Gloucester Moors and Other Poems Part 6

Broken, that none shall ever mend; Loosened, that none shall ever tie.

O the wind and the wind, will it never end?

O the sweeping past of the ruined sky!

THE DEPARTURE

I

I sat beside the gla.s.sy evening sea, One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre, And all its strings of laughter and desire Crushed in the rank wet gra.s.ses heedlessly; Nor did my dull eyes care to question how The boat close by had spread its saffron sails, Nor what might mean the coffers and the bales, And streaks of new wine on the gilded prow.

Neither was wonder in me when I saw Fair women step therein, though they were fair Even to adoration and to awe, And in the gracious fillets of their hair Were blossoms from a garden I had known, Sweet mornings ere the apple buds were blown.

II

One gazed steadfast into the dying west With lips apart to greet the evening star; And one with eyes that caught the strife and jar Of the sea's heart, followed the sunward breast Of a lone gull; from a slow harp one drew Blind music like a laugh or like a wail; And in the uncertain shadow of the sail One wove a crown of berries and of yew.

Yet even as I said with dull desire, "All these were mine, and one was mine indeed,"

The smoky music burst into a fire, And I was left alone in my great need, One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre And all its strings crushed in the dripping weed.

FADED PICTURES

Only two patient eyes to stare Out of the canvas. All the rest-- The warm green gown, the small hands pressed Light in the lap, the braided hair

That must have made the sweet low brow So earnest, centuries ago, When some one saw it change and glow-- All faded! Just the eyes burn now.

I dare say people pa.s.s and pa.s.s Before the blistered little frame, And dingy work without a name Stuck in behind its square of gla.s.s.

But I, well, I left Raphael Just to come drink these eyes of hers, To think away the stains and blurs And make all new again and well.

Only, for tears my head will bow, Because there on my heart's last wall, Scarce one tint left to tell it all, A picture keeps its eyes, somehow.

A GREY DAY

Grey drizzling mists the moorlands drape, Rain whitens the dead sea, From headland dim to sullen cape Grey sails creep wearily.

I know not how that merchantman Has found the heart; but 't is her plan Seaward her endless course to shape.

Unreal as insects that appall A drunkard's peevish brain, O'er the grey deep the dories crawl, Four-legged, with rowers twain: Midgets and minims of the earth, Across old ocean's vasty girth Toiling--heroic, comical!

I wonder how that merchant's crew Have ever found the will!

I wonder what the fishers do To keep them toiling still!

I wonder how the heart of man Has patience to live out its span, Or wait until its dreams come true.

THE RIDE BACK

_Before the coming of the dark, he dreamed An old-world faded story: of a knight, Much like in need to him, who was no knight!

And of a road, much like the road his soul Groped over, desperate to meet Her soul.

Beside the bed Death waited. And he dreamed._

His limbs were heavy from the fight, His mail was dark with dust and blood; On his good horse they bound him tight, And on his breast they bound the rood To help him in the ride that night.

When he crashed through the wood's wet rim, About the dabbled reeds a breeze Went moaning broken words and dim; The haggard shapes of twilight trees Caught with their scrawny hands at him.

Between the doubtful aisles of day Strange folk and lamentable stood To maze and beckon him astray, But through the grey wrath of the wood He held right on his bitter way.

When he came where the trees were thin, The moon sat waiting there to see; On her worn palm she laid her chin, And laughed awhile in sober glee To think how strong this knight had been.

When he rode past the pallid lake, The withered yellow stems of flags Stood breast-high for his horse to break; Lewd as the palsied lips of hags The petals in the moon did shake.

When he came by the mountain wall, The snow upon the heights looked down And said, "The sight is pitiful.

The nostrils of his steed are brown With frozen blood; and he will fall."

The iron pa.s.ses of the hills With question were importunate; And, but the sharp-tongued icy rills Had grown for once compa.s.sionate, The spiteful shades had had their wills.

Just when the ache in breast and brain And the frost smiting at his face Had sealed his spirit up with pain, He came out in a better place, And morning lay across the plain.

He saw the wet snails crawl and cling On fern-stalks where the rime had run, The careless birds went wing and wing, And in the low smile of the sun Life seemed almost a pleasant thing.

Right on the panting charger swung Through the bright depths of quiet gra.s.s; The knight's lips moved as if they sung, And through the peace there came to pa.s.s The flattery of lute and tongue.

From the mid-flowering of the mead There swelled a sob of minstrelsy, Faint sackbuts and the dreamy reed, And plaintive lips of maids thereby, And songs blown out like thistle seed.

Forth from her maidens came the bride, And as his loosened rein fell slack He muttered, "In their throats they lied Who said that I should ne'er win back To kiss her lips before I died!"

SONG-FLOWER AND POPPY

I

IN NEW YORK

He plays the deuce with my writing time, For the penny my sixth-floor neighbor throws; He finds me proud of my pondered rhyme, And he leaves me--well, G.o.d knows It takes the s.h.i.+ne from a tunester's line When a little mate of the deathless Nine Pipes up under your nose!