Moments of Vision | Page 4

intents, vain lovingkindness,
And ardours chilled and numb.
They waste to fog as I stir and stand,
And move from the arched recess,?And pick up the drawing that slipped from my hand,?And feel for the pencil I dropped in the cranny
In a moment's forgetfulness.
TO SHAKESPEARE?AFTER THREE HUNDRED YEARS
Bright baffling Soul, least capturable of themes,?Thou, who display'dst a life of common-place,?Leaving no intimate word or personal trace?Of high design outside the artistry
Of thy penned dreams,?Still shalt remain at heart unread eternally.
Through human orbits thy discourse to-day,?Despite thy formal pilgrimage, throbs on?In harmonies that cow Oblivion,?And, like the wind, with all-uncared effect
Maintain a sway?Not fore-desired, in tracks unchosen and unchecked.
And yet, at thy last breath, with mindless note?The borough clocks but samely tongued the hour,?The Avon just as always glassed the tower,?Thy age was published on thy passing-bell
But in due rote?With other dwellers' deaths accorded a like knell.
And at the strokes some townsman (met, maybe,?And thereon queried by some squire's good dame?Driving in shopward) may have given thy name,?With, "Yes, a worthy man and well-to-do;
Though, as for me,?I knew him but by just a neighbour's nod, 'tis true.
"I' faith, few knew him much here, save by word,?He having elsewhere led his busier life;?Though to be sure he left with us his wife."?--"Ah, one of the tradesmen's sons, I now recall . . .
Witty, I've heard . . .?We did not know him . . . Well, good-day. Death comes to all."
So, like a strange bright bird we sometimes find?To mingle with the barn-door brood awhile,?Then vanish from their homely domicile -?Into man's poesy, we wot not whence,
Flew thy strange mind,?Lodged there a radiant guest, and sped for ever thence.
1916.
QUID HIC AGIS?
I
When I weekly knew?An ancient pew,?And murmured there?The forms of prayer?And thanks and praise?In the ancient ways,?And heard read out?During August drought?That chapter from Kings?Harvest-time brings;?- How the prophet, broken?By griefs unspoken,?Went heavily away?To fast and to pray,?And, while waiting to die,?The Lord passed by,?And a whirlwind and fire?Drew nigher and nigher,?And a small voice anon?Bade him up and be gone, -?I did not apprehend?As I sat to the end?And watched for her smile?Across the sunned aisle,?That this tale of a seer?Which came once a year?Might, when sands were heaping,?Be like a sweat creeping,?Or in any degree?Bear on her or on me!
II
When later, by chance?Of circumstance,?It befel me to read?On a hot afternoon?At the lectern there?The selfsame words?As the lesson decreed,?To the gathered few?From the hamlets near -?Folk of flocks and herds?Sitting half aswoon,?Who listened thereto?As women and men?Not overmuch?Concerned at such -?So, like them then,?I did not see?What drought might be?With me, with her,?As the Kalendar?Moved on, and Time?Devoured our prime.
III
But now, at last,?When our glory has passed,?And there is no smile?From her in the aisle,?But where it once shone?A marble, men say,?With her name thereon?Is discerned to-day;?And spiritless?In the wilderness?I shrink from sight?And desire the night,?(Though, as in old wise,?I might still arise,?Go forth, and stand?And prophesy in the land),?I feel the shake?Of wind and earthquake,?And consuming fire?Nigher and nigher,?And the voice catch clear,?"What doest thou here?"
The Spectator 1916. During the War.
ON A MIDSUMMER EVE
I idly cut a parsley stalk,?And blew therein towards the moon;?I had not thought what ghosts would walk?With shivering footsteps to my tune.
I went, and knelt, and scooped my hand?As if to drink, into the brook,?And a faint figure seemed to stand?Above me, with the bygone look.
I lipped rough rhymes of chance, not choice,?I thought not what my words might be;?There came into my ear a voice?That turned a tenderer verse for me.
TIMING HER?(Written to an old folk-tune)
Lalage's coming:?Where is she now, O??Turning to bow, O,?And smile, is she,?Just at parting,?Parting, parting,?As she is starting?To come to me?
Where is she now, O,?Now, and now, O,?Shadowing a bough, O,?Of hedge or tree?As she is rushing,?Rushing, rushing,?Gossamers brushing?To come to me?
Lalage's coming;?Where is she now, O;?Climbing the brow, O,?Of hills I see??Yes, she is nearing,?Nearing, nearing,?Weather unfearing?To come to me.
Near is she now, O,?Now, and now, O;?Milk the rich cow, O,?Forward the tea;?Shake the down bed for her,?Linen sheets spread for her,?Drape round the head for her?Coming to me.
Lalage's coming,?She's nearer now, O,?End anyhow, O,?To-day's husbandry!?Would a gilt chair were mine,?Slippers of vair were mine,?Brushes for hair were mine?Of ivory!
What will she think, O,?She who's so comely,?Viewing how homely?A sort are we!?Nothing resplendent,?No prompt attendant,?Not one dependent?Pertaining to me!
Lalage's coming;?Where is she now, O??Fain I'd avow, O,?Full honestly?Nought here's enough for her,?All is too rough for her,?Even my love for her?Poor in degree.
She's nearer now, O,?Still nearer now, O,?She 'tis, I vow, O,?Passing the lea.?Rush down to meet her there,?Call out and greet her there,?Never a sweeter there?Crossed to me!
Lalage's come; aye,?Come is she now, O! . . .?Does Heaven allow, O,?A meeting to be??Yes, she is here now,?Here now, here now,?Nothing to fear now,?Here's Lalage!
BEFORE KNOWLEDGE
When I walked roseless tracks