Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Verses Part 20

April 1913.

THE MASKED FACE

I found me in a great surging s.p.a.ce, At either end a door, And I said: "What is this giddying place, With no firm-fixed floor, That I knew not of before?"

"It is Life," said a mask-clad face.

I asked: "But how do I come here, Who never wished to come; Can the light and air be made more clear, The floor more quietsome, And the doors set wide? They numb Fast-locked, and fill with fear."

The mask put on a bleak smile then, And said, "O va.s.sal-wight, There once complained a goosequill pen To the scribe of the Infinite Of the words it had to write Because they were past its ken."

IN A WHISPERING GALLERY

That whisper takes the voice Of a Spirit's compa.s.sionings Close, but invisible, And throws me under a spell At the kindling vision it brings; And for a moment I rejoice, And believe in transcendent things That would mould from this muddy earth A spot for the splendid birth Of everlasting lives, Whereto no night arrives; And this gaunt gray gallery A tabernacle of worth On this drab-aired afternoon, When you can barely see Across its hazed lacune If opposite aught there be Of fleshed humanity Wherewith I may commune; Or if the voice so near Be a soul's voice floating here.

THE SOMETHING THAT SAVED HIM

It was when Whirls of thick waters laved me Again and again, That something arose and saved me; Yea, it was then.

In that day Unseeing the azure went I On my way, And to white winter bent I, Knowing no May.

Reft of renown, Under the night clouds beating Up and down, In my needfulness greeting Cit and clown.

Long there had been Much of a murky colour In the scene, Dull prospects meeting duller; Nought between.

Last, there loomed A closing-in blind alley, Though there boomed A feeble summons to rally Where it gloomed.

The clock rang; The hour brought a hand to deliver; I upsprang, And looked back at den, ditch and river, And sang.

THE ENEMY'S PORTRAIT

He saw the portrait of his enemy, offered At auction in a street he journeyed nigh, That enemy, now late dead, who in his life-time Had injured deeply him the pa.s.ser-by.

"To get that picture, pleased be G.o.d, I'll try, And utterly destroy it; and no more Shall be inflicted on man's mortal eye A countenance so sinister and sore!"

And so he bought the painting. Driving homeward, "The frame will come in useful," he declared, "The rest is fuel." On his arrival, weary, Asked what he bore with him, and how he fared, He said he had bid for a picture, though he cared For the frame only: on the morrow he Would burn the canvas, which could well be spared, Seeing that it portrayed his enemy.

Next day some other duty found him busy; The foe was laid his face against the wall; But on the next he set himself to loosen The straining-strips. And then a casual call Prevented his proceeding therewithal; And thus the picture waited, day by day, Its owner's pleasure, like a wretched thrall, Until a month and more had slipped away.

And then upon a morn he found it shifted, Hung in a corner by a servitor.

"Why did you take on you to hang that picture?

You know it was the frame I bought it for."

"It stood in the way of every visitor, And I just hitched it there."--"Well, it must go: I don't commemorate men whom I abhor.

Remind me 'tis to do. The frame I'll stow."

But things become forgotten. In the shadow Of the dark corner hung it by its string, And there it stayed--once noticed by its owner, Who said, "Ah me--I must destroy that thing!"

But when he died, there, none remembering, It hung, till moved to prominence, as one sees; And comers pause and say, examining, "I thought they were the bitterest enemies?"

IMAGININGS

She saw herself a lady With fifty frocks in wear, And rolling wheels, and rooms the best, And faithful maidens' care, And open lawns and shady For weathers warm or drear.

She found herself a striver, All liberal gifts debarred, With days of gloom, and movements stressed, And early visions marred, And got no man to wive her But one whose lot was hard.

Yet in the moony night-time She steals to stile and lea During his heavy slumberous rest When homecome wearily, And dreams of some blest bright-time She knows can never be.

ON THE DOORSTEP

The rain imprinted the step's wet shine With target-circles that quivered and crossed As I was leaving this porch of mine; When from within there swelled and paused A song's sweet note; And back I turned, and thought, "Here I'll abide."

The step shines wet beneath the rain, Which prints its circles as heretofore; I watch them from the porch again, But no song-notes within the door Now call to me To shun the dripping lea And forth I stride.

Jan. 1914.

SIGNS AND TOKENS

Said the red-cloaked crone In a whispered moan:

"The dead man was limp When laid in his chest; Yea, limp; and why But to signify That the grave will crimp Ere next year's sun Yet another one Of those in that house - It may be the best - For its endless drowse!"

Said the brown-shawled dame To confirm the same:

"And the slothful flies On the rotting fruit Have been seen to wear While crawling there c.r.a.pe scarves, by eyes That were quick and acute; As did those that had pitched On the cows by the pails, And with flaps of their tails Were far away switched."