The Wild Knight And Other Poems Part 4

Blessings there are of cradle and of clan, Blessings that fall of priests' and princes' hands; But never blessing full of lives and lands, Broad as the blessing of a lonely man.

Though that old king fell from his primal throne, And ate among the cattle, yet this pride Had found him in the deepest gra.s.s, and cried An 'Ecce h.o.m.o' with the trumpets blown.

And no mad tyrant, with almighty ban, Who in strong madness dreams himself divine, But hears through fumes of flattery and of wine The thunder of this blessing name him man.

Let all earth rot past saints' and seraphs' plea, Yet shall a Voice cry through its last lost war, 'This is the world, this red wreck of a star, That a man blessed beneath an alder-tree.'

KING'S CROSS STATION

This circled cosmos whereof man is G.o.d Has suns and stars of green and gold and red, And cloudlands of great smoke, that range o'er range Far floating, hide its iron heavens o'erhead.

G.o.d! shall we ever honour what we are, And see one moment ere the age expire, The vision of man shouting and erect, Whirled by the shrieking steeds of flood and fire?

Or must Fate act the same grey farce again, And wait, till one, amid Time's wrecks and scars, Speaks to a ruin here, 'What poet-race Shot such cyclopean arches at the stars?'

THE HUMAN TREE

Many have Earth's lovers been, Tried in seas and wars, I ween; Yet the mightiest have I seen: Yea, the best saw I.

One that in a field alone Stood up stiller than a stone Lest a moth should fly.

Birds had nested in his hair, On his shoon were mosses rare.

Insect empires flourished there, Worms in ancient wars; But his eyes burn like a gla.s.s, Hearing a great sea of gra.s.s Roar towards the stars.

From, them to the human tree Rose a cry continually, 'Thou art still, our Father, we Fain would have thee nod.

Make the skies as blood below thee, Though thou slay us, we shall know thee.

Answer us, O G.o.d!

'Show thine ancient flame and thunder, Split the stillness once asunder, Lest we whisper, lest we wonder Art thou there at all?'

But I saw him there alone, Standing stiller than a stone Lest a moth should fall.

TO THEM THAT MOURN

(W.E.G., May 1898)

Lift up your heads: in life, in death, G.o.d knoweth his head was high.

Quit we the coward's broken breath Who watched a strong man die.

If we must say, 'No more his peer Cometh; the flag is furled.'

Stand not too near him, lest he hear That slander on the world.

The good green earth he loved and trod Is still, with many a scar, Writ in the chronicles of G.o.d, A giant-bearing star.

He fell: but Britain's banner swings Above his sunken crown.

Black death shall have his toll of kings Before that cross goes down.

Once more shall move with mighty things His house of ancient tale, Where kings whose hands were kissed of kings Went in: and came out pale.

O young ones of a darker day, In art's wan colours clad, Whose very love and hate are grey-- Whose very sin is sad.

Pa.s.s on: one agony long-drawn Was merrier than your mirth, When hand-in-hand came death and dawn, And spring was on the earth.

THE OUTLAW

Priest, is any song-bird stricken?

Is one leaf less on the tree?

Is this wine less red and royal That the hangman waits for me?

He upon your cross that hangeth, It is writ of priestly pen, On the night they built his gibbet, Drank red wine among his men.

Quaff, like a brave man, as he did, Wine and death as heaven pours-- This is my fate: O ye rulers, O ye pontiffs, what is yours?

To wait trembling, lest yon loathly Gallows-shape whereon I die, In strange temples yet unbuilded, Blaze upon an altar high.

BEHIND

I saw an old man like a child, His blue eyes bright, his white hair wild, Who turned for ever, and might not stop, Round and round like an urchin's top.

'Fool,' I cried, 'while you spin round, 'Others grow wise, are praised, are crowned.'

Ever the same round road he trod, 'This is better: I seek for G.o.d.'

'We see the whole world, left and right, Yet at the blind back hides from sight The unseen Master that drives us forth To East and West, to South and North.

'Over my shoulder for eighty years I have looked for the gleam of the sphere of spheres.'

'In all your turning, what have you found?'

'At least, I know why the world goes round.'

THE END OF FEAR

Though the whole heaven be one-eyed with the moon, Though the dead landscape seem a thing possessed, Yet I go singing through that land oppressed As one that singeth through the flowers of June.

No more, with forest-fingers crawling free O'er dark flint wall that seems a wall of eyes, Shall evil break my soul with mysteries Of some world-poison maddening bush and tree.