The Vigil of Venus and Other Poems Part 12

ALMA MATER

_Know you her secret none can utter?_ Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown?

Still on the spire the pigeons flutter, Still by the gateway flits the gown; Still on the street, from corbel and gutter, Faces of stone look down.

Faces of stone, and stonier faces-- Some from library windows wan Forth on her gardens, her green s.p.a.ces, Peer and turn to their books anon.

Hence, my Muse, from the green oases Gather the tent, begone!

Nay, should she by the pavement linger Under the rooms where once she played, Who from the feast would rise to fling her One poor _sou_ for her serenade?

One short laugh for the antic finger Thrumming a lute-string frayed?

Once, my dear--but the world was young then-- Magdalen elms and Trinity limes-- Lissom the blades and the backs that swung then, Eight good men in the good old times-- Careless we, and the chorus flung then Under St Mary's chimes!

Reins lay loose and the ways led random-- Christ Church meadow and Iffley track, "Idleness horrid and dog-cart" (tandem), Aylesbury grind and Bicester pack-- Pleasant our lines, and faith! we scanned 'em: Having that artless knack.

Come, old limmer, the times grow colder; Leaves of the creeper redden and fall.

Was it a hand then clapped my shoulder?-- Only the wind by the chapel wall!

Dead leaves drift on the lute ... So, fold her Under the faded shawl.

Never we wince, though none deplore us, We who go reaping that we sowed; Cities at c.o.c.k-crow wake before us-- Hey, for the lilt of the London road!

One look back, and a rousing chorus!

Never a palinode!

Still on her spire the pigeons hover; Still by her gateway haunts the gown.

Ah! but her secret? You, young lover, Drumming her old ones forth from town, Know you the secret none discover?

Tell it--when _you_ go down.

Yet if at length you seek her, prove her, Lean to her whispers never so nigh; Yet if at last not less her lover You in your hansom leave the High; Down from her towers a ray shall hover-- Touch you, a pa.s.ser-by!

CHRISTMAS EVE

Friend, old friend in the Manse by the fireside sitting, Hour by hour while the grey ash drips from the log; You with a book on your knee, your wife with her knitting, Silent both, and between you, silent, the dog.

Silent here in the south sit I; and, leaning, One sits watching the fire, with chin upon hand; Gazes deep in its heart--but ah! its meaning Rather I read in the shadows and understand.

Dear, kind she is; and daily dearer, kinder, Love shuts the door on the lamp and our two selves:

Not my stirring awakened the flame that behind her Lit up a face in the leathern dusk of the shelves.

Veterans are my books, with tarnished gilding: Yet there is one gives back to the winter grate Gold of a sunset flooding a college building, Gold of an hour I waited--as now I wait--

For a light step on the stair, a girl's low laughter, Rustle of silk, shy knuckles tapping the oak, Dinner and mirth upsetting my rooms and, after, Music, waltz upon waltz, till the June day broke.

Where is her laughter now? Old tarnished covers-- You that reflect her with fresh young face unchanged-- Tell that we met, that we parted, not as lovers; Time, chance, brought us together, and these estranged.

Loyal were we to the mood of the moment granted, Bruised not its bloom, but danced on the wave of its joy; Pa.s.sion--wisdom--fell back like a fence enchanted, Ringing a floor for us both--whole Heaven for the boy!

Where is she now? Regretted not, though departed, Blessings attend and follow her all her days!

--Look to your hound: he dreams of the hares he started, Whines, and awakes, and stretches his limbs to the blaze.

Far old friend in the Manse, by the green ash peeling Flake by flake from the heat in the Yule log's core, Look past the woman you love. On wall and ceiling Climbs not a trellis of roses--and ghosts--of yore?

Thoughts, thoughts! Whistle them back like hounds returning-- Mark how her needles pause at a sound upstairs.

Time for bed, and to leave the log's heart burning!

Give ye good-night, but first thank G.o.d in your prayers!

THE ROOT

Deep, Love, yea, very deep.

And in the dark exiled, I have no sense of light but still to creep And know the breast, but not the eyes. Thy child Saw ne'er his mother near, nor if she smiled; But only feels her weep.

Yet clouds and branches green There be aloft, somewhere, And winds, and angel birds that build between, As I believe--and I will not despair; For faith is evidence of things not seen.

Love! if I could be there!

I will be patient, dear.

Perchance some part of me Puts forth aloft and feels the rus.h.i.+ng year And shades the bird, and is that happy tree Then were it strength to serve and not appear, And bliss, though blind, to be.

TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME A BOX OF VIOLETS

Nay, more than violets These thoughts of thine, friend!

Rather thy reedy brook-- Taw's tributary-- At midnight murmuring, Descried them, the delicate Dark-eyed G.o.ddesses, There by his cressy bed Dissolved and dreaming Dreams that distilled into dew All the purple of night, All the s.h.i.+ne of a planet.

Whereat he whispered; And they arising--

Of day's forget-me-nots The duskier sisters-- Descended, relinquished The orchard, the trout-pool, Torridge and Tamar, The Druid circles, Sheepfolds of Dartmoor, Granite and sandstone; By Roughtor, Dozmare, Down the vale of the Fowey Moving in silence, Brus.h.i.+ng the nightshade By bridges cyclopean, By Trevenna, Treverbyn, Lawharne and Largin, By Glynn, Lanhydrock, Restormel, Lostwithiel, Dark wood, dim water, dreaming town; Down the vale of the Fowey To the tidal water Was.h.i.+ng the feet Of fair St Winnow-- Each, in her exile Musing the message, Pa.s.sed, as the starlit Shadow of Ruth from the land of the Moabite.

So they came, Valley-born, valley-nurtured-- Came to the tideway The jetties, the anchorage, The salt wind piping, Snoring in Equinox, By s.h.i.+ps at anchor, By quays tormented, Storm-bitten streets; Came to the Haven Crying, "Ah, shelter us, The strayed amba.s.sadors, Love's lost legation On a comfortless coast!"

Nay, but a little sleep, A little folding Of petals to the lull Of quiet rainfalls-- Here in my garden, In angle sheltered From north and east wind-- Softly shall recreate The courage of charity, Henceforth not to me only Breathing the message.

Clean-breath'd Sirens!

Hencefore the mariner.