Spun-yarn And Spindrift Part 4

Deep we lie in the churchyard mould, dear, Who shall remember to love the dead?

(Ah, the dead, who shall come no more, dear, Gone and forgotten, so you say-- Standing here in the dark at your door, dear,-- Dead and forgotten and gone for aye.)

Your hours pa.s.s with laughter and song, dear, Do we blame you that you forget?

All our years are empty and long, dear, We, in our graves, remember yet.

We remember, and ofttimes rise, dear, From our beds 'neath the churchyard sod, Walking ever, with wistful eyes, dear, Old-time ways that in life we trod.

We remember, who are forgot, dear-- Do we blame you that you forget?

How should we live in your lightest thought, dear?

Only--the dead remember yet.

_The Reply_

Do we forget?--We cannot hear your call; Your tap upon the pane Sounds to our ears but as the leaves that fall, Or beat of sobbing rain.

We cannot see you standing at the door, Or pa.s.sing through the gloom; We strain our ears, yet hear your step no more In the familiar room.

And seeing not--but waiting, with a numb, Bewildered heart and brain, And hearing not--but only winds that come And wail against the pane,

And dreaming of you in some brighter sphere, We--we, too--grieve and fret That you, whom still we hold so dear, so dear, Should all so soon forget.

THE MASTER OF SHADOWS

Into the western waters Slow sinks the sunset light, And the voice of the Wind of Shadows Calls to my heart to-night--

Calls from the magic countries, The lost and the lovely lands Where stands the Master of Shadows, Holding the dreams in his hands.

All the dreams of the ages Gather around him there, Visions of things forgotten And of things that never were.

Birds in the swaying woodlands, Creatures furry and small, Turn to the Master of Shadows And he gives of his dreams to all.

Lo! I am worn and weary, Sick of the garish light; Blow, thou Wind of the Shadows, Into my heart to-night.

Out of the magic countries, The lost and the lovely lands, Where he, the Master of Shadows, Waits, with the dreams in his hands.

_DIANE AU BOIS_

Through the sere woods she walks alone, With bow unstrung and empty quiver; Her hounds are dead, her maidens gone, She walks alone forever; Watching the while with wistful eyes Her crescent shining in the skies.

The flutes of Pan are silent now, Hushed is the sound of Faunus' singing; Through winds that shake the withering bough No dryad's voice is ringing.

Syrinx has left her river deep, E'en old Silenus sound doth sleep.

The startled deer before her flee, The nightingales with music meet her; Yet never mortal eye shall see Or mortal voices greet her.

Her shrines with weeds are overgrown, Their fires are out; their worship done.

Yet sometimes, so 'twas told to me, The children playing in the meadows May hear her song, that mournfully Comes floating through the shadows, And sometimes see, through boughs grown bare, The moonlit brightness of her hair.

And, it may be, her weary feet, White gleaming through those dusky s.p.a.ces, May, after many wanderings, meet The dear, familiar places; And find, beyond the sunset's gold, Ghosts of the G.o.ds she knew of old.

THE RED HORSE

He came and whinnied at my door, The wild red horse, with flowing mane; And I--I crossed the threshold o'er, Leaving behind my wonted life, And hope of joy, and fear of pain, And clasp of friend, and kiss of wife, And clinging touch of childish hands, And love and laughter, grief and glee, And rode him out across the sands Beside a dark, mysterious sea.

Across my face his mane was blown, I saw the eddying stars grow dim, And suddenly the past had grown A dream of weariness gone by, And I was fain to ride with him Forever up a darkening sky, And hear the far, thin, fairy tune That through the darkness seemed to beat, Until at length the crescent moon Was lying underneath our feet.

And there the unknown beaches lay With stars for silvery pebbles strown, And thin and faint and far away Came all the noises of the world, And up those glimmering reaches blown The whispering waves of darkness curled.

And there my wild steed paused at last, And there, wrapped round in dreams, I lie, And in the wind that whistles past I hear a far, faint, fairy cry.

THE ADVENTURERS

We rode from the north, a valiant band, With shining armour and swords aflame, Till we came at length to a silent land-- To a sunless, shadowy land we came, A desolate land, without a name.

No songs of birds in that land were known, No voices of human joy or pain, But mists on the silent winds were blown, And shadows clung to our bridle rein, Dim forms that no answer gave again.

Then some grew tired of those weary ways And hied them back to a happier coast, And many followed some phantom face Down one of the winding ways that crossed That shadowy land, and so were lost.

And the rust grew red on our harness bright, And dull grew our swords, and a dream the Quest, And ever wearier grew the fight With thronging phantoms that round us pressed, And ever our hearts grew sick for rest.

Till, few and feeble who were so strong, Weary, who dreamed we could never tire, We won at last through those ways so long, And, bathed in the sunset, dome and spire, We saw the City of Heart's Desire.

THE WATCHER OF THE THRESHOLD

Silent amid the shadows Outside my door, The Watcher of the Threshold Waits evermore.

One day the door will open, And I shall see The Watcher of the Threshold Beckon to me.

And I must leave the firelight, And seek the gloom Where stands that shadowy figure Outside my room.

In vain it is to question Of how, or why, The Watcher of the Threshold Makes no reply.

Only amid the shadows Silent he stands, With eyes that hold a secret, And folded hands.