Volume I Part 30 (1/2)
Now like a pageant of the Golden Year In rich memorial pomp the hours go by, With rose-embroidered flags unfurled And ta.s.selled bugles calling through the world Wake, for your hope draws near!
Wake, for in each soft porch of azure sky, Seen through each arch of pale green leaves, the Gate Of Eden swings apart for Summer's royal state.
Ah, when the Spirit of the moving scene Has entered in, the splendour will be spent!
The flutes will cease, the gates will close; Only the scattered crimson of the rose, The wild wood's hapless queen, Dis-kingdomed, will declare the way he went; And, in a little while, her court will go, Pa.s.s like a cloud and leave no trace on earth below.
Tell us no more of Autumn, the slow gold Of fruitage ripening in a world's decay, The falling leaves, the moist rich breath Of woods that swoon and crumble into death Over the gorgeous mould: Give us the flash and scent of keen-edged May Where wastes that bear no harvest yield their bloom, Rude crofts of flowering nettle, bents of yellow broom.
The very reeds and sedges of the fen Open their hearts and blossom to the sky; The wild thyme on the mountain's knees Unrolls its purple market to the bees; Unharvested of men The Traveller's Joy can only smile and die.
Joy, joy alone the throbbing whitethroats bring, Joy to themselves and heaven! They were but born to sing!
And see, between the northern-scented pines, The whole sweet summer sharpens to a glow!
See, as the well-spring plashes cool Over a shadowy green fern-fretted pool The mystic sunbeam s.h.i.+nes For one mad moment on a breast of snow A warm white shoulder and a glowing arm Up-flung, where some swift Undine sinks in shy alarm.
And if she were not all a dream, and lent Life for a little to your own desire, Oh, lover in the hawthorn lane, Dream not you hold her, or you dream in vain!
The violet, spray-besprent When from that plunge the rainbows flashed like fire, Will scarce more swiftly lose its happy dew Than eyes which Undine haunts will cease to s.h.i.+ne on you.
What though the throstle pour his heart away, A happy spendthrift of uncounted gold, Swinging upon a blossomed briar With soft throat lifted in a wild desire To make the world his may.
Ever the pageant through the gates is rolled Further away; in vain the rich notes throng Flooding the mellow noon with wave on wave of song.
The feathery meadows like a lilac sea, Knee-deep, with honeyed clover, red and white, Roll billowing: the crisp clouds pa.s.s Trailing their soft blue shadows o'er the gra.s.s; The skylark, mad with glee, Quivers, up, up, to lose himself in light; And, through the forest, like a fairy dream Through some dark mind, the ferns in branching beauty stream.
Enough of joy! A little respite lend, Summer, fair G.o.d that hast so little heed Of these that serve thee but to die, Mere trappings of thy tragic pageantry!
Show us the end, the end!
We too, with human hearts that break and bleed, March to the night that rounds their fleeting hour, And feel we, too, perchance but serve some loftier Power.
O that our hearts might pa.s.s away with thee, Burning and pierced and full of thy sweet pain, Burst through the gates with thy swift soul, Hunt thy most white perfection to the goal, Nor wait, once more to see Thy chaliced lilies rotting in the rain, Thy ragged yellowing banners idly hung In woods that have forgotten all the songs we sung!
_Peace! Like a pageant of the Golden Year In rich memorial pomp the hours go by, With rose-embroidered flags unfurled And ta.s.selled bugles calling through the world Wake, for your hope draws near!
Wake, for in each soft porch of azure sky, Seen through each arch of pale green leaves, the Gate Of Eden swings apart for Summer's royal state._
Not wait! Forgive, forgive that feeble cry Of blinded pa.s.sion all unworthy thee!
For here the spirit of man may claim A loftier vision and a n.o.bler aim Than e'er was born to die: Man only, of earth, throned on Eternity, From his own sure abiding-place can mark How earth's great golden dreams go past into the dark.
AT DAWN
O Hesper-Phosphor, far away s.h.i.+ning, the first, the last white star, Hear'st thou the strange, the ghostly cry, That moan of an ancient agony From purple forest to golden sky s.h.i.+vering over the breathless bay?
It is not the wind that wakes with the day; For see, the gulls that wheel and call, Beyond the tumbling white-topped bar, Catching the sun-dawn on their wings, Like snow-flakes or like rose-leaves fall, Flutter and fall in airy rings; And drift, like lilies ruffling into blossom Upon some golden lake's unwrinkled bosom.
Are not the forest's deep-lashed fringes wet With tears? Is not the voice of all regret Breaking out of the dark earth's heart?
She too, she too, has loved and lost; and we-- We that remember our lost Aready, Have we not known, we too, The primal greenwood's arch of blue, The radiant clouds at sun-rise curled Around the brows of the golden world; The marble temples, washed with dew, To which with rosy limbs aflame The violet-eyed Thala.s.sian came, Came, pitiless, only to display How soon the youthful splendour dies away; Came, only to depart Laughing across the grey-grown bitter sea; For each man's life is earth's epitome, And though the years bring more than aught they take, Yet might his heart and hers well break Remembering how one prayer must still be vain.