The Listeners | Page 7

of sorrow?In the darkening of the day;?And turned him aside into oblivion;?And the voices died away....
And the Witch stepped down from her casement:?In the hush of night he heard?The calling and wailing in dewy thicket?Of bird to hidden bird.
And gloom stole all her burning crimson;?Remote and faint in space?As stars in gathering shadow of the evening?Seemed now her phantom face.
And one night's rest shall be a myriad,?Midst dreams that come and go;?Till heedless fate, unmoved by weakness, bring him?This same strange by-way through:
To the beauty of earth that fades in ashes,?The lips of welcome, and the eyes?More beauteous than the feeble shine of Hesper?Lone in the lightening skies:
Till once again the Witch's guile entreat him;?But, worn with wisdom, he?Steadfast and cold shall choose the dark night's?Inhospitality.
HAUNTED
The rabbit in his burrow keeps?No guarded watch, in peace he sleeps;?The wolf that howls into the night?Cowers to her lair at morning light;?The simplest bird entwines a nest?Where she may lean her lovely breast,?Couched in the silence of the bough;?But thou, O man, what rest hast thou?
The deepest solitude can bring?Only a subtler questioning?In thy divided heart; thy bed?Recalls at dawn what midnight said;?Seek how thou wilt to feign content?Thy flaming ardour's quickly spent;?Soon thy last company is gone,?And leaves thee--with thyself--alone.
Pomp and great friends may hem thee round,?A thousand busy tasks be found;?Earth's thronging beauties may beguile?Thy longing lovesick heart awhile;?And pride, like clouds of sunset, spread?A changing glory round thy head;?But fade will all; and thou must come,?Hating thy journey, homeless, home.
Rave how thou wilt; unmoved, remote,?That inward presence slumbers not,?Frets out each secret from thy breast,?Gives thee no rally, pause, nor rest,?Scans close thy very thoughts, lest they?Should sap his patient power away,?Answers thy wrath with peace, thy cry?With tenderest taciturnity.
SILENCE
With changeful sound life beats upon the ear;?Yet striving for release?The most delighting string's?Sweet jargonings,?The happiest throat's?Most easeful, lovely notes?Fall back into a veiling silentness.
Even 'mid the rumour of a moving host,?Blackening the clear green earth,?Vainly 'gainst that thin wall?The trumpets call,?Or with loud hum?The smoke-bemuffled drum:?From that high quietness no reply comes forth.
When all at peace, two friends at ease alone?Talk out their hearts,--yet still,?Between the grace-notes of?The voice of love?From each to each?Trembles a rarer speech,?And with its presence every pause doth fill.
Unmoved it broods, this all-encompassing hush?Of one who stooping near,?No smallest stir will make?Our fear to wake;?But yet intent?Upon some mystery bent,?Hearkens the lightest word we say, or hear.
WINTER DUSK
Dark frost was in the air without,?The dusk was still with cold and gloom,?When less than even a shadow came?And stood within the room.
But of the three around the fire,?None turned a questioning head to look,?Still read a clear voice, on and on,?Still stooped they o'er their book.
The children watched their mother's eyes?Moving on softly line to line;?It seemed to listen too--that shade,?Yet made no outward sign.
The fire-flames crooned a tiny song,?No cold wind moved the wintry tree;?The children both in Fa?rie dreamed?Beside their mother's knee.
And nearer yet that spirit drew?Above that heedless one, intent?Only on what the simple words?Of her small story meant.
No voiceless sorrow grieved her mind,?No memory her bosom stirred,?Nor dreamed she, as she read to two,?'Twas surely three who heard.
Yet when, the story done, she smiled?From face to face, serene and clear,?A love, half dread, sprang up, as she?Leaned close and drew them near.
AGES AGO
Launcelot loved Guinevere,?Ages and ages ago,?Beautiful as a bird was she,?Preening its wings in a cypress tree,?Happy in sadness, she and he,?They loved each other so.
Helen of Troy was beautiful?As tender flower in May,?Her loveliness from the towers looked down,?With the sweet moon for silver crown,?Over the walls of Troy Town,?Hundreds of years away.
Cleopatra, Egypt's Queen,?Was wondrous kind to ken,?As when the stars in the dark sky?Like buds on thorny branches lie,?So seemed she too to Antony,?That age-gone prince of men.
The Pyramids are old stones,?Scarred is that grey face,?That by the greenness of Old Nile?Gazes with an unchanging smile,?Man with all mystery to beguile?And give his thinking grace.
HOME
Rest, rest--there is no rest,?Until the quiet grave?Comes with its narrow arch?The heart to save?From life's long cankering rust,?From torpor, cold and still--?The loveless, saddened dust,?The jaded will.
And yet, be far the hour?Whose haven calls me home;?Long be the arduous day?Till evening come;?What sureness now remains?But that through livelong strife?Only the loser gains?An end to life?
Then in the soundless deep?Of even the shallowest grave?Childhood and love he'll keep,?And his soul save;?All vext desire, all vain?Cries of a conflict done?Fallen to rest again;?Death's refuge won.
THE GHOST
Peace in thy hands,?Peace in thine eyes,?Peace on thy brow;?Flower of a moment in the eternal hour,
Peace with me now.
Not a wave breaks,?Not a bird calls,?My heart, like a sea,?Silent after a storm that hath died,
Sleeps within me.
All the night's dews,?All the world's leaves,?All winter's snow?Seem with their quiet to have stilled in life's dream
All sorrowing now.
AN EPITAPH
Here lies