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Title: Dream-Songs for the Belovèd
Author: Farjeon, Eleanor
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Dream-Songs for the Belovèd" ***

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                     The Orpheus Series      No. 5

                            FOR THE BELOVÈD

                            ELEANOR FARJEON
                       (Author of "Pan-Worship")

                           The Orpheus Press
                 3, Amen Corner, Paternoster Row, E.C.
                             SPRING, 1911

  _By the same Author_

  PAN-WORSHIP (_a book of verses_), _published by
  Elkin Mathews_, 1908.

  _2s. 6d. net._



  TO MY MOTHER                        5

  Dream-Songs for the Belovèd         7

  In Love's House                    13

  Double Beauty                      16

  440 B.C.                           17

  Fogbound                           21

  The Dance-Ring                     23

  The Happy Shepherd                 26

  Poplars at Night                   27

  Sonnet                             28

  Wild Hyacinth                      29

  Never-Known                        32

  Revolt                             33

  Silence                            35

  My Knowledge Is--                  36

  The Last Week in September
    Child's Vision                   38
    Man's Vision                     41

  New Light                          44

  Dedication                         45

  Morning-Vision                     47

  Underworld                         48

  A Song                             49

  Earth and the World                50

  The Maid's Idyll                   53

  Wêland and the Swan-Girls          62



      Unuttered songs fly round my thoughts like birds,
      And aerially, above an earth of words,
        Imagined music on my spirit showers
        From azure-feathered throat and golden tongue.

      Most dear, of the many songs I cannot sing
      Yours is the bird of heavenliest wing
        Whose sunward flight beyond my following towers
        And leaves me with an impotent harp unstrung.

      And yet the shadow of my song for you
      Falls on my heart forever as a dew,
        Or the dim-breathing soul of evening flowers
        That love the delicate light of stars still young.

      These lesser songs that all who listen may hear
      Shall we call yours for a day, most dear, most dear?--
        Knowing there is one other, only ours,
        For ever singing, and for ever unsung.




      They said it was a lone land, a land of many sorrows,
        Grey weeping waters and a strip of golden sand,
      Loss and desolation and the washing out of footsteps
        That dare to treat the narrow golden peril of the sand.

      They said it was a fire-land, a land of flaming passions,
        The sun like a molten rose in burning sapphire skies,
      And never sound nor stir save of hearts that beat their way there
        Like southron birds whose wings seek the blue of burning skies.

      But I have found a still land of neither pain nor passion,
        No loss because no giving there, no gain since no desire,
      And the great silent light of the Belovèd's spirit brooding
        With the soul of all time there, made empty of desire.


      Even as between the silence of the sea
      And rounded silver miracle of the moon
      A little dew is drawn upon the night
        To dwell there like the image of a cloud:

      So from the silence of the darkest hour
      The light that is a miracle in my soul
      Distils the presence of the Well-Belov'd
        And I possess the image in him of God.


        I seem to walk as a shadow in Love's shadow,
        I seem to have always known what love might be
      And beyond knowledge passed to the great tranquillity.

        I seem to have gained the light without the longing,
        For lo! even as the smoking rose-torch came
      Within my hands, red flame turned smokeless silver flame.

        Now in my dreams I tread an asphodel meadow
        Where move the lovers out of the dreamful past.
      "Dead lovers, how is it with you?"

                              "It is well at last,
        Sister," reply their eyes about me thronging,
        And all the phantoms of that immortal flight
      Carry their torches still, and all the flames are white.


      Often, so often, you walk in the cool dim thoughts of me,
        Though you may never know how often and where,
      And a dream like a little lantern unknowing have given to me--
        Between my two hands as I sit I hold it there
      And never will let it again go out of the hands of me.

      For it may be that once you will let me wander the thoughts of you
        By a chance, for a moment, and then you will see me bear
      The fast-held lantern-light of the dream that was given by you
        Since I never will let it go ... will you know? will you care
      That the light I bear in my hands came out of the hands of you?


      If by the Messengers of Sleep
        I should be told that you had died
      I do not think that I would weep.--
        For you it only were to glide
      Out of the shallows into the deep;

      For me--how could such tidings shake
        The thin clear crystal of my dream,
      Mine past the breath of the earth to break?

          Till some bright breath from the Supreme
      Keen-singing shatters it awake,
      Whether you linger here or there
          Still in the groves of trance I lean,
      While on the hushed and heavenly air
          The moon of your spirit floats serene
      And makes my twilight softly fair.

        For from the shallows or the deep
          Beyond the ports of tranquil death
        I know some word of you will creep
          Nightly on the mysterious breath
        Of the white Messengers of Sleep.


      Love the God at last has unclouded his eyes....

      "Newcomer, what are these things that you bear unto me?"
      "Songs, the flower and fruit of my wondering heart,
      All the creating I have to offer to you."

      "Nothing may be created of you in my house,
      Drift your little singing away on the wind.
      You cannot hang me about with a music of sighs,
      You cannot deck me with roseal vapours of song,
      Shape sweet words in a garland to circle my brows
      Or make a jewel of speech to be worn in my bosom.

      "Out of soft rain of tears and glamour of joy
      Iris-arcs though you weave for your heart's-delight,
      Bring me no luminous dream of the saffron and gold,
      Bring me no dews of the emerald flame of the grass,
      Bring me no vanishing fires of the poppy and rose,
      No melting mirage of heavenly hyacinth light,
      For I take nothing of colour of those who are mine.

      "I it is colour my chosen ones, never they me,
      I am not theirs to possess, they are mine, they are mine.
      Did you believe I was given to you as a gift,
      Something to treasure and care for and handle and clothe?
      Lo! it is you are my gift to be treasured and clothed,
      Fashion no garments for me, mine has fallen on you.

      "How should men colour me? sing me? array me in light?
      How should they think me, conceive me, endow me with form?
      Mine is the thought, the conception none other's than mine,
      You and the children of men are the birth I bring forth,
      Not within you do I enter, you enter in me.

      "All is expressed for you finally here in my heart.
      Struggle no more to express me. My silences sing."


      Love of the light compels the lark to sing
        And brims his tiny body with a spark;
      The nightingale draws music from a spring
        Out of the bosom of the belovèd dark;
      But on man's twofold nature God has breathed
        The double soul of beauty like a spell,
      And dark in light or light in darkness sheathed
        His spirit still must sing the miracle.

440 B.C.

(_Friday, September 24th, 1909_)

      More than my sons that day my fathers were mighty within me!
      Walking the Past alone nothing I found there unknown.

      Time like a whirlwind blew where I stood by the Tree of the Ages:
      Boughs that in years did abound scattered their burthen aground,

      Till in immense liberation divinely austere and familiar,
      Naked of over-ripe fruit, knew I the Stem and the Root.

      Under the hand of the Sculptor, the carver of visible music,
      Felt I an infinite Truth, saw I immutable Youth.

      Out of the marble a sparkle of motion and delicate gesture
      Even as a rose unsheathed blossom-like started and breathed:

      Even as animate light, a tremulous prism, made captive
      Once in an æon whose spark leaps to us out of the dark.

      Swift on a wonderful rapture upswung, the eternal procession
      Joined I by some great right sharing the ages' delight.

      Deathless singing there sounded and there moved life unarrested,
      I was the body and soul, I was the part and the whole.

      I was that boy's fine strength restraining his quivering charger,
      Ay, and the nostril's fire quickened by curbèd desire.

      I was this rhythmic strain of melodic, ineffable beauty
      Maidenly garments reveal singing from shoulder to heel.

      Well I remember how once when my sandal-latchet was loosened,
      While the procession delayed, stooping the knot I re-made.

      Greater and less was I than the flower divinely unconscious,
      Golden Youth flowing by scarce asking Whither and Why:

      I was both seed and fruit of it: I was the beast sacrificial,
      Garlanded ignorance led forth to be glorious dead:

      Also the elders within whose bosoms the torchlight of duty
      Mellowed by Service and Time burned in aloofness sublime:

      More than these things! the thing they aspired to, the ultimate
      Like a half-realised dream lifting to clasp the Supreme,

      Crown and star of this Life-Stream endlessly singing and dancing
      Till it attain the Most High, Knowledge and Wisdom was I!

      Pheidias! under thy hand the unquenchable spark that Myself is,
      Man and his Father and Son, all indissolubly one,

      After great labour of years at last grew a visible wonder
      Where men a-gaze at the shrine finally know them divine.

      Ay! though To-morrow become the Wind in the Tree of the Ages,
      Dust of my body to spread wide with the dust of the dead,

      In thy golden procession eternally singing and dancing,
      Let what may be the rest, stand I for ever expressed.


      Out of the fog-banks dank and yellow,
        As I groped like a soul alone,
      The shadow lurched of a drunken fellow,
        Blasphemous, ragged, and then was gone.

      Swift the shape of a stranger-woman--
        Soft-shod maidenhood? draggled quean?
      Only I know it was something human--
        Passed, and was as it had not been.

      Claspèd lovers with footfall muffled
        Faded by ere I caught their bloom,
      Whimpering urchins unmothered shuffled
        Up from the desolate murky womb.

      Shadows on shadows the lone way haunted
        Where one shadow the more, I stole,
      Each with a soul I must take for granted--
        But how to be aware of the soul?

      Just the shapes of my fellow-creatures,
        Dim and fitful as ghosts at dawn,
      Lacking the life-pulse, void of features,
        Self-encompassed, adrift, withdrawn.

      Sisters! brothers! remote procession!
        I would love and be loved of you,
      Give myself for your whole possession,
        Take yourselves as my human due:--

      But my steps were as yours made noiseless
        That none may know how we go and come:--
      But you were all created voiceless
        Even as I was fashioned dumb.

      Each in his fogbound isolation
        Who shall know how the other yearns?
      Till some flash of a new Creation
        Through this smoke with a clear flame burns,

      And the world is man's for resistless brotherhood
        Of hands grown warm and of shining brows,
      And the world is woman's for mighty motherhood,
        And life is lived in a common house.


      It was the middle of the spring
      I saw three girls dance in a ring.

      One was golden as the day,
      Around her neck bright tresses lay.

      One as hazel-nuts was brown
      And to her feet her hair fell down.

      One was black as midnight sky,
      Her locks were like a crown piled high.

      "Sweetings, shall I with ye fling?
      It is the middle of the spring."

      I heard the three together sing:
      "No man shall break our dancing-ring."

      "Sweetings, that ye cannot tell--
      Unkind sweetings, fare ye well."

      Then each a mocking kiss did blow:
      "Give us presents ere you go."

      "You that the morning-glow outvie
      For all my gift shall take a sigh.

      To you that like the ebbing year
      In russet go I give a tear.

      With you that seem of night to weave
      Your grace a broken heart I leave."

      Then as from them I turned my feet
      I listened how they laughèd sweet:

      And "Fare you well," their laughter ran,
      "Broken-hearted gentleman."

      But shoulder-over I did call:
      "Dance on, ye scornful sweetings all.

      "When I am lost in shadows grey
      My gifts ye shall not fling away.

      "While still the spring beneath your feet
      Flows green your ring shall stand complete.

      "But when the year begins to turn
      My gifts to use ye well shall learn.

      "And one shall sigh and one shall weep
      And one shall crave eternal sleep."

      _It was the middle of the spring
      I saw three girls dance in a ring._

      _One was a yellow rose new-blown,
      One as hazel-nuts was brown,
      One she wore a midnight crown._

      (My heart is still a-hungering.)


(Old Love-Lilt)

      Hither when I see to stray
              Her pink dress
        With her flock round it prest
      As she were a rose in snow:
        Then my heart within my breast
      Like a lamb to and fro
      On a hill of green doth play
              For happiness.

      Meward when I hear her sing
              And impress
        All sweet airs that do flow
      Round her head with airs more sweet:
        Little songs my heart doth blow,
      Gay and glad, half-complete,
      Like the snatches piped by spring
              For happiness.


      There are no trees so eloquent with wind
      As poplars in the moon-mist of the dusk
      When like a spirit that has slipt the husk
      Among their heavenly crests its breath is thinned.

      Their talk is of such high strange mysteries
      They must commune in whispers lest weak men
      Ere they are ripe for knowledge snatch again
      The secret God has given to the trees.


      About the house go terrible winds in flight,
      Out of the hiss and wash of sleepless seas
      Half-drowning voices scream wild messages
      Into the hungry belly of the night,
      And icy-breasted clouds conceal the white
      Souls of the stars, and in their bosoms freeze
      The citadel of the moon, to whom gaunt trees
      Stretch desperate arms that seem to pray for light.

      Even so in me the elemental war
      Strives fiercely to obliterate the heights,
      And while the faint flesh staggers up the steeps
      The naked spirit cries upon its star
      That somewhere dwells among the eternal lights
      Beyond this dreadful battle of the deeps.


      Delicate tangle of beauty that flows from the bowl of the
                May-green wood
      Leading the lingering heart out of love in a transport to tremulous
      When the West wind runs a luminous wave through your bells and your
                sensitive spears
          It is earth I behold a light with a heavenly mood:
      Blue fires, blue floods, that shimmer and swim in a haze in the
                heart of the wood.

      I have seen innocent beauty that made my spirit to laugh aloud
      As joy danced over my soul like light that travels a fine-rippled
      I have seen awfullest beauty that struck into dumbness the senses
                of me
          As under its folded wings my spirit lay bowed;
      But you seal no terrible silence, nor chime the laughter that
                echoes aloud.

      Wonder and worship and gladness and tenderest grief are for you who
      Out of the earth like a lost blue cloud from the azure spheres of
      Where our bodiless souls are the clustering stars that whirl and
                revolve and leap
          Round the orb of a nameless light in an endless stream.
      Oh beauty! the colour of vision is yours and you spring from the
                seeds of dream.

      And heaven I know is expressed in you because you were loved of a
      You are nourished by tears of celestial dew because from his hand
                flew death,
      And your quivering singing loveliness was born of his quivering
          That sighed its twilight of sorrows into the sod:
      For the heart of the lover you wreathed of old was the heart of
                the Singing God.

      Distantly out of the Era of Gold that dims the glass of to-day
      You shine in the shape of the beautiful boy the Great Ones adored
                and destroyed:
      The wind in a passion of longing arose from his jealous unsatisfied
          And the sun came down in a passion of worship to play--
      And the soul of the form their passions made dust is the flower of
                the world to-day.

      Oh measureless beauty conceived of the sorrow and love of the Lord
                of Light!
      Oh swift brief beauty that died before your Spring accomplished its
      Divinest death for you, the divinely-beloved, was it less than
          Oh, rather than die by my enemy's hand in the night,
      I would die by the hand of my lover-God at play in a splendour of


      O Never-Known, it may be Never-to-Know,
      You are the murmur of colour in the East
      When upon twilit clouds faint ghosts of sunset
      Sigh from the Western rose-gardens.

      Or the thin rippled tune
      Of imperceptible Æolian harps
      Swept by a wind out of the misty sphere
      Just higher than the summit of the soul--
      Music half-heard, song uncontainable.

      Or you are violets whispering in the dark.

      You are unshapen in the eyes of me,
      But in my breast I carry all the breath
      And sound and colour of you, Never-Known,
      It may be Never-to-Know.


      I will go riding, riding! away from the cities of men!
        Into the heart of freedom I will hurl myself with the free!
      I will race on the sun-swept mountains, I will dive through the
                rock-hewn glen,
        I will cleave between hills billowing green like the surge of
                the sea!
      (_Never shalt thou go riding! but live as man says man must,
        Or if thou flee to the open thou shalt find thy spirit to fail,
      And shrink as thou treadest the levels where the path has been
                beaten in dust
        From the glory that thrills the heaven-high hills, and the dark
                of the vale._)

      I will go sailing, sailing! on waters that leave no track,
        I will follow the path of the sunglow to the ultimate line of
      I will plunge where the ocean-giants upcurl their hollows of black,
        I will take the way of the wind-blown spray in the dread of the
      (_Never shalt thou go sailing! but still in the cities of men
        Thou shalt spin thy thread of existence in a pattern not thine
      Or lost on the desolate waters thy heart shall sicken again,
        For what man bears his burden who dares be adrift and alone?_)

      I will go flying, flying! and scale the steeps of the air
        To play with lightning and gather a cloud from the molten noon,
      I will find the source of the streams of the sun to lave my feet
                and my hair,
        And stoop to drink at the brimming brink of the wells of the
      (_Never shalt thou go flying! but stay in thy agelong bond
        And stifle the starting pinions that scorn the way of the feet,
      Or if thy wild young folly still dreams to compass what lies beyond
        When thou clasp a cloud thou shalt find it thy shroud and thy


      Words and the body always have been much pain to me,
        Little fetters and drags on immensities
        Never to be defined. I am done with these.
      Meanings of silence suddenly all grow plain to me.

      Something still may sing like a joyous flute in me
        Out of the life that dares to be voiced aloud,
        But speech no more shall swathe like a burial-shroud
      Things unencompassable now eloquent-mute in me.


      My knowledge is, that I am one
      That never will behold the sun,
      But only on his image look
      As a veiled thing that scarcely stirs
      Under the silent pool-waters,
      Or tossed beneath a restless brook,
      Blurred light from blinding glory spun.

      That I shall never feel the sweep
      Of pinions from my shoulders leap,
      Golden and beautiful and strong
      To whirl me higher than heaven and all
      Its stars, till there is nothing else
      But a great glitter of air, and song
      Out of the mouths of a wheeling throng
      Which has found, and chants like a triumph-call,
      The Miracle of miracles.

      Only, a little dead-gold feather
      Came drooping once through the misty weather
      Into my hands, all frayed and fine;
      And underneath my breast as it clings
      Whenever I feel it feebly stirred
      My soul imagines a blaze of wings,
      They are of neither angel nor bird,
      That at the sun's bright passionate springs
      Beat up a splendour constantly
      And make wherever they flash and fly
      A fiery wind in the over-ether.

      Mirage and shadows, these are mine.



      I saw a man, an old, _old_ man,
        The oldest man I ever did see--
      Well! I am very nearly five,
        And he was _twice_ as old as me.

      His eyes were much too old for sight,
        His ears were much too old to hear,
      His beard it was all tangled and white,
        His old hands shook with a sort of fear.

      He had a kind of twiggy broom
        As though he had a room to mind,
      Yet he was not in any room
        But all among the blowy wind.

      I saw him stoop to gather things--
        He had not very far to stoop--
      Leaves that had scattered like the wings
        Of dead moths flying in a troop,

      And little broken sticks beside
        Where flowers and berries used to hang--
      I wonder where the music died
        Of all the birds that in them sang?--

      There were some feathers on the ground,
        And silky dried-up curls of flow'rs,
      And he went stooping round and round
        And gathering these things for hours.

      I stood and watched and asked him why,
        But still he groped about the mold
      And never made the least reply
        Because his ears were much too old.

      He got his broom and swept and swept
        A pile as round as any cup--
      If I'd been _littler_ I'd have wept
        To see him sweeping summer up.

      But I just stood and watched him there,
        And presently he didn't sweep,
      When there was nothing anywhere
        But summer lying in a heap.

      And then the old man found a light
        And stooped above the darling mound,
      And little dancing flames grew bright ...
        He burned up summer on the ground!

      But oh! there was the sweetest smell--
        And yet the smell was sorry too--
      Much sweeter than I ever could tell,
        Of all the things I ever knew.

      You could smell _every_ kind of tree
        And _every_ kind of flower there is,
      And wet weeds rather like the sea--
        And something else as well as this.

      It was--I don't know what it was!--
        The sweetest, sorriest smell of all.
      It crept in smoke-rings over the grass,
        And hung, and would not rise or fall.

      I think the old man must have known
        What smell it was, but would not say.
      He shuffled slowly off alone
        When summer all was burned away.

      One day when I'm a very old man
        Perhaps I'll be as wise as he ...
      But I am not quite five, you know,
        And he was _twice_ as old as me.


      It was the longest August
      And the weariest September
      That ever I remember,
      That ever I remember!

      All the tedious summer
      I toiled among the city
      Where nothing fresh and sweet was
      Or cool or kind or pretty.

      Empty all the streets were,
      Every house was lonely,
      Nothing human moved there
      Saving me, me only.

      I saw little white things,
      Things with dreadful faces--
      No, they were not children
      In the empty places.

      Haggard, haggard tired things
      Crossed my gaze and froze it--
      Men and women never
      Looked so, and God knows it.

      Somewhere, men and women--
      All the children, somewhere!
      If I asked the heavens
      The heavens only dumb were.

      Oh, the city pave-stones,
      Common, hard and dusty,
      Like ignoble grave-stones
      Of high hopes gone rusty.

      Oh, the arid, breathless
      Days devoid of rumour.
      Oh, the tedious, deathless,
      Hateful, humdrum summer ...

      I walked out with a leaden brain
      And a heart half-wild--
      And suddenly I saw
      A Child.

      She had brown hands and brown bare knees
      And a glorious golden skin
      And eyes overlaid with sun on the sea
      And laughter's heart within.

      She stamped along the pavement
      With hard and happy feet,
      I was not done with gazing
      Till she out-raced the street.

      A Child! One Child! But next day,
      Oh, next day there were _two_!
      And half-a-score to follow,
      And so the legion grew.

      Children! Children! Children!
      Come straight from where God is,
      All the ocean's rhythm
      Rocking in their bodies,

      All the sea-scent, field-scent
      Blowing from their tresses,
      In their glad free glances
      All that Earth expresses,

      Sun-kissed, wind-kissed,
      Rain-kissed bands,
      Sand-yellow, sturdy legs,
      Flower-dabbled hands,

      Eyes so shining, such loud voices,
      Such hard, happy feet!
      Holiday-homing children
      Flowing through the street.

      Laughter's heart beat in
      The last week of September--
      The sweetest I remember!
      The sweetest I remember!


      What light was in me once unguarded was
        And any wind could blow it any way,
      A flame in tatters, with all moods for laws,
        Wildest at midnight, pallidest by day.

      A fire too tossed for comfort to the cold,
        A gleam too blurred for guidance to the dark,
      Shifting caprice of red and blue and gold
        Flickering wanly from the troubled spark;

      And other times a curl of azure smoke,
        Like the last puff of incense that is seen
      To vanish from the brazier, rose to cloak
        The light until I feared it never had been.

      But now the crystal-clear white globe of peace
        Has closed my spirit in, that it may burn
      Steadily to the stars, and henceforth cease
        The wandering way of any wind to turn.


      My body having encountered with a soul,
      Be it my body's care to cherish whole
      The thing it holds in trust, nor once deny
      Ears to receive its faintest ghostly cry,
      Nor count the large advantage of the hour
      Aught in the scale beside the tiniest flower
      Breathed of the spirit, nor make dim its eyes
      To simple truths with things the world names wise.
      Knowing too well my body's great unworth
      Such essence to contain and clothe with earth,
      I dare not be unworthier than I must
      Lest this my soul be clogged with this my dust,
      And that wherefor I owe most gratitude
      Shall in the end the caging clay elude,
      More soiled and more despoiled, more dragged and sad
      Than was the thing from God my body had.
      Even as flame consumes its husk of coal
      The self must be consumèd by the soul
      Till liberate from ash it leaps again,
      Light seeking light, beyond the vision of men,
      All that is counted I being cast adrift
      Before the universe in me can lift
      Up to its level of divinity:
      Since therefore it has once befallen me
      Wondrously for a little space to be
      The vessel to whose charge the highest is given,
      Pure as I may I'll render it to heaven.


      A sea that shimmers on the brink of light,
      Emerging over shadow-boundaries
      Silverly on a sleeping silver shore:
      Phantom-land still, still silent mystery,
      Strewn with wan visions of the fading moon,
      Whereon the wave that wakens barely breathes.

      Which gathering soon its sweet surrendering dreams
      Offers them to the yet invisible fire
      That sends its fore-glow from below the rim,
      Till they aspire in little golden vapours
      And flicker to the pure and passionless skies,
      The colour of pale melted sapphires--so
      These driftings of the ocean's moon-trance mount,
      And through the morning, briefly luminous,
      Waver, and cease, above a brightening tide.

      Then lo! the swift shrill flight of sudden gulls,
      Up-circling whiteness sprayed against the blue,
      The sweep of silver breasts and wheeling wings
      That flash across the newly-risen sun
      And cleaving through the dazzle of the day
      Vanish like light dissolved in greater light
      Or music drowned in heavenlier music.


      Here lie I in the underworld of trees,
        Over my head I have a wave of leaves
      Through whose loose shimmering weave of mysteries
        The rays of heaven come in yellow sheaves

      Till every leaf is like an amber lamp
        Lit at the very source of golden light;
      The netted green has drawn the sun's own stamp
        And myriad tiny suns are in my sight,

      While such a radiant harmony, on wings
        I hear but see not, seems my world to throng
      I could believe the only voice that sings
        Is of the leafage sparkling into song.

      To-day within my soul I may contain
        As much melodic light as one fine leaf
      Receives from heaven and gives out again
        Into an underworld grown dim with grief.


      It means so little to you
      To sing a note as you pass,
      To smile your thanks to the day
      For donning its cloudless blue
      And then to go your way,
      And leave behind in the grass
      The print of your little shoe
      Or a petal dropt from your rose
      And your touch on the vine that grows
      Over my cottage door:
      It is nothing at all to you.

      But to me, it is alms to the poor,
      And the light of day to the blind,
      And hope to the desolate;
      Though you never have once glanced through
      The window where, half-defined,
      Half-hidden, I watch and wait--
      For it means so little to you.


      Skies that smile and slumber overspread with peace,
      Quiet shores divinely hushed by kissing seas,
      Corn-meads like the Mother's breast swelling and at ease,
      All these hold me, fold me, that was not born of these.

            _I was born of the city's din
            Where the World winds out and in
            The endless ways man's hands do spin,
            And men and women strive and sin
            To win--I know not what to win._

      Silver feet of twilight stepping from the East,
      Golden wings of morning pointing to the South,
      Globëd noon that half a-swoon
      Discontains its ecstasy, spills its ineffable feast,
      And flings about the shining air invisibly a wreath,
      Scent of pine and flower and brine
      Sweet and sweeter than the breath
      Of the Belovèd's mouth.

            _O but O the city's mood
            Restlessly divides my blood
            Until the greater half doth crave
            All at once to plunge and lave
            Underneath the murky wave
            And commingle with the flood:
            And my brow desires the crown
            Of the chimney-smoke-wreaths brown,
            And my foot upon the pave
            Aches to tramp it up and down
            To the discord of the town._

      Sunk in this large retirement where God's presence flows
      And I can add no drop to His seas, no speck to His skies,
      I might yield myself to His shadow for ever on my eyes
      And the vision of Him for ever at peace in my peaceful soul,
      Till one still-breathing dusk when the West was a golden rose
      I might float out on the tides and over the Brim
      To Him:--
      And consummate the whole.

            _O but to touch the Brim
            And never have sought to swim!_

      Out here God says all, does all. But there in the city's hum
      Units, whereof I am, have their thing to do and say.
      My individual note I would sing ere I go the Way.
      Finite was I created. The Infinite strikes me dumb.

      O changeless earth! O changeful world! I will arise!
      Here stands the immutable Is. Yonder the Might Be lies.
      What Is I cannot achieve, what Might Be perhaps I can
      If but to my finite powers the Infinite give the nod:
      All's possible here to God, all's possible there to Man,
      And I was born in the city, I am Man, I am not God.



      Night was warm and still,
        Moon a dusky red,
      Crickets chirped all up the hill,
        And I wished me dead.

      "For what use alive to be
        And never live?" I said,
      Lifting arms to let free
        The plaits about my head.

      "Have parents kind enow,
        Lack nor roof nor bread,
      Day goes I scarce know how
        Till day be sped,

      "Each drags by so like to each
        Weighted with lead,
      Always something needing speech
        In my soul unsaid,

      "Something in my soul unsung,
        Something unfed--
      _Must_ be eased while still I'm young
        And unwitherèd."

      Crickets chirruped strangely shrill,
        Smooth lay my bed,
      Moon was hot upon the hill,
        And I wished me dead.


      Over garden and garth and meadow
      Lo! I see a slipping shadow
        Swift as any swallow--
      Hist, strange shadow! I'll up and follow.

      Neither meadow nor garth nor garden
      Has in the sweet close nights its warden:
        Oh, yet now I doubt me!
      Eyes and whispers do seem about me.

      Yet though the stars high-strewn, a litter
      Of lights that shake for fear as they glitter,
        All be lamps of danger--
      I will speak with you, shadow-stranger!


      Brown boy, brown boy,
        What do you here
      In the orchard all in rags
        At midnight very near?
      _Brown boy, I never saw
        Eyes so clear._

      Brown boy, brown boy,
        Bare are your feet--
      Say I fetched the watch-dog out
        Could they run fleet?
      _Brown boy, I never heard
        Voice so sweet._

      Brown boy, brown boy,
        Where's your alarm?
      Say I fetched my mother out
        Sure you'd come to harm!
      _Brown boy, I never felt
        Hands so warm._

      Brown boy, brown boy,
        Stealing's very wrong!
      If I fetched my father out
        Your skin weren't worth a song.
      _Brown boy, I never knew
        Hearts beat so strong._


      He said, three apples I came to steal,
      Red and russet and golden peel,
      For I've walked the day and never a meal.

      Give me, he said, your russet hair
      Once for my lips, and it's little I care
      Though your apples rot as they ripen there.

      Twice to save me, he said, from sin,
      Give me your beautiful golden skin
      That I may kiss it from forehead to chin.

      Nay, and lest hunger still gnaw, he said,
      Give me, belovèd, your mouth's dear red:
      Though I starve in the dawn I will still be fed.


      What's the road you travel
      "Sand, chalk, and gravel,
      Green grass and paving-stone,
      Always alone.

      "Hard and easy faring,
      Freedom unsparing,
      Where ant has crept or bird flown
      To me is known.

      "The sun's way, the rain's way,
      Joy's way and pain's way,
      As many ways as wind has blown
      All are my own."

      [Symbol: star]

      Love, the future why weigh?
      Your way is my way,
      Neither grass nor city stone
      Walk more alone.

      Will not bitter faring
      Better by sharing?
      Every pain you've ever known
      I'll make my own,

      Beside you free of care foot,
      Hungry and barefoot,
      Glad, gay, great-hearted grown,
      And never alone!


      I know not whether I would laugh or weep,
      Whether great sorrow or great gladness fill me,
      Only that life has suddenly grown deep,
      And from their dim and dreamful caverns springing
      The golden-eyed imaginings of sleep
      Like glorious birds given full freedom sweep
      The world about our heads with strange wild singing ...
      Though it do kill me,
      Boy, I will love you, only so you will me....


      Suppose no other night is like to this?
      Suppose the coming light
      Rives lance-like from the heart even of this night
      Its mysteries?

      You have put sudden bloom upon my soul,
      And you have made to lift
      My wingless spirit that did faintly drift
      And saw no goal:

      Have made me know the dazzle of a star
      Crowns all this common earth
      Which is a planet shooting light from birth
      As yonder are.

      These things, this bright new wisdom, could be given
      Only of you to me:
      The virtue's God's alone, who bade it be,
      To unmake heaven:

      So if you, sole destroyer, being sole giver,
      Go ere you try your pow'rs,
      All this may still be infinitely ours
      To guard for ever.


      Is morning in the sky?
      Is not the moon still high?

      A little wing of light
      Flutters against the night.

      You scarce have seen my face,
      Your own's a shadowed place,

      But your voice I still will know
      In a million years or so,

      Say Welcome to your breath
      In some abyss of death,

      Meet in the black eclipse
      Of unborn worlds your lips,

      Or know by its thrilling pain
      This pulse of your heart again.

      The moon is very low,
      Soon all this grey will glow--

      Go now, before the red,
      And do not turn your head.


      Three white swans flew in the sky
        (Are you heeding, Wêland-Smith?)
      Three white swans flew in the sky
      Till they did a blue lake spy,
      Then the three to earth did fly
      And they laid their plumage by.
        (Are you watchful, Wêland-Smith?)

      When they stood of plumage bare
        (What's your eye say, Wêland-Smith?)
      When they stood of plumage bare
      Three white maidens rose up there.
      Earthly maids have not such rare
      Rose-flushed limbs, such yellow hair,
      Earthly maids are not so fair--
        (What's your heart say, Wêland-Smith?)

      These three maidens did begin
        (What the ending, Wêland-Smith?)
      These three maidens did begin
      By the lakeside flax to spin,
      And a low-hummed song did win
      Thro' their threads all fine and thin,
      Stealing, flashing out and in.
        (Was it magic, Wêland-Smith?)

      When the golden flax was spun
        (Threads of fate for Wêland-Smith!)
      When the golden flax was spun:
      "Sisters," said the youngest one,
      "See the ripples of the sun
      Spinning where the waters run!
      Let's unravel them till none
      Rests to mock what we have done."
        (Tense with hope lay Wêland-Smith.)

      From the blue lake's flowery brim
        (Still your breathing, Wêland-Smith!)
      From the sweet lake's flowering brim
      These three maids did dive and swim.
      Oh, the flash of pearly limb
      Visioned through the waters dim!
        (Steal your moment, Wêland-Smith!)

      Said the youngest Valkyr-Maid
        (Did she hear you, Wêland-Smith?)
      Said the youngest Valkyr-Maid:
      "Sisters, I am grown afraid!
      Three men hide within the shade--
      Quick! before we be betrayed!"
        (Quicker yet was Wêland-Smith.)

      Three men stood upon the bank
        (Egil, Slagfinn, Wêland-Smith)
      Three men stood upon the bank,
      In their hands the plumage lank.
      "What prank's this?" the youngest drank
      Breath to ask that triple rank.
      Wêland said: "This is no prank."
        (Strong and grave was Wêland-Smith.)

      Egil lifted up his hand,
        (Not as yet stirred Wêland-Smith)
      Egil-Archer raised his hand,
      Slagfinn only looked command,
      And their maidens came to land,
      And the four passed down the strand.
        (Patient still was Wêland-Smith.)

      Then the youngest of the brood,
        (Ay, and fairest, Wêland-Smith!)
      Then the fairest of the brood
      Spoke to him from where she stood:
      "Brown young Smith, your eyes are good--
      Spare my immortal maidenhood."
      But the swan-girl's melting mood
      All the stronglier swayed and wooed
      Every impulse of his blood
      Till desire was at full flood--
        ('Ware of drowning, Wêland-Smith!)

      "What reck I of prayer and plea?"
        (So made answer Wêland-Smith.)
      "What reck I of prayer and plea?
      By this plumage held in fee,
      Swan-girl, you belong to me,
      Swan-girl, you shall follow me,
      Ay, and be true wife to me."
        (Warm of voice was Wêland-Smith.)

      "Render me my white swan-wings!"
        (Still she strove with Wêland-Smith.)
      "Render me my white swan-wings
      And I'll teach you cunning things
      From the craft-wise fount that springs
      Where iron Thor his hammer swings.
      Smith, when your red anvil sings,
      Fashioning you magic rings,
      Swords for hero-happenings,
      Crowns more meet for gods than kings--
      You'll not grudge my white swan-wings."
        (Plied she thuswise Wêland-Smith.)

      "What reck I of promises?"
        (So made answer Wêland-Smith.)
      "What reck I of promises?
      When I need such things as these
      You shall teach me, if I please,
      Wife of mine, upon your knees.
      Mine you are beyond release."
        (Firm of voice was Wêland-Smith.)

      "Back I take all promise and pray'r!"
        (Proudly faced she Wêland-Smith.)
      "Back I take all promise and pray'r!
      Hear, you worm of earth! that dare
      With base cunning seek to snare
      Me, a Valkyr of the air:
      Such as I are slow to spare
      Who our god-given rights impair--
      Render me my plumage fair
      Lest I blast you standing there!"
        (Fiercely faced she Wêland-Smith.)

      "What reck I of passion and pride?"
        (So made answer Wêland-Smith.)
      "What reck I of passion and pride?
      Witless woman-words fly wide.
      Woman, you are Wêland's bride,
      'Shall come meekly to his side,
      And he will not be denied."
        (Stern of voice was Wêland-Smith.)

      Thro' the lake the swan-girl white,
        (Ah, be gentle, Wêland-Smith!)
      Thro' the lake the swan-girl white
      Slipped, and came with footfall light
      Till beside him in full sight
      Stood she beautiful and bright,
      Saying with neither fear nor spite:
      "I am here for your delight."
        (So she greeted Wêland-Smith.)

      "Nay, but hear me ere we go,
        (As I love you, Wêland-Smith!)
      Nay, but hear me ere we go
      Hence to lay my godhead low
      Since my lord will have it so.
      Weigh the balance, lord, and know
      That if we twain wedded show
      All your streams of fate do flow
      Henceforth from the tides of woe--
        (Woe, O woe to Wêland-Smith!)

      "Full seven years you shall me hold,
        (Seven years' bliss for Wêland-Smith!)
      Full seven years you shall me hold.
      When the seventh year is told,
      Like a parchment read and scrolled--
      Ah, but, lord, inscribed in gold!--
      That we may no more unfold
        (Only think on, Wêland-Smith),

      "I shall know a strange unrest,
        (Dread the eighth year, Wêland-Smith!)
      I shall know a strange unrest,
      Be of old desires possessed,
      Passionate to ride the crest
      Of the storm, North, South, East, West--
      Ay, and by your strong arm pressed
      Win no sleep more on your breast.
        (Sound tho' _you_ sleep, Wêland-Smith.)

      "In the ninth year I shall hear,
        (Will you hear, too, Wêland-Smith?)
      In the ninth year I shall hear
      Iron Thor's thunder very near
      Like a summons in my ear--
      I shall leap for helm and spear
      And shall pass in the ninth year!
      Wêland! woe for Wêland! drear
      Stands his future all too clear,
      Yet I may not read it here.
      Cast me from you, lord, with fear!
        (I have warned you, Wêland-Smith.)"

      "What reck I of hurt and harm?"
        (Sweet of voice was Wêland-Smith.)
      "What reck I of hurt and harm?
      I hold you by a seven-years' charm,
      My bride and my belovèd, warm
      Within the hollow of my arm!"
        (_Go seven years happy, Wêland-Smith,
        But Fate shall not be striven with._)



This series of books is being produced in connection with _Orpheus_,
a quarterly magazine of mystical art. The magazine contains pictures,
poems, articles and stories. At present (April, 1911) fourteen
numbers have appeared, but the first three issues are out of print.
Subscription (post free), 4/8 per annum.


    I. THE HERO IN MAN: by A. E., with introduction by Clifford Bax.
    _Second edition_ (first edition, 1,000 copies, sold out in fourteen
    months). Printed on Dutch hand-made paper. 6_d._ net.

    II. SEAFOAM AND FIRELIGHT: a book of Celtic poems, by Dermot
    O'Byrne, with cover-design by A. Bowmar-Porter. 1/2 net (boards),
    8_d._ net (paper).

    III. TWENTY CHINESE POEMS, paraphrased by Clifford Bax, and
    accompanied by _four Illustrations in Colour_ by Arthur
    Bowmar-Porter. 2/6 net.

    IV. FROM GARDENS IN THE WILDERNESS: a book of prose and verse, by
    Gwendolen Bishop. 2/6 net (boards), 5/- net (in Persian leather).

    V. DREAM-SONGS FOR THE BELOVÈD: by Eleanor Farjeon (author of
    _Pan-Worship_). 2/6 net.

    VI. SOLAR SYMBOLS AND THEIR MEANING: by Avola. 6_d._ net.

    VII. THE RENEWAL OF YOUTH: by A. E. 6_d._ net.

_In Preparation._

    VIII. GREEN-MAGIC AND THE SISTERS: by Dermot O'Byrne. (Two studies
    of romantic life in the West of Ireland to-day.)

    IX. POEMS DRAMATIC AND LYRICAL: by Clifford Bax, with title-page
    and end-paper designs by Diana Read.



Transcriber's Note

  Obvious punctuation and spelling errors have been repaired.

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