The Daffodil Fields Part 3

A spirit thrilled between them, man to maid, Mind flowed in mind, the inner heart was bared, They needed not to tell how much each cared; All the soul's strength was at the other's soul.

Flesh was away awhile, a glory made them whole.

Nothing was said by them; they understood, They searched each other's eyes without a sound, Alone with moonlight in the heart of the wood, Knowing the stars and all the soul of the ground.

"Mary," he murmured. "Come." His arms went round, A white moth glimmered by, the woods were hushed; The rose at Mary's bosom dropped its petals, crushed.

No word profaned the peace of that glad giving, But the warm dimness of the night stood still, Drawing all beauty to the point of living, There in the beech-tree's shadow on the hill.

Spirit to spirit murmured; mingling will Made them one being; Time's decaying thought Fell from them like a rag; it was the soul they sought.

The moonlight found an opening in the boughs; It entered in, it filled that sacred place With consecration on the throbbing brows; It came with benediction and with grace.

A whispering came from face to yearning face: "Beloved, will you wait for me?" "My own."

"I shall be gone three years, you will be left alone;

"You'll trust and wait for me?" "Yes, yes," she sighed; She would wait any term of years, all time-- So faithful to first love these souls abide, Carrying a man's soul with them as they climb.

Life was all flower to them; the church bells' chime Rang out the burning hour ere they had sealed Love's charter there below the June sky's starry field.

Sweetly the church bells' music reached the wood, Chiming an old slow tune of some old hymn, Calling them back to life from where they stood Under the moonlit beech-tree grey and dim.

"Mary," he murmured; pressing close to him, Her kiss came on the gift he gave her there, A silken scarf that bore her name worked in his hair.

But still the two affixed their hands and seals To a life compact witnessed by the sky, Where the great planets drove their glittering wheels, Bringing conflicting fate, making men die.

They loved, and she would wait, and he would try.

"Oh, beauty of my love," "My lovely man."

So beauty made them n.o.ble for their little span.

Time cannot pause, however dear the wooer; The moon declined, the sunrise came, the hours, Left to the lovers, dwindled swiftly fewer, Even as the seeds from dandelion-flowers Blow, one by one, until the bare stalk cowers, And the June gra.s.s grows over; even so Daffodil-picker Time took from their lives the glow,

Stole their last walk along the three green fields, Their latest hour together; he took, he stole The white contentment that a true love yields; He took the triumph out of Mary's soul.

Now she must lie awake and blow the coal Of sorrow of heart. The parting hour came; They kissed their last good-bye, murmuring the other's name.

Then the flag waved, the engine snorted, then Slowly the couplings tautened, and the train Moved, bearing off from her her man of men; She looked towards its going blind with pain.

Her father turned and drove her home again.

It was a different home. Awhile she tried To cook the dinner there, but flung her down and cried.

Then in the dusk she wandered down the brook, Treading again the trackway trod of old, When she could hold her loved one in a look.

The night was all unlike those nights of gold.

Michael was gone, and all the April old, Withered and hidden. Life was full of ills; She flung her down and cried i' the withered daffodils

III

The steaming river loitered like old blood On which the tugboat bearing Michael beat, Past whitened horse bones sticking in the mud.

The reed stems looked like metal in the heat.

Then the banks fell away, and there were neat, Red herds of sullen cattle drifting slow.

A fish leaped, making rings, making the dead blood flow.

Wormed hard-wood piles were driv'n in the river bank, The steamer threshed alongside with sick screws Churning the mud below her till it stank; Big ga.s.sy butcher-bubbles burst on the ooze.

There Michael went ash.o.r.e; as glad to lose One not a native there, the Gauchos flung His broken gear ash.o.r.e, one waved, a bell was rung.

The bowfast was cast off, the screw revolved, Making a bloodier bubbling; rattling rope Fell to the hatch, the engine's tune resolved Into its steadier beat of rise and slope; The steamer went her way; and Michael's hope Died as she lessened; he was there alone.

The lowing of the cattle made a gradual moan.

He thought of Mary, but the thought was dim; That was another life, lived long before.

His mind was in new worlds which altered him.

The startling present left no room for more.

The sullen river lipped, the sky, the sh.o.r.e Were vaster than of old, and lonely, lonely.

Sky and low hills of gra.s.s and moaning cattle only.

But for a hut bestrewn with skulls of beeves, Round which the flies danced, where an Indian girl Bleared at him from her eyes' ophthalmic eaves, Grinning a welcome; with a throaty skirl, She offered him herself; but he, the churl, Stared till she thought him fool; she turned, she sat, Scratched in her short, black hair, chewed a cigar-end, spat.

Up, on the rise, the cattle bunched; the bulls Drew to the front with menace, pawing bold, s.n.a.t.c.hing the gra.s.s-roots out with sudden pulls, The distant cattle raised their heads; the wold Grew dusty at the top; a waggon rolled, Drawn by a bickering team of mules whose eyes Were yellow like their teeth and bared and full of vice.

Down to the jetty came the jingling team, An Irish cowboy driving, while a Greek Beside him urged the mules with blow and scream.

They cheered the Indian girl and stopped to speak.

Then lifting her aloft they kissed her cheek, Calling to Michael to be quick aboard, Or they (they said) would fall from virtue, by the Lord.

So Michael climbed aboard, and all day long He drove the cattle range, rise after rise, Dotted with limber shorthorns grazing strong, Cropping sweet-tasted pasture, switching flies; Dull trouble brooded in their smoky eyes.

Some hors.e.m.e.n watched them. As the sun went down, The waggon reached the estancia builded like a town.

With wide corrales where the horses squealed, Biting and lashing out; some half-wild hounds Gnawed at the cowbones littered on the field, Or made the stallions stretch their picket bounds.

Some hides were drying; hors.e.m.e.n came from rounds, Unsaddled stiff, and turned their mounts to feed, And then brewed bitter drink and sucked it through a reed.

The Irishman removed his pipe and spoke: "You take a fool's advice," he said. "Return.

Go back where you belong before you're broke; You'll spoil more clothes at this job than you'll earn; It's living death, and when you die you'll burn: Body and soul it takes you. Quit it. No?

Don't say I never told you, then. Amigos. Ho.

"Here comes a Gringo; make him pay his shot.

Pay up your footing, Michael; rum's the word, It suits my genius, and I need a lot."

So the great cauldron full was mixed and stirred.

And all night long the startled cattle heard Shouting and shooting, and the moon beheld Mobs of dim, struggling men, who fired guns and yelled

That they were Abel Brown just come to town, Michael among them. By a bonfire some Betted on red and black for money down, s.n.a.t.c.hing their clinking winnings, eager, dumb.

Some danced unclad, rubbing their heads with rum.

The grey dawn, bringing beauty to the skies, Saw Michael stretched among them, far too drunk to rise.

His footing paid, he joined the living-shed, Lined with rude bunks and set with trestles: there He, like the other ranchers, slept and fed, Save when the staff encamped in open air, Rounding the herd for branding. Rude and bare That barrack was; men littered it about With saddles, blankets blue, old headstalls, many a clout

Torn off to wipe a knife or clean a gun, Tin dishes, sailors' hookpots, all the mess Made where the outdoor work is never done And every cleaning makes the sleeping less.

Men came from work too tired to undress, And slept all standing like the trooper's horse; Then with the sun they rose to ride the burning course,

Whacking the shipment cattle into pen, Where, in the dust, among the stink of burning, The half-mad heifers bolted from the men, And tossing horns arose and hoofs were churning, A lover there had little time for yearning; But all day long, cursing the flies and heat, Michael was handling steers on horseback till his feet

Gave on dismounting. All day long he rode, Then, when the darkness came, his mates and he Entered dog-tired to the rude abode And ate their meat and sucked their bitter tea, And rolled themselves in rugs and slept. The sea Could not make men more drowsy; like the dead, They lay under the lamp while the mosquitoes fed.

There was no time to think of Mary, none; For when the work relaxed, the time for thought Was broken up by men demanding fun: Cards, or a well-kept ring while someone fought, Or songs and dancing; or a case was bought Of white Brazilian rum, and songs and cheers And shots and oaths rang loud upon the twitching ears

Of the hobbled horses hopping to their feed.

So violent images displaced the rose In Michael's spirit; soon he took the lead; None was more apt than he for games or blows.

Even as the battle-seeking bantam crows, So crowed the c.o.c.kerel of his mind to feel Life's bonds removed and blood quick in him toe to heel.

But sometimes when her letters came to him, Full of wise tenderness and maiden mind, He felt that he had let his clearness dim; The riot with the cowboys seemed unkind To that far faithful heart; he could not find Peace in the thought of her; he found no spur To instant upright action in his love for her.