A Dark Month | Page 5

godlike token?Since human harps were strung.
No sign that ever was given?To faithful or faithless eyes?Showed ever beyond clouds riven?So clear a Paradise.
Earth's creeds may be seventy times seven?And blood have defiled each creed:?If of such be the kingdom of heaven,?It must be heaven indeed.
XXIII
The wind on the downs is bright?As though from the sea:?And morning and night?Take comfort again with me.
He is nearer to-day,?Each night to each morning saith,?Whose return shall revive dead May?With the balm of his breath.
The sunset says to the moon,?He is nearer to-night?Whose coming in June?Is looked for more than the light.
Bird answers to bird,?Hour passes the sign on to hour,?And for joy of the bright news heard?Flower murmurs to flower.
The ways that were glad of his feet?In the woods that he knew?Grow softer to meet?The sense of his footfall anew.
He is near now as day,?Says hope to the new-born light:?He is near now as June is to May,?Says love to the night.
XXIV
Good things I keep to console me?For lack of the best of all,?A child to command and control me,?Bid come and remain at his call.
Sun, wind, and woodland and highland,?Give all that ever they gave:?But my world is a cultureless island,?My spirit a masterless slave.
And friends are about me, and better?At summons of no man stand:?But I pine for the touch of a fetter,?The curb of a strong king's hand.
Each hour of the day in her season?Is mine to be served as I will:?And for no more exquisite reason?Are all served idly and ill.
By slavery my sense is corrupted,?My soul not fit to be free:?I would fain be controlled, interrupted,?Compelled as a thrall may be.
For fault of spur and of bridle?I tire of my stall to death:?My sail flaps joyless and idle?For want of a small child's breath.
XXV
Whiter and whiter?The dark lines grow,?And broader opens and brighter?The sense of the text below.
Nightfall and morrow?Bring nigher the boy?Whom wanting we want not sorrow,?Whom having we want no joy.
Clearer and clearer?The sweet sense grows?Of the word which hath summer for hearer,?The word on the lips of the rose.
Duskily dwindles?Each deathlike day,?Till June rearising rekindles?The depth of the darkness of May.
XXVI
"In his bright radiance and collateral light?Must I be comforted, not in his sphere."
Stars in heaven are many,?Suns in heaven but one:?Nor for man may any?Star supplant the sun.
Many a child as joyous?As our far-off king?Meets as though to annoy us?In the paths of spring.
Sure as spring gives warning,?All things dance in tune:?Sun on Easter morning,?Cloud and windy moon,
Stars between the tossing?Boughs of tuneful trees,?Sails of ships recrossing?Leagues of dancing seas;
Best, in all this playtime,?Best of all in tune,?Girls more glad than Maytime,?Boys more bright than June;
Mixed with all those dances,?Far through field and street?Sing their silent glances,?Ring their radiant feet.
Flowers wherewith May crowned us?Fall ere June be crowned:?Children blossom round us?All the whole year round.
Is the garland worthless?For one rose the less,?And the feast made mirthless??Love, at least, says yes.
Strange it were, with many?Stars enkindling air,?Should but one find any?Welcome: strange it were,
Had one star alone won?Praise for light from far:?Nay, love needs his own one?Bright particular star.
Hope and recollection?Only lead him right?In its bright reflection?And collateral light.
Find as yet we may not?Comfort in its sphere:?Yet these days will weigh not?When it warms us here;
When full-orbed it rises,?Now divined afar:?None in all the skies is?Half so good a star;
None that seers importune?Till a sign be won:?Star of our good fortune,?Rise and reign, our sun!
XXVII
I pass by the small room now forlorn?Where once each night as I passed I knew?A child's bright sleep from even to morn?Made sweet the whole night through.
As a soundless shell, as a songless nest,?Seems now the room that was radiant then?And fragrant with his happier rest?Than that of slumbering men.
The day therein is less than the day,?The night is indeed night now therein:?Heavier the dark seems there to weigh,?And slower the dawns begin.
As a nest fulfilled with birds, as a shell?Fulfilled with breath of a god's own hymn,?Again shall be this bare blank cell,?Made sweet again with him.
XXVIII
Spring darkens before us,?A flame going down,?With chant from the chorus?Of days without crown--?Cloud, rain, and sonorous?Soft wind on the down.
She is wearier not of us?Than we of the dream?That spring was to love us?And joy was to gleam?Through the shadows above us?That shift as they stream.
Half dark and half hoary,?Float far on the loud?Mild wind, as a glory?Half pale and half proud?From the twilight of story,?Her tresses of cloud;
Like phantoms that glimmer?Of glories of old?With ever yet dimmer?Pale circlets of gold?As darkness grows grimmer?And memory more cold.
Like hope growing clearer?With wane of the moon,?Shines toward us the nearer?Gold frontlet of June,?And a face with it dearer?Than midsummer noon.
XXIX
You send me your love in a letter,?I send you my love in a song:?Ah child, your gift is the better,?Mine does you but wrong.
No fame, were