The Singing Man | Page 7

in the sun,?Eager mornings, wistful eves,?Very hunger drew him on;?And To-morrow ever shone?With the glow the sunset weaves.
Even so, to that young heart,?Words and hands, and Men were dear;?And the stir of lane and mart?After daylong vigil here.?Sunset called, and he drew near,?Still to find his path apart.
When the Bell, with gentle tongue,?Called the herd-bells home again,?Through the purple shades he swung,?Down the mountain, through the glen;?Towards the sound of fellow-men,--?Even from the light that clung.
Dimly too, as cloud on cloud,?Came that silent flock of his:?Thronging whiteness, in a crowd,?After homing twos and threes;?With the thronging memories?Of all white things dreamed and vowed.
Through the fragrances, alone,?By the sudden-silent brook,?From the open world unknown,?To the close of speech and book;?There to find the foreign look?In the faces of his own.
Sharing was beyond his skill;?Shyly yet, he made essay:?Sought to dip, and share, and fill?Heart's-desire, from day to day.?But their eyes, some foreign way,?Looked at him; and he was still.
Last, he reached his arms to sleep,?Where the Vision waited, dim,?Still beyond some deep-on-deep.?And the darkness folded him,?Eager heart and weary limb.--?All day long, he kept the sheep.
THE LONG LANE
All through the summer night, down the long lane in flower,
The moon-white lane,?All through the summer night,--dim as a shower,
Glimmer and fade the Twain:?Over the cricket hosts, throbbing the hour by hour,
Young voices bloom and wane.
Down the long lane they go, and past one window, pale
With visions silver-blurred;?Stirring the heart that waits,--the eyes that fail
After a spring deferred.?Query, and hush, and Ah!--dim through a moon-lit veil,
The same one word.
Down the long lane, entwined with all the fragrance there;
The lane in flower somehow?With youth, and plighted hands, and star-strewn air,
And muted 'Thee' and 'Thou':--?All the wild bloom and reach of dreams that never were,
--Never to be, now.
So, in the throbbing dark, where ebbs the old refrain,
A starved heart hears.?And silver-bright, and silver-blurred again
With moonlight and with tears.?All the long night they go, down the long summer lane,
The long, long years.
_Ah but, Belovèd, men may do?All things to music;--march, and die;?And wear the longest vigil through,
... And say good-by.?All things to music!--Ah, but where?Peace never falls upon the air;--?These city-ways of dark and din?Where greed has shut and barred them in!?And thundering, swart against the sky,?That whirlwind,--never to go by--?Of tracks and wheels, that overhead?Beat back the senses with their roar?And menace of undying war,--?War--war--for daily bread!_
_All things to silence! Ah, but where?Men dwell not, but must make a lair;--?And Sorrow may not sit alone,?Nor Love hear music of its own;?And Thought that strives to breast that sea?Must struggle even for memory.?Day-long, night-long,--besieging din?To thrust all pain the deeper in!--?And drown the flutter of first-breath;?And batter at the doors of Death.?To lull their dearest:--watch their dead;?While the long thunders overhead,?Gather and break for evermore,?Eternal tides--eternal War,?War--war--Bread--bread!_
ALISON'S MOTHER TO THE BROOK
Brook, of the listening grass,?Brook of the sun-fleckt wings,?Brook of the same wild way and flickering spell!?Must you begone? Will you forever pass,?After so many years and dear to tell?--?Brook of all hoverings ...?Brook that I kneel above;?Brook of my love.
Ah, but I have a charm to trouble you;?A spell that shall subdue?Your all-escaping heart, unheedful one?And unremembering!?Now, when I make my prayer?To your wild brightness there?That will but run and run,?O mindless Water!--?Hark,--now will I bring?A grace as wild,--my little yearling daughter,?My Alison.
Heed well that threat;?And tremble for your hill-born liberty?So bright to see!--?Your shadow-dappled way, unthwarted yet,?And the high hills whence all your dearness bubbled;--?You, never to possess!?For let her dip but once--O fair and fleet,--?Here in your shallows, yes,?Here in your silverness?Her two blithe feet,--?O Brook of mine, how shall your heart be troubled!
The heart, the bright unmothering heart of you,?That never knew.--?(O never, more than mine of long ago.?How could we know?--)?For who should guess?The shock and smiting of that perfectness?--?The lily-thrust of those ecstatic feet?Unpityingly sweet?--?Sweet beyond all the blurred blind dreams that grope?The upward paths of hope??And who could guess?The dulcet holiness,?The lilt and gladness of those jocund feet,?Unpityingly sweet??Ah, for your coolness that shall change and stir?With every glee of her!--?Under the fresh amaze?That drips and glistens from her wiles and ways;?When the endearing air?That everywhere?Must twine and fold and follow her, shall be?Rippled to ring on ring of melody,--?Music, like shadows from the joy of her,?Small starry Reveller!--?When from her triumphings,--?All frolic wings--?There soars beyond the glories of the height,?The laugh of her delight!
And it shall sound, until?Your heart stand still;?Shaken to human sight;?Struck through with tears and light;?One with the one desire?Unto that central Fire?Of Love the Sun, whence all we lighted are?Even from clod to star.
And all your glory, O most swift and sweet!--?And all your exultation only this;?To be the lowly and forgotten kiss?Beneath those feet.
You that must ever pass,--?You of the same wild way,--?The silver-bright good-bye without a look!--?You that would never stay,?For the beseeching