Songs of Angus and More Songs of Angus Part 10

For mine is fire--a furnace strong and red; Look up into my eyes, There shall you see a flame to make the dead Take life and rise.

My eyes are brown, and yours are still and grey, Still as the frostbound lake Whose depths are sleeping in the icy sway, And will not wake.

Soundless they are below the leaden sky, Bound with that silent chain; Yet chains may fall, and those that fettered lie May live again.

Yes, turn away, grey eyes, you dare not face In mine the flame of life; When frost meets fire, 'tis but a little s.p.a.ce That ends the strife.

Then comes the hour, when, breaking from their bands, The swirling floods run free, And you, beloved, shall stretch your drowning hands, And cling to me.

ARMED

Give me to-night to hide me in the shade, That neither moon nor star May see the secret place where I am laid, Nor watch me from afar.

Let not the dark its prying ghosts employ To peer on my retreat, And see the fragments of my broken toy Lie scattered at my feet.

I fashioned it, that idol of my own, Of metal strange and bright; I made my toy a G.o.d--I raised a throne To honour my delight.

This haunted byway of the grove was lit With lamps my hand had trimmed, Before the altar in the midst of it I kept their flame undimmed.

My steps turned ever to the hidden shrine; Aware or unaware, My soul dwelt only in that spot divine, And now a wreck lies there.

Give me to-night to weep--when dawn is spread Beyond the heavy trees, And in the east the day is heralded By cloud-wrought companies,

I shall have gathered up my heart's desire, Broken, destroyed, adored, And from its splinters, in a deathless fire, I shall have forged a sword.

"THE HAPPY WARRIOR"

I have brought no store from the field now the day is ended, The harvest moon is up and I bear no sheaves; When the toilers carry the fruits hanging gold and splendid, I have but leaves.

When the saints pa.s.s by in the pride of their stainless raiment, Their brave hearts high with the joy of the gifts they bring, I have saved no whit from the sum of my daily payment For offering.

Not there is my place where the workman his toil delivers, I scarce can see the ground where the hero stands, I must wait as the one poor fool in that host of givers, With empty hands.

There was no time lent to me that my skill might fashion Some work of praise, some glory, some thing of light, For the swarms of h.e.l.l came on in their power and pa.s.sion, I could but fight.

I am maimed and spent, I am broken and trodden under, With wheel and horseman the battle has swept me o'er, And the long, vain warfare has riven my heart asunder, I can no more.

But my soul is still; though the sundering door has hidden The mirth and glitter, the sound of the lighted feast, Though the guests go in and I stand in the night, unbidden, The worst, the least.

My soul is still. I have gotten nor fame nor treasure, Let all men spurn me, let devils and angels frown, But the scars I bear are a guerdon of royal measure, My stars--my crown.

UNITY

I dreamed that life and time and s.p.a.ce were one, And the pure trance of dawn; The increase drawn From all the journeys of the travelling sun, And the long mysteries of sound and sight, The whispering rains, And far, calm waters set in lonely plains, And cry of birds at night.

I dreamed that these and love and death were one, And all eternity, The life to be Therewith entwined, throughout the ages spun; And so with Grief, my playmate; him I knew One with the rest,-- One with the mounting day, the east and west-- Lord, is it true?

Lord, do I dream? Methinks a key unlocks Some dungeon door, in thrall of blackened towers, On ecstasies, half hid, like chill white flowers Blown in the secret places of the rocks.