “Father,” I said, “Father, I cannot play

  The harp that Thou didst give me, and all day

  I sit in idleness, while to and fro

  About me Thy serene, grave servants go;

  And I am weary of my lonely ease.

  Better a perilous journey overseas

  Away from Thee, than this, the life I lead,

  To sit all day in the sunshine like a weed

  That grows to naught,—I love Thee more than they

  Who serve Thee most; yet serve Thee in no way.

  Father, I beg of Thee a little task

  To dignify my days,—’tis all I ask

  Forever, but forever, this denied,

  I perish.”

  “Child,” my Father’s voice replied,

  “All things thy fancy hath desired of me

  Thou hast received. I have prepared for thee

  Within my house a spacious chamber, where

  Are delicate things to handle and to wear,

  And all these things are thine. Dost thou love song?

  My minstrels shall attend thee all day long.

  Or sigh for flowers? My fairest gardens stand

  Open as fields to thee on every hand.

  And all thy days this word shall hold the same:

  No pleasure shalt thou lack that thou shalt name.

  But as for tasks—” He smiled, and shook His head;

  “Thou hadst thy task, and laidst it by,” He said.

  God’s World

  O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!

  Thy winds, thy wide grey skies I

  Thy mists, that roll and rise!

  Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag

  And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag

  To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!

  World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

  Long have I known a glory in it all,

  But never knew I this:

  Here such a passion is

  As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear

  Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year;

  My soul is all but out of me,—let fall

  No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

  Afternoon on a Hill

  I will be the gladdest thing

  Under the sun!

  I will touch a hundred flowers

  And not pick one.

  I will look at cliffs and clouds

  With quiet eyes,

  Watch the wind bow down the grass,

  And the grass rise.

  And when lights begin to show

  Up from the town,

  I will mark which must be mine,

  And then start down!

  Sorrow

  Sorrow like a ceaseless rain

  Beats upon my heart.

  People twist and scream in pain,—

  Dawn will find them still again;

  This has neither wax nor wane,

  Neither stop nor start.

  People dress and go to town;

  I sit in my chair.

  All my thoughts are slow and brown:

  Standing up or sitting down

  Little matters, or what gown

  Or what shoes I wear.

  Tavern

  I’ll keep a little tavern

  Below the high hill’s crest,

  Wherein all grey-eyed people

  May sit them down and rest.

  There shall be plates a-plenty,

  And mugs to melt the chill

  Of all the grey-eyed people

  Who happen up the hill.

  There sound will sleep the traveller,

  And dream his journey’s end,

  But I will rouse at midnight

  The falling fire to tend.

  Aye, ’tis a curious fancy—

  But all the good I know

  Was taught me out of two grey eyes

  A long time ago.

  Ashes of Life

  Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;

  Eat I must, and sleep I will,—and would that night were here!

  But ah!—to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!

  Would that it were day again!—with twilight near!

  Love has gone and left me and I don’t know what to do;

  This or that or what you will is all the same to me;

  But all the things that I begin I leave before I’m through,—

  There’s little use in anything as far as I can see.

  Love has gone and left me,—and the neighbours knock and borrow,

  And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,—

  And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

  There’s this little street and this little house.

  The Little Ghost

  I knew her for a little ghost

  That in my garden walked;

  The wall is high—higher than most—

  And the green gate was locked.

  And yet I did not
think of that

  Till after she was gone—

  I knew her by the broad white hat,

  All ruffled, she had on,

  By the dear ruffles round her feet,

  By her small hands that hung

  In their lace mitts, austere and sweet.

  Her gown’s white folds among.

  I watched to see if she would stay,

  What she would do—and oh!

  She looked as if she liked the way

  I let my garden grow!

  She bent above my favourite mint

  With conscious garden grace,

  She smiled and smiled—there was no hint

  Of sadness in her face.

  She held her gown on either side

  To let her slippers show,

  And up the walk she went with pride,

  The way great ladies go.

  And where the wall is built in new,

  And is of ivy bare,

  She paused—then opened and passed through

  A gate that once was there.

  Kin to Sorrow

  Am I kin to Sorrow,

  That so of t

  Falls the knocker of my door—

  Neither loud nor soft,

  But as long accustomed—

  Under Sorrow’s hand?

  Marigolds around the step

  And rosemary stand,

  And then comes Sorrow—

  And what does Sorrow care

  For the rosemary

  Or the marigolds there?

  Am I kin to Sorrow?

  Are we kin?

  That so of t upon my door—

  Oh, come in!

  Three Songs of Shattering

  I

  The first rose on my rose-tree

  Budded, bloomed, and shattered,

  During sad days when to me

  Nothing mattered.

  Grief of grief has drained me clean;

  Still it seems a pity

  No one saw,—it must have been

  Very pretty.

  II

  Let the little birds sing;

  Let the little lambs play;

  Spring is here; and so ’tis spring;—

  But not in the old way!

  I recall a place

  Where a plum-tree grew;

  There you lifted up your face,

  And blossoms covered you.

  If the little birds sing,

  And the little lambs play,

  Spring is here; and so ’tis spring—

  But not in the old way!

  III

  All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!

  Ere spring was going—ah, spring is gone!

  And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,—

  Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

  All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,

  Browned at the edges, turned in a day;

  And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,

  And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!

  The Shroud

  Death, I say, my heart is bowed

  Unto thine,— O mother!

  This red gown will make a shroud

  Good as any other!

  (I, that would not wait to wear

  My own bridal things,

  In a dress dark as my hair

  Made my answerings.

  I, to-night, that till he came

  Could not, could not wait,

  In a gown as bright as flame

  Held for them the gate.)

  Death, I say, my heart is bowed

  Unto thine,— O mother!

  This red gown will make a shroud

  Good as any other!

  The Dream

  Love, if I weep it will not matter,

  And if you laugh I shall not care;

  Foolish am I to think about it,

  But it is good to feel you there.

  Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking,—

  White and awful the moonlight reached

  Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere

  There was a shutter loose,—it screeched!—

  Swung in the wind!—and no wind blowing!—

  I was afraid, and turned to you,

  Put out my hand to you for comfort,—

  And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew,

  Under my hand the moonlight lay!

  Love, if you laugh I shall not care,

  But if I weep it will not matter,—

  Ah, it is good to feel you there!

  Indifference

  I said,—for Love was laggard, oh, Love was slow to come,—

  “I’ll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in bed;

  But I’ll never leave my pillow, though there be some

  As would let him in—and take him in with tears!” I said.

  I lay,—for Love was laggard, oh, he came not until dawn,—

  I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep;

  And he found me at my window with my big cloak on,

  All sorry with the tears some folks might weep!

  Witch-Wife

  She is neither pink nor pale,

  And she never will be all mine;

  She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,

  And her mouth on a valentine.

  She has more hair than she needs;

  In the sun ’tis a woe to me

  And her voice is a string of coloured beads,

  Or steps leading into the sea.

  She loves me all that she can,

  And her ways to my ways resign;

  But she was not made for any man,

  And she never will be all mine.

  Blight

  Hard seeds of hate I planted

  That should by now be grown,—

  Rough stalks, and from thick stamens

  A poisonous pollen blown,

  And odours rank, unbreathable,

  From dark corollas thrown!

  At dawn from my damp garden

  I shook the chilly dew;

  The thin boughs locked behind me

  That sprang to let me through;

  The blossoms slept,—I sought a place

  Where nothing lovely grew.

  And there, when day was breaking,

  I knelt and looked around:

  The light was near, the silence .

  Was palpitant with sound;

  I drew my hate from out my breast

  And thrust it in the ground.

  Oh, ye so fiercely tended,

  Ye little seeds of hate!

  I bent above your growing

  Early and noon and late,

  Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,—

  I cannot rear ye straight!

  The sun seeks out my garden,

  No nook is left in shade,

  No mist nor mold nor mildew

  Endures on any blade,

  Sweet rain slants under every bough:

  Ye falter, and ye fade.

  When the Year Grows Old

  I cannot but remember

  When the year grows old—

  October— November—

  How she disliked the cold!

  She used to watch the swallows

  Go down across the sky,

  And turn from the window

  With a little sharp sigh.

  And often when the brown leaves

  Were brittle on the ground,

  And the wind in the chimney

  Made a melancholy sound,

  She had a look about her

  That I wish I could forget—

  The look of a scared thing

  Sitting in a net!

  Oh, beautiful at nightfall

  The soft spitting snow!

  And beautiful the bare boughs

  Rubbing to and fro!

  But the roaring of the fire,

  And the warmth of fur,

  And the boiling of th
e kettle

  Were beautiful to her!

  I cannot but remember

  When the year grows old—

  October—November—

  How she disliked the cold!

  From Second April

  Spring

  To what purpose, April, do you return again?

  Beauty is not enough.

  You can no longer quiet me with the redness

  Of little leaves opening stickily.

  I know what I know.

  The sun is hot on my neck as I observe

  The spikes of the crocus.

  The smell of the earth is good.

  It is apparent that there is no death.

  But what does that signify?

  Not only under ground are the brains of men

  Eaten by maggots.

  Life in itself

  Is nothing,

  An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

  It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

  April

  Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

  City Trees

  The trees along this city street,

  Save for the traffic and the trains,

  Would make a sound as thin and sweet

  As trees in country lanes.

  And people standing in their shade

  Out of a shower, undoubtedly

  Would hear such music as is made

  Upon a country tree.

  Oh, little leaves that are so dumb

  Against the shrieking city air,

  I watch you when the wind has come,—

  I know what sound is there.

  The Blue-Flag in the Bog

  God had called us, and we came;

  Our loved Earth to ashes left;

  Heaven was a neighbour’s house,

  Open flung to us, bereft.

  Gay the lights of Heaven showed,

  And ’twas God who walked ahead;

  Yet I wept along the road,

  Wanting my own house instead.

  Wept unseen, unheeded cried,

  “All you things my eyes have kissed,

  Fare you well! We meet no more,

  Lovely, lovely tattered mist!

  Weary wings that rise and fall

  All day long above the fire!”

  (Red with heat was every wall,

  Rough with heat was every wire)

  “Fare you well, you little winds

  That the flying embers chase!

  Fare you well, you shuddering day,

  With your hands before your face!