Part 1 (1/2)

The Five Books of Youth.

by Robert Hillyer.

BOOK I

A MISCELLANY

I - LA MARE DES FEES

The leaves rain down upon the forest pond, An elfin tarn green-shadowed in the fern; Nine yews ensomber the wet bank, beyond The autumn branches of the beeches burn With yellow flame and red amid the green, And patches of the darkening sky between.

This is an ancient country; in this wood The Druids raised their sacrificial stones; Here the vast timeless silences still brood Though the cold wind's October monotones Fan the enchanted senses with the dread Of holiness long-past and beauty dead.

How far beyond this glade the day-world turns Upon its pivot of reward and chance; Farther than the first star that palely burns Over the forest's meditative trance.

First star of evening, last star of day, The one grows clear, the other dies away.

Will they come back who once beneath these trees Invoked their long-forgotten G.o.ds with tears, Who heard the sob of the same twilight breeze Blow down the vistas of remembered years, Beside the tarn's black waters where they stood Close to their G.o.d, far from the mult.i.tude?

I watch, but they are long ago departed, Far as the world of day, or as the star; The forest loved her priests, and tranquil-hearted They stole away in dim procession, far Down the unechoing aisles, beyond recalling; The moss grows on the stones, the leaves are falling.

In vain I listen for their hissing speech, And seek white holy hands upon the air, They told their wors.h.i.+p to the yew and beech, And left them with the secret, trembling there, Nor shall they come at midnight nor at dawn; The G.o.ds are dead; the votaries are gone.

A form floats toward me down the corridor Of mighty trees, half-visioned through the haze, And stands beside me on that empty sh.o.r.e; So rest we there, and wonderingly gaze.

By the dead water, under the deep boughs, My Love and I renew our ancient vows.

MORET-SUR-LOING, 1918

II - PROTHALAMION

The faded turquoise of the sky Darkens into ocean green Flecked palely where the stars will rise.

A single bough between The s.p.a.cious colour and your half-closed eyes Hangs out its hazy traceries.

Still, like a drowsy G.o.d you lie, My fair unbidden guest, Your white hands crossed beneath your head, Your lips curved strangely mute with peace, Your hair moved lightly by the breeze.

A glow is shed Warm on your face from the last rays that push From the dying sun into the green vault of the west.

This is your bridal night; the golden bush Is heavy with the fruits that you will taste, Full ripened in desire.

You who have h.o.a.rded youth, this is your hour of waste, Your hour of squandering and drunkenness, Of wine-dashed lips and generous caress, Of brows thorn-crowned and bodies crucified,-- O bid me to the feast.

Tomorrow when the hills are washed with fire, Your door ajar against the flas.h.i.+ng East,-- O fling it wide.

PARIS, 1919

III - MONTMARTRE

A rocky hill above the town, Grey as the soul of silence, Except where two white strutting domes Stand aloof and frown On the huddled homes Of world-wept love and pain,-- They do not heed that tall disdain, But sleep, grey, under the stars and the rain.

A woman, young, but old in love, Carried her child across the square; Her face was a dim drifting flame To which her pyre of hair Was a column of golden smoke.

Her eyes half told the secrets of Gay sins that no regret defiled; There her heart broke In the little question between her eyes.