Behind the Arras | Page 7

my buried dwarf, As a tale that is told at the door.
Far from the quiet woods the gaunt red wolf shall flee,
As a cur that
is stoned from the door;
And God's great peace come back along the
lonely track,
To fill the golden year at my door.
_The Faithless Lover_
I
O Life, dear Life, in this fair house
Long since did I, it seems to me,

In some mysterious doleful way
Fall out of love with thee.
For, Life, thou art become a ghost,
A memory of days gone by,
A
poor forsaken thing between
A heartache and a sigh.
And now, with shadows from the hills
Thronging the twilight, wraith
on wraith,
Unlock the door and let me go
To thy dark rival Death!
II
O Heart, dear Heart, in this fair house
Why hast thou wearied and
grown tired,
Between a morning and a night,
Of all thy soul
desired?
Fond one, who cannot understand
Even these shadows on the floor,

Yet must be dreaming of dark loves
And joys beyond my door!
But I am beautiful past all
The timid tumult of thy mood,
And thou
returning not must still
Be mine in solitude.

_The Crimson House_
Love built a crimson house,
I know it well,
That he might have a
home
Wherein to dwell.
Poor Love that roved so far
And fared so ill,
Between the morning
star
And the Hollow Hill,
Before he found the vale
Where he could bide,
With memory and
oblivion
Side by side.
He took the silver dew
And the dun red clay,
And behold when he
was through
How fair were they!
The braces of the sky
Were in its girth,
That it should feel no jar

Of the swinging earth;
That sun and wind might bleach
But not destroy
The house that he
had builded
For his joy.
"Here will I stay," he said,
"And roam no more,
And dust when I
am dead
Shall keep the door."
There trooping dreams by night
Go by, go by.
The walls are rosy
white
In the sun's eye.
The windows are more clear
Than sky or sea;
He made them after
God's
Transparency.
It is a dearer place
Than kirk or inn;
Such joy on joy as there
Has
never been.
There may my longed-for rest
And welcome be,
When Love
himself unbars
The door for me!
[Illustration]

_The Lodger_
I cannot quite recall
When first he came,
So reticent and tall,
With
his eyes of flame.
The neighbors used to say
(They know so much!)
He looked to
them half way
Spanish or Dutch.
Outlandish certainly
He is--and queer!
He has been lodged with me

This thirty year;
All the while (it seems absurd!)
We hardly have
Exchanged a single
word.
Mum as the grave!
Minds only his own affairs,
Goes out and in,
And keeps himself
upstairs
With his violin.
Mum did I say? And yet
That talking smile
You never can forget,

Is all the while
Full of such sweet reproofs
The darkest day,
Like morning on the
roofs
In flush of May.
Like autumn on the hills;
At four o'clock
The sun like a herdsman
spills
For drove and flock
Peace with their provender,
And they are fed.
The day without a stir

Lies warm and red.
Ah, sir, the summer land
For me! That is
Like living in God's hand,

Compared to this.
His smile so quiet and deep
Reminds me of it.
I see it in my sleep,

And so I love it.
An anarchist, say some;
But tush, say I,
When a man's heart is

plumb,
Can his life be awry?
Better than charity
And bigger too,
That heart. You've seen the sea?

Of course. To you
'T is common enough, no doubt.
But here in town,
With God's
world all shut out,
Save the leaden frown
Of the sky, a slant of rain,
And a straggling star,
Such memories
remain
The wonders they are.
Once at the Isles of Shoals,
And it was June . . .
Now hear me dote!
He strolls
Across my noon,
Like the sun that day, where sleeps
My soul; his gaze
Goes
glimmering down my deeps
Of yesterdays,
Searching and searching, till
Its light consumes
The reluctant
shapes that fill
Those purple glooms.
Let others applaud, defame,
And the noise die down;
His voice
saying your name,
Is enough renown.
Too patient pitiful,
Too fierce at wrong,
To patronize the dull,
Or
praise the strong.
And yet he has a soul
Of wrath, though pent
Even when that white
ghoul
Comes for his rent.
The landlord? Hush! My God!
I think the walls
Take notes to help
him prod
Us up. He galls
My very soul to strife,
With his death's-head face.
He is foul too in
his life,
Some hid disgrace,
Some secret thing he does,
I warrant you,
For all his cheek to us


Is shaved so blue.
He takes good care (by the shade
Of seven wives!)
That the
undertaker's trade
He lives by thrives.
Nor chick nor child has he.
So servile smug,
With that cringe in his
knee,--
God curse his lug!
But him, you should have seen
Him yesterday;
The landlord's smirk
turned green
At his smile. The way
He served that bloodless fish,
Were like to freeze him.
But meeting
elsewhere, pish!
He never sees him.
Yet such a gentleman,
So sure and slow.
The vilest harridan
Is not
too low,
If there is pity's need;
And no man born,
For cruelty or greed

Escapes that scorn.
Most of all things, it seems,
He loves the town.
Watching the
bright-faced streams
Go up and down,
I