Poems by the Way Love Is Enough | Page 6

blade in hand he had,
O'er rough and smooth he rode,

Till he stood where once his heart was glad
Amidst his old abode.
Across the hearth a tie-beam lay
Unmoved a weary while.
The
flame that clomb the ashlar grey
Had burned it red as tile.
The sparrows bickering on the floor
Fled at his entering in;
The
swift flew past the empty door
His winged meat to win.
Red apples from the tall old tree
O'er the wall's rent were shed.

Thence oft, a little lad, would he
Look down upon the lead.
There turned the cheeping chaffinch now
And feared no birding child;

Through the shot-window thrust a bough
Of garden-rose run wild.
He looked to right, he looked to left,
And down to the cold grey
hearth,
Where lay an axe with half burned heft
Amidst the ashen
dearth.
He caught it up and cast it wide
Against the gable wall;
Then to the
daïs did he stride,
O'er beam and bench and all.
Amidst there yet the high-seat stood,
Where erst his sires had sat;

And the mighty board of oaken wood,
The fire had stayed thereat.
Then through the red wrath of his eyne
He saw a sheathed sword,

Laid thwart that wasted field of wine,
Amidmost of the board.
And by the hilts a slug-horn lay,
And therebeside a scroll,
He

caught it up and turned away
From the lea-land of the bowl.
Then with the sobbing grief he strove,
For he saw his name thereon;

And the heart within his breast uphove
As the pen's tale now he
won,
"O Rafe, my love of long ago!
Draw forth thy father's blade,
And
blow the horn for friend and foe,
And the good green-wood to aid!"
He turned and took the slug-horn up,
And set it to his mouth,
And
o'er that meadow of the cup
Blew east and west and south.
He drew the sword from out the sheath
And shook the fallow brand;

And there a while with bated breath,
And hearkening ear did stand.
Him-seemed the horn's voice he might hear--
Or the wind that blew
o'er all.
Him-seemed that footsteps drew anear--
Or the boughs
shook round the hall.
Him-seemed he heard a voice he knew--
Or a dream of while agone.

Him-seemed bright raiment towards him drew--
Or bright the
sun-set shone.
She stood before him face to face,
With the sun-beam thwart her hand,

As on the gold of the Holy Place
The painted angels stand.
With many a kiss she closed his eyes;
She kissed him cheek and chin:

E'en so in the painted Paradise
Are Earth's folk welcomed in.
There in the door the green-coats stood,
O'er the bows went up the
cry,
"O welcome, Rafe, to the free green-wood,
With us to live and
die."
It was bill and bow by the high-seat stood,
And they cried above the
bows,
"Now welcome, Rafe, to the good green-wood,
And
welcome Kate the Rose!"

White, white in the moon is the woodland plash,
White is the
woodland glade,
Forth wend those twain, from oak to ash,
With
light hearts unafraid.
The summer moon high o'er the hill,
All silver-white is she,
And Sir
Rafe's good men with bow and bill,
They go by two and three.
In the fair green-wood where lurks no fear,
Where the King's writ
runneth not,
There dwell they, friends and fellows dear,
While
summer days are hot.
And when the leaf from the oak-tree falls,
And winds blow rough and
strong,
With the carles of the woodland thorps and halls
They dwell,
and fear no wrong.
And there the merry yule they make,
And see the winter wane,
And
fain are they for true-love's sake,
And the folk thereby are fain.
For the ploughing carle and the straying herd
Flee never for Sir Rafe:

No barefoot maiden wends afeard,
And she deems the thicket safe.
But sore adread do the chapmen ride;
Wide round the wood they go;

And the judge and the sergeants wander wide,
Lest they plead
before the bow.
Well learned and wise is Sir Rafe's good sword,
And straight the
arrows fly,
And they find the coat of many a lord,
And the crest that
rideth high.
THE DAY OF DAYS
Each eve earth falleth down the dark,
As though its hope were o'er;

Yet lurks the sun when day is done
Behind to-morrow's door.
Grey grows the dawn while men-folk sleep,
Unseen spreads on the
light,
Till the thrush sings to the coloured things,
And earth forgets

the night.
No otherwise wends on our Hope:
E'en as a tale that's told
Are fair
lives lost, and all the cost
Of wise and true and bold.
We've toiled and failed; we spake the word;
None hearkened; dumb
we lie;
Our Hope is dead, the seed we spread
Fell o'er the earth to
die.
What's this? For joy our hearts stand still,
And life is loved and dear,

The lost and found the Cause hath crowned,
The Day of Days is
here.
TO THE MUSE OF THE NORTH
O muse that swayest the sad Northern Song,
Thy right hand full of
smiting and of wrong,
Thy left hand holding pity; and thy breast

Heaving with hope of that so certain rest:
Thou, with the grey eyes
kind and unafraid,
The soft lips trembling not, though they have said

The doom of the World and those that