The Wild Knight And Other Poems Part 2

GOLD LEAVES

Lo! I am come to autumn, When all the leaves are gold; Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out The year and I are old.

In youth I sought the prince of men, Captain in cosmic wars, Our t.i.tan, even the weeds would show Defiant, to the stars.

But now a great thing in the street Seems any human nod, Where s.h.i.+ft in strange democracy The million masks of G.o.d.

In youth I sought the golden flower Hidden in wood or wold, But I am come to autumn, When all the leaves are gold.

THOU SHALT NOT KILL

I had grown weary of him; of his breath And hands and features I was sick to death.

Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread; I did not hate him: but I wished him dead.

And he must with his blank face fill my life-- Then my brain blackened; and I s.n.a.t.c.hed a knife.

But ere I struck, my soul's grey deserts through A voice cried, 'Know at least what thing you do.'

'This is a common man: knowest thou, O soul, What this thing is? somewhere where seasons roll There is some living thing for whom this man Is as seven heavens girt into a span, For some one soul you take the world away-- Now know you well your deed and purpose. Slay!'

Then I cast down the knife upon the ground And saw that mean man for one moment crowned.

I turned and laughed: for there was no one by-- The man that I had sought to slay was I.

A CERTAIN EVENING

That night the whole world mingled, The souls were babes at play, And angel danced with devil.

And G.o.d cried, 'Holiday!'

The sea had climbed the mountain peaks, And shouted to the stars To come to play: and down they came Splas.h.i.+ng in happy wars.

The pine grew apples for a whim, The cart-horse built a nest; The oxen flew, the flowers sang, The sun rose in the west.

And 'neath the load of many worlds, The lowest life G.o.d made Lifted his huge and heavy limbs And into heaven strayed.

To where the highest life G.o.d made Before His presence stands; But G.o.d himself cried, 'Holiday!'

And she gave me both her hands.

A MAN AND HIS IMAGE

All day the nations climb and crawl and pray In one long pilgrimage to one white shrine, Where sleeps a saint whose pardon, like his peace, Is wide as death, as common, as divine.

His statue in an aureole fills the shrine, The reckless nightingale, the roaming fawn, Share the broad blessing of his lifted hands, Under the canopy, above the lawn.

But one strange night, a night of gale and flood, A sound came louder than the wild wind's tone; The grave-gates shook and opened: and one stood Blue in the moonlight, rotten to the bone.

Then on the statue, graven with holy smiles, There came another smile--tremendous--one Of an Egyptian G.o.d. 'Why should you rise?

'Do I not guard your secret from the sun?

The nations come; they kneel among the flowers Sprung from your blood, blossoms of May and June, Which do not poison them--is it not strange?

Speak!' And the dead man shuddered in the moon.

Shall I not cry the truth?'--the dead man cowered-- Is it not sad, with life so tame and cold, What earth should fade into the sun's white fires With the best jest in all its tales untold?

'If I should cry that in this shrine lie hid Stories that Satan from his mouth would spew; Wild tales that men in h.e.l.l tell hoa.r.s.ely--speak!

Saint and Deliverer! Should I slander you?'

Slowly the cowering corse reared up its head, 'Nay, I am vile ... but when for all to see, You stand there, pure and painless--death of life!

Let the stars fall--I say you slander me!

'You make me perfect, public, colourless; You make my virtues sit at ease--you lie!

For mine were never easy--lost or saved, I had a soul--I was. And where am I?

Where is my good? the little real h.o.a.rd, The secret tears, the sudden chivalries; The tragic love, the futile triumph--where?

Thief, dog, and son of devils--where are these?

I will lift up my head: in leprous loves Lost, and the soul's dishonourable scars-- By G.o.d I was a better man than This That stands and slanders me to all the stars.

'Come down!' And with an awful cry, the corse Sprang on the sacred tomb of many tales, And stone and bone, locked in a loathsome strife, Swayed to the singing of the nightingales.

Then one was thrown: and where the statue stood Under the canopy, above the lawn, The corse stood; grey and lean, with lifted hands Raised in tremendous welcome to the dawn.

'Now let all nations climb and crawl and pray; Though I be basest of my old red clan, They shall not scale, with cries or sacrifice, The stature of the spirit of a man.'

THE MARINER

The violet scent is sacred Like dreams of angels bright; The hawthorn smells of pa.s.sion Told in a moonless night.

But the smell is in my nostrils, Through blossoms red or gold, Of my own green flower unfading, A bitter smell and bold.

The lily smells of pardon, The rose of mirth; but mine Smells shrewd of death and honour, And the doom of Adam's line.

The heavy scent of wine-shops Floats as I pa.s.s them by, But never a cup I quaff from, And never a house have I.

Till dropped down forty fathoms, I lie eternally; And drink from G.o.d's own goblet The green wine of the sea.