Gloucester Moors and Other Poems Part 3

My word had got to Him somehow at last, And He had come to help me or to tell Where help was to be found. It was not strange.

Strange only He had stayed away so long; But that should be forgotten--He was here.

I pushed the door wide open and looked in.

He had been kneeling by the bed, and now, Half-risen, kissed my boy upon the lips, Then turned and smiled and pointed with his hand.

I must have fallen on the threshold stone, For I remember that I felt, not saw, The resurrection glory and the peace Shed from his face and raiment as He went Out by the door into the evening street.

But when I looked, the place about the bed Was yet all bathed in light, and in the midst My boy lay changed,--no longer clothed upon With sc.r.a.ps and shreds of life, but like the child Of some most fortunate mother. In a breath The image faded. There he lay again The same as always; and the light was gone.

I sank with moans and cries beside the bed.

The cruelty, O Christ, the cruelty!

To come at last and then to go like that, Leaving the darkness deeper than before!

Then, though I heard no sound, I grew aware Of some one standing by the open door Among the dry vines rustling in the porch.

My heart laughed suddenly. He had come back!

He had come back to make the vision true.

He had not meant to mock me: G.o.d was G.o.d, And Christ was Christ; there was no falsehood there.

I heard a quiet footstep cross the room And felt a hand laid gently on my hair,-- A human hand, worn hard by daily toil, Heavy with life-long struggle after bread.

Alice's father. The kind homely voice Had in it such strange music that I dreamed Perhaps it was the Other speaking in him, Because His own bright form had made me swoon With its too much of glory. What he brought Was news as good as ever heavenly lips Had the dear right to utter. He had been All day among the crowds of curious folk From the great city and the country-side Gathered to watch the Healer do his work Of mercy on the sick and halt and blind, And with his very eyes had seen such things As awestruck men had witnessed long ago In Galilee, and writ of in the Book.

To-morrow morning he would take me there If I had strength and courage to believe.

It might be there was hope; he could not say, But knew what he had seen. When he was gone I lay for hours, letting the solemn waves Thundering joy go over and over me.

Just before midnight baby fretted, woke; He never yet has slept a whole night through Without his food and petting. As I sat Feeding and petting him and singing soft, I felt a jealousy begin to ache And worry at my heartstrings, hushing down The gladness. Jealousy of what or whom?

I hardly knew, or could not put in words; At least it seemed too foolish and too wrong When said, and so I shut the thought away.

Only, next minute, it came stealing back.

After the change, would my boy be the same As this one? Would he be my boy at all, And not another's--his who gave the life I could not give, or did not anyhow?

How could I look in his new eyes to claim The whole of him, the body and the breath, When some one not his mother, a strange man, Had clothed him in that beauty of the flesh-- Perhaps (for who could know?), perhaps, by some Hateful disfiguring miracle, had even Transformed his spirit to a better one, Better, but not the same I prayed for him Down out of Heaven through the sleepless nights,-- The best that G.o.d would send to such as me.

I tried to strangle back the wicked pain; Fancied him changed and tried to love him so.

No use; it was another, not my child, Not my frail, broken, priceless little one, My cup of anguish, and my trembling star Hung small and sad and sweet above the earth, So sure to fall but for my cherishing!

When he had dropped asleep again, I rose And wrestled with the sinful selfishness, The dark injustice, the unnatural pain.

Fevered at last with pacing to and fro, I raised the bedroom window and leaned out.

The white moon, low behind the sycamores, Silvered the silent country; not a voice Of all the myriads summer moves to sing Had yet awakened; in the level moon Walked that same presence I had heard at dawn Uttering hopes and loving-kindnesses, But now, dispirited and reticent, It walked the moonlight like a homeless thing.

O, how to cleanse me of the cowardice!

How to be just! Was I a mother, then, A mother, and not love her child as well As her own covetous and morbid love?

Was it for this the Comforter had come, Smiling at me and pointing with His hand?

--What had He meant to have me think or do, Smiling and pointing?

All at once I saw A way to save my darling from myself And make atonement for my grudging love!

Under the sycamores and up the hill And down across the river, the wet road Went stretching cityward, silvered in the moon.

I who had shrunk from sacrifice, even I, Who had refused G.o.d's blessing for my boy, Would take him in my arms and carry him Up to the altar of the miracle.

I would not wait for daylight, nor the help Of any human friendship; I alone, Through the still miles of country, I alone, Only my arms to shield him and my feet To bear him: he should have no one to thank But me for that. I knew the way was long, But knew strength would be given. So I came.

Soon the stars failed; the late moon faded too: I think my heart had sucked their beams from them To build more blue amid the murky night Its own miraculous day. From creeks and fields The fog climbed slowly, blotted out the road; And hid the signposts telling of the town; After a while rain fell, with sleet and snow.

What did I care? Baby was snug and dry.

Some day, when I was telling him of this, He would but hug me closer, hearing how The night conspired against us. Better hard Than easy, then: I almost felt regret My body was so capable and strong To do its errand. Honeyed drop by drop, The ghostly jealousy, loosening at my breast, Distilled into a dew of quiet tears And fell with splash of music in the wells And on the hidden rivers of my soul.

The hardest part was coming through the town.

The country, even when it hindered most, Seemed conscious of the thing I went to find.

The rocks and bushes looming through the mist Questioned and acquiesced and understood; The trees and streams believed; the wind and rain, Even they, for all their temper, had some words Of faith and comfort. But the glaring streets, The dizzy traffic, the piled merchandise, The giant buildings swarming with fierce life-- Cared nothing for me. They had never heard Of me nor of my business. When I asked My way, a shade of pity or contempt Showed through men's kindness--for they all were kind.

Daunted and chilled and very sick at heart, I walked the endless pavements. But at last The streets grew quieter; the houses seemed As if they might be homes where people lived; Then came the factories and cottages, And all was well again. Much more than well, For many sick and broken went my way, Alone or helped along by loving hands; And from a thousand eyes the famished hope Looked out at mine--wild, patient, querulous, But always hope and hope, a thousand tongues Speaking one word in many languages.

In two hours He will come, they say, will stand There on the steps, above the waiting crowd, And touch with healing hands whoever asks Believingly, in spirit and in truth.

Can such a mercy be, in these hard days?

Is help still sent in such a way as that?

Christ, I believe; pity my unbelief!

JETSAM

I wonder can this be the world it was At sunset? I remember the sky fell Green as pale meadows, at the long street-ends, But overhead the smoke-wrack hugged the roofs As if to shut the city from G.o.d's eyes Till dawn should quench the laughter and the lights.

Beneath the gas flare stolid faces pa.s.sed, Too dull for sin; old loosened lips set hard To drain the stale lees from the cup of sense; Or if a young face yearned from out the mist Made by its own bright hair, the eyes were wan With desolate fore-knowledge of the end.

My life lay waste about me: as I walked, From the gross dark of unfrequented streets The face of my own youth peered forth at me, Struck white with pity at the thing I was; And globed in ghostly fire, thrice-virginal, With lifted face star-strong, went one who sang Lost verses from my youth's gold canticle.

Out of the void dark came my face and hers One vivid moment--then the street was there; Bloat shapes and mean eyes blotted the sear dusk; And in the curtained window of a house Whence sin reeked on the night, a shameful head Was silhouetted black as Satan's face Against eternal fires. I stumbled on Down the dark slope that reaches riverward, Stretching blind hands to find the throat of G.o.d And crush Him in his lies. The river lay Coiled in its factory filth and few lean trees.

All was too hateful--I could not die there!

I whom the Spring had strained unto her breast, Whose lips had felt the wet vague lips of dawn.

So under the thin willows' leprous shade And through the tangled ranks of riverweed I pushed--till lo, G.o.d heard me! I came forth Where, 'neath the sh.o.r.eless hush of region light, Through a new world, undreamed of, undesired, Beyond imagining of man's weary heart, Far to the white marge of the wondering sea This still plain widens, and this moon rains down Insufferable ecstasy of peace.

My heart is man's heart, strong to bear this night's Unspeakable affliction of mute love That crazes lesser things. The rocks and clods Dissemble, feign a busy intercourse; The bushes deal in shadowy subterfuge, Lurk dull, dart spiteful out, make heartless signs, Utter awestricken purpose of no sense,-- But I walk quiet, crush aside the hands Stretched furtively to drag me madmen's ways.

I know the thing they suffer, and the tricks They must be at to help themselves endure.

I would not be too boastful; I am weak, Too weak to put aside the utter ache Of this lone splendor long enough to see Whether the moon is still her white strange self Or something whiter, stranger, even the face Which by the changed face of my risen youth Sang, globed in fire, her golden canticle.

I dare not look again; another gaze Might drive me to the wavering coppice there, Where bat-winged madness brushed me, the wild laugh Of naked nature crashed across my blood.

So rank it was with earthy presences, Faun-shapes in goatish dance, young witches' eyes Slanting deep invitation, whinnying calls Ambiguous, shocks and whirlwinds of wild mirth,-- They had undone me in the darkness there, But that within me, smiting through my lids Lowered to shut in the thick whirl of sense, The dumb light ached and rummaged, and with out, The soaring splendor summoned me aloud To leave the low dank thickets of the flesh Where man meets beast and makes his lair with him, For spirit reaches of the strenuous vast, Where stalwart stars reap grain to make the bread G.o.d breaketh at his tables and is glad.

I came out in the moonlight cleansed and strong, And gazed up at the lyric face to see All sweetness tasted of in earthen cups Ere it be dashed and spilled, all radiance flung Beyond experience, every benison dream, Treasured and mystically crescent there.

O, who will shield me from her? Who will place A veil between me and the fierce in-throng Of her inexorable benedicite?

See, I have loved her well and been with her!

Through tragic twilights when the stricken sea Groveled with fear, or when she made her throne In imminent cities built of gorgeous winds And paved with lightnings; or when the sobering stars Would lead her home 'mid wealth of plundered May Along the violet slopes of evensong.

Of all the sights that starred the dreamy year, For me one sight stood peerless and apart: Bright rivers tacit; low hills p.r.o.ne and dumb; Forests that hushed their tiniest voice to hear; Skies for the unutterable advent robed In purple like the opening iris buds; And by some lone expectant pool, one tree Whose gray boughs shivered with excess of awe,-- As with preluding gush of amber light, And herald trumpets softly lifted through, Across the palpitant horizon marge Crocus-filleted came the singing moon.

Out of her changing lights I wove my youth A place to dwell in, sweet and spiritual, And all the bitter years of my exile My heart has called afar off unto her.

Lo, after many days love finds its own!

The futile adorations, the waste tears, The hymns that fluttered low in the false dawn, She has uptreasured as a lover's gifts; They are the mystic garment that she wears Against the bridal, and the crocus flowers She twined her brow with at the going forth; They are the burden of the song she made In coming through the quiet fields of s.p.a.ce, And breathe between her pa.s.sion-parted lips Calling me out along the flowering road Which summers through the dimness of the sea.

Hark, where the deep feels round its thousand sh.o.r.es To find remembered respite, and far drawn Through weed-strewn shelves and crannies of the coast The myriad silence yearns to myriad speech.

O sea that yearns a day, shall thy tongues be So eloquent, and heart, shall all thy tongues Be dumb to speak thy longing? Say I hold Life as a broken jewel in my hand, And fain would buy a little love with it For comfort, say I fain would make it shine Once in remembering eyes ere it be dust,-- Were life not worthy spent? Then what of this, When all my spirit hungers to repay The beauty that has drenched my soul with peace?

Once at a simple turning of the way I met G.o.d walking; and although the dawn Was large behind Him, and the morning stars Circled and sang about his face as birds About the fieldward morning cottager, My coward heart said faintly, "Let us haste!

Day grows and it is far to market-town."

Once where I lay in darkness after fight, Sore smitten, thrilled a little thread of song Searching and searching at my m.u.f.fled sense Until it shook sweet pangs through all my blood, And I beheld one globed in ghostly fire Singing, star-strong, her golden canticle; And her mouth sang, "The hosts of Hate roll past, A dance of dust motes in the sliding sun; Love's battle comes on the wide wings of storm, From east to west one legion! Wilt thou strive?"

Then, since the splendor of her sword-bright gaze Was heavy on me with yearning and with scorn My sick heart muttered, "Yea, the little strife, Yet see, the grievous wounds! I fain would sleep."

O heart, shalt thou not once be strong to go Where all sweet throats are calling, once be brave To slake with deed thy dumbness? Let us go The path her singing face looms low to point, Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flame Of silver on the brown grope of the flood; For all my spirit's soilure is put by And all my body's soilure, lacking now But the last l.u.s.tral sacrament of death To make me clean for those near-searching eyes That question yonder whether all be well, And pause a little ere they dare rejoice.

Question and be thou answered, pa.s.sionate face!

For I am worthy, worthy now at last After so long unworth; strong now at last To give myself to beauty and be saved; Now, being man, to give myself to thee, As once the tumult of my boyish heart Companioned thee with rapture through the world, Forth from a land whereof no poet's lip Made mention how the leas were lily-sprent, Into a land G.o.d's eyes had looked not on To love the tender bloom upon the hills.

To-morrow, when the fishers come at dawn Upon that sh.e.l.l of me the sea has tossed To land, as fit for earth to use again, Men, meeting at the shops and corner streets, Will speak a word of pity, glossing o'er With altered accent, dubious sweep of hand, Their virile, just contempt for one who failed.

But they can never cast my earnings up, Who know so well my losses. Even you Who in the mild light of the spirit walk And hold yourselves acquainted with the truth, Be not too swift to judge and cast me out!

You shall find other, n.o.bler ways than mine To work your soul's redemption,--glorious noons Of battle 'neath the heaven-suspended sign, And nightly refuge 'neath G.o.d's aegis-rim; Increase of wisdom, and acquaintance held With the heart's austerities; still governance, And ripening of the blood in the weekday sun To make the full-orbed consecrated fruit At life's end for the Sabbath supper meet.

I shall not sit beside you at that feast, For ere a seedling of my golden tree Pushed off its petals to get room to grow, I stripped the boughs to make an April gaud And wreathe a spendthrift garland for my hair.

But mine is not the failure G.o.d deplores; For I of old am beauty's votarist, Long recreant, often foiled and led astray, But resolute at last to seek her there Where most she does abide, and crave with tears That she a.s.soil me of my blemishment.

Low looms her singing face to point the way, Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flame Of silver on the brown grope of the flood.

The stars are for me; the horizon wakes Its pilgrim chanting; and the little sand Grows musical of hope beneath my feet.

The waves that leap to meet my swimming breast Gossip sweet secrets of the light-drenched way, And when the deep throbs of the rising surge Pulse upward with me, and a rain of wings Blurs round the moon's pale place, she stoops to reach Still welcome of bright hands across the wave, And sings low, low, globed all in ghostly fire, Lost verses from my youth's gold canticle.